#52Essays2017
Week 20
"In life you have to earn things" is what my dad said to me at Walgreens when I asked for a red teddy bear I had fallen in love with. I was 5 years old. I had no idea what he meant, but I knew I wasn't getting it. My mother who was behind me, put her hand on my shoulder. I felt the tears in the back of my eyes closing in on the corners. I felt my heart beat hard and fast, my face turning hot and red and my head weighed as much as my lanky body did. These physical sensations were caused by three reasons: I wasn't getting the bear, I couldn't cry in front of my father or else he would give me a "real" reason to cry, and most importantly, this was going to cause a major argument between my parents. I hated myself for even wanting the bear.
That is the earliest memory I have of my father. A memory with words that have haunted me for as long as I can remember. What can a five year old possibly do to not earn something in life? But due to those words I have worked hard to the point of exhaustion for absolutely everything, even things I have not desired. I thought I wouldn't be deserving of anything otherwise.
My dad was a man of his word. He took pride in his harshness and strict parenting style and beliefs. He was stubborn and closed minded. There was no other way in his book, as he wanted to emulate the dad his father was to him and his seven siblings. But as a child, I also experienced another type of dad. It was like I had two dads battling each other on who was better and who would parent on what day. The 'other' dad I'm referring to was sweet, playful, overly sensitive and empathetic, and sometimes, he was even willing to listen. Traits I carry by nature and nurture.
Growing up, I started changing him, the softness in him allowed me to mold and modify him. I started to teach him how to consistently be the 'nice dad' that he let out once in a while. I knew deep down he was more open minded than his father and all his siblings. So I taught him everything I learned in college, especially in my psychology and sociology classes. Most of the information I relayed to him was backed up by research. I made sure I was giving him valid and credible information and not mere opinions. Although, I slowly started voicing my views, most of which differed from his, but he listened, respected, and some, he ended up agreeing with. I opened his mind to world issues, science, religion, cultures, beliefs and customs, and most importantly, parenting. I took advantage of dinner time to share the day's lectures. I gained his respect as a scholar and as an adult and I knew my father now looked up to me. He listened and looked at me in a way that I knew he was not only absorbing new information but it was also rewiring his brain and in turn his behavior.
Teaching my dad how to be a better person and father was and is a lot of pressure. It has been both a blessing and a curse, as I have reinforced his reliance on me. I have always been and continue to be the one he seeks for help and support. I quickly became my parent's parent. But I continue to teach him and expose him to new things every chance I get, and he continues to listen and kiss me on the forehead every time he learns something new from his daughter.
A few years ago I rehashed the red teddy bear story to him. He didn't remember. My mother did, because she recalled their argument and going back to Walgreens that week to buy it for me. As I retold the story with details of my every thought and feeling at that moment, he shed a few tears. I did too. He apologized for being a 'bad dad'. But he wasn't a bad dad. He was just being the father he knew how to be. He was parenting as best as he could. However, his ways affected me. They scarred me, but him changing and bettering himself is mending both our wounds.
A few weeks after I told my dad the story, I found a big teddy bear on my bed for Valentine's Day with a card that read "El osito que nunca te di" (the bear I never gave you). I hugged it and cried. The little red teddy bear when I was five, was him back then, and the bear he gave me twenty years later, is my dad now.
I'm learning that as artistic as I've always claimed to be, it is only ego talking. Yes, I used to lay flat on my belly on the floor and sketched for hours. I used to create stories in my head and act them out, maybe even believed them. But the creativity was fed by practice and consistency. Which in turn resulted in more creativity. I wasn't born with more artistic neurons, or a larger right side of my brain. I had discipline with my art. I was clueless about where the daily drive came from, but the discipline was there, and the results were visible. 
I find that I am not alone in this. The more I read on the subject the more I realize we tend to wait around for inspiration, a strike of luck, or for some super natural force to push us to start doing whatever it is we want to do. And when and if we do start, it seems difficult to be consistent with our plans. Whether we want to go back or maintain a routine at the gym, school, leave a dreaded job, or learn a new language. We just wait and push ideas and plans back to an unknown future instead of acting on our desires now.
