Find the Hero

You grew up with a father, a surrogate father, or the idea of what a father should be, or maybe none at all. Each of us has our own story. Some of them are wonderful stories, some are tragic stories, but are told through our own eyes and experiences as we had lived them.

If I were to tell you how I perceived my father while growing up, it would be a story of a man living in the same house but living a different life. I don’t mean a double or hidden life; I mean one where he had turned inward. He spoke little and spent almost no time interacting with his family. Instead, he spent most of his time either at work or fishing, which he loved to do, mostly alone.

He was not a mean man, or an angry man, or a deceitful man. Just the opposite. There was a kindness, and he was honest and fair in his dealings, but he was remote and inaccessible. And if I was to judge this man, it would be reasonable for me to say his crime was his indifference to his family.

And I could leave it there and say no more, and my brothers and sisters, and those who knew me growing up, would concur and may even say I was being generous. But then I would only be telling one truth, the truth through the eyes of a child, someone who knew little about life, and how over the course of a lifetime, you face challenges, and are given burdens that must be carried, sometimes for a short distance and sometimes for a lifetime.

And so it is that my journey through life has allowed me to find the hero in my father. It starts with understanding that he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and undiagnosed depression.

This stems from his service during WWII, when he fought several South Pacific battles as a young marine. In the Battle of Okinawa, a grenade landed in his foxhole, killing his best friend, and seriously injuring him. I first became aware of this battle through his nightmares. In the nightmare, he would relive the battle, always the same battle, with a lot of noise and chaos, until you hear the word grenade, and he wakes up with a scream. I probably heard this dream a hundred times over the years.

Only one time did he ever talk to me about his experience during the war. In doing so, it was more of him talking to himself, and I just happened to be sitting nearby. More of a memory running through his mind than a talk with his son. I sat quietly and listened. He talked about how they had been up for days, how tired they were, but if they fell asleep, the enemy would sneak up and shoot them. Every few minutes, you had to look out of the foxhole and make sure no one was advancing on you. They depended on each other, their lives were in each other’s hands. He stopped talking before getting to the grenade and went silent as he had for most of his life.

He did not set out to be a war hero, or even wanted to be a war hero. But a young man in his early twenties, crouched in a shallow foxhole, thousands of miles from home, did what his country asked, and an enemy grenade tore a hole through the rest of his life.

I would have liked to spend long summer afternoons fishing and talking with him about matters small and large. I would have liked for him to teach me how to build and fix things, and go hunting and play ball. I would have liked to have been able to go to him with small and large problems. But you can’t ask people for that which they do not have. Besides, who among us could have done better?

I can look at him through the eyes of an eight-year-old child and see a detached and distant father. But instead, I choose to see an honest, fair, decent, honorable man through the eyes of an adult. I choose to see a Hero.