Chapter 5/3

Daddy died in 1997. The night before the funeral—at which I was to be the speaker—I stood beside his open casket looking into that face I had known for sixty-three years and cried in lonely anger for the years of opportunity lost to both of us. So few were the hours we ever listened to each other. Precious as those times were, they never began to fill the void that I felt in my relationship to a man who, for nearly forty years, was one of the most loved and respected humans ever known in Blackwell, Oklahoma and Gainesville, Texas. He was a truly great man and, in my confusion and anger, I still was able to speak appreciatively of him to the hundreds who came to the funeral. But I miss him, and not just now; I always did.

Was he afraid? Was he afraid of what he might hear if he listened? Was he afraid that if he revealed much of himself I would lose some degree of respect? There were a few times late at night, after I was an adult, when he hinted at a self-image that he dared not acknowledge. He told me, once, that he wore the stern face and used the no-nonsense voice to ward off any attempt to penetrate his defenses.

Isn’t that the all-too-common human story, at least in the United States? We are afraid to let conversation move much deeper than a recitation of socially accepted pattern of speech. There is a certain reciprocity, but not much, in our exchanges about how we feel, what we think of the weather, the economy, our favorite TV show, or our favorite ball team. I suspect that sports and gossip bring us closest to anything that resembles true dialogue. Beyond that we guard ourselves, and continue to inhabit a silent loneliness.

Mother was different. She was a patient listener—usually. I could talk with Mother about anything—and at length—and did so for over three-quarters of a century. In her presence I could express myself knowing that I was not likely to be squelched. I could dream dreams that had no possibility of being realized in the real world. So I felt much closer to Mother than to Daddy. On the other hand, Mother mostly listened. She never said much, told me little of what she thought about my words, and gave little advice and few instructions. Except on one or two subjects—bird-watching was one—she rarely revealed many of her own thoughts, feelings, or dreams (I’ve often wondered what they were). She listened to my monologues, knowing that listening, all by itself, is good for the human soul and some of the best therapy possible.

So I was raised in a home that knew little dialogue. It was a family with three brothers, who each went his own way, only occasionally acknowledging the existence of the others. I doubt that we were an unusual American family. And other societies would doubtless recognize this experience.

I don’t know how well this describes the homes in which Mother and Daddy themselves grew up, but I have heard enough from cousins and other family members to believe my parents’ homes were much like mine, and that the pattern could be traced back for at least a generation or two. And I fear that my own daughters might see this as a description of their father and their own experience. (My wife was a different kind of mother to our children. She and our daughters dialogued; they connected, not always in the best way, but they got involved in trying to know and be known. This remains true, and continues with our grandchildren. Because of her, we are a close-knit family. Her family was much the same, and I’m sure other such families exist.)

Somehow we don’t take time for each other; we don’t listen to those nearest to us. We are family, that is, we are familiar with each other, but don’t know each other. And, thus, we don’t know ourselves. Without the opportunity to learn what others feel and think, we don’t understand clearly our own inner life. Without sharing our thoughts and feelings with someone else, our own self-perception remains out of focus. We can know ourselves only in dialogue with others.