On Resurrecting Your Father

It is during one’s twenties (or perhaps as early as the late teens) when the veil of parental omnipotence begins to fray. The timing is no surprise of course, given that the dawn of adulthood brings with it a great deal of energy, independence and a firm resolve to prove oneself. Young people in this phase of life step out into the world for the first time, armed with an arsenal of lofty ideals some of which are gleaned from the pages of books, some captured from conversations with peers, some remembered from the words of experts or other wise people, and a few from one’s own experiences. 

The inaugural steps into independence invariably beckon a retrospective gaze upon the decisions of one's parents, particularly one's father. Encased in the fragile armour of newfound autonomy, one finds oneself emboldened to cast a critical eye upon the choices made by them. A sense of self-assuredness, however fleeting, permeates the soul, strengthening the belief in one's own capacity to navigate similar paths with greater acumen. 

Resentment, bitter and unbidden, coils like a serpent within the hearts of these disillusioned children. They rail against the injustices of paternal fallibility, mourning the loss of their cherished illusions. The once mighty pillars of guidance now appear as mere mortals, burdened by the same frailties and uncertainties that plague humanity.

Yet, amidst this burgeoning confidence, many of the ideals born from such introspection soon come crashing down. How frequently have we clung to notions that seduced us with their persuasive allure, only to find them hollow upon closer examination? How often have we awakened to the sobering realisation that we, too, have been ensnared by perspectives unchallenged and ideas untested, languishing in the caverns of our minds for years uncounted? The grand edifices of certainty constructed upon the sands of borrowed wisdom and unexamined truths come crashing down, leaving naught but the debris of shattered illusions in their wake. The mirage of our own competence and that of parental infallibility are eventually sacrificed on the same altar.

How soon this transformation begins to stir differs from person to person. Some, who age gracefully, are quick to outgrow this resentment, giving way to a begrudging acceptance of the flawed humanity that binds father to child. Others hold on to it for years, even decades, unwilling to relinquish the shackles of a narrative that holds them captive. For these who refuse to transcend its suffocating grasp, a harsh fate awaits. Each perceived misstep of parental fallibility becomes a festering wound, poisoning the wellspring of familial connection and eroding the very fabric of their own humanity. Trapped in the quagmire of their own making, they forfeit the opportunity for redemption and reconciliation, condemning themselves to perpetuate the cycle of generational discord. 

The allure of such a narrative is undeniable, offering a convenient escape from the weighty responsibility of confronting one's own failures and shortcomings. After all, what easier recourse exists than to lay blame at the feet of one's upbringing, absolving oneself of the onus to navigate the turbulent waters of personal accountability? And so, the cycle continues, each generation passing down the mantle of unresolved resentment and unhealed wounds, until one dares to break free and forge a new path illuminated by redemption.

Beyond disappointment and disillusionment, a bond tempered by empathy and forgiveness emerges—a bond stronger and more enduring than the brittle idols of perfection ever could be. A new foundation is laid—a foundation built not on pedestals of false perfection, but on the bedrock of shared humanity. And though the scars of disillusionment may linger, they serve as a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, and the enduring strength of love. With the conquest of resentment, parents reascend the pedestal, not as objects of blind idolisation, rather as figures whose generosity shines even brighter in the acknowledgment of their imperfections, now recognised by enlightened eyes.

“When a child first catches adults out -- when it first walks into his grave little head that adults do not always have divine intelligence, that their judgments are not always wise, their thinking true, their sentences just -- his world falls into panic desolation. The gods are fallen and all safety gone. And there is one sure thing about the fall of gods: they do not fall a little; they crash and shatter or sink deeply into green muck. It is a tedious job to build them up again; they never quite shine. And the child's world is never quite whole again. It is an aching kind of growing.”  ― John Steinbeck, East of Eden.