In confusing news, someone twice my age (and entirely unfamiliar with punctuation) commented randomly on a status update my Dad made. The status update was about how terrible white people have been to basically every other race, I think Native Americans, especially. It’s hard to tell. People should have to test a basic communication test to be allowed on Facebook. Anyway, the commenter equated some weird altercation between themselves and my Dad on a bus when they were kids to the genocide of other races.
My Dad was such an asshole growing up. I know that. But lately he’s been trying SO HARD to be a nice person. Unfortunately, he started late, and when he tries to be pleasant, it can come off confusing and odd. But it makes me heart break with all the pain of childhood, and seeing someone say something shitty and embarrassing to him makes me want to END that person.
When you’re little, your Dad being in the room during a scary situation is generally the largest source of relief and safety the universe can offer you. If there is a bear coming at you, you’d close your eyes and pray your Father appeared. Not your Mom, not the police, not a blowtorch — your Dad. Or maybe that’s just me, because when I was younger, my Dad was a gigantic scary monster capable of making me more scared than anything on the planet. I knew he loved me, though, so I knew his blind rage could be turned on just about anything and anyone in my favor if the situation called for it.
Now I feel the need to be his champion, and that’s a new and strange world.