Fri, October 27, 2006

Response to the previous posts in the Short Fiction category has been non-existent. Probably my fault for posting decade-old writing without sprucing it up or anything. I was excited to have unearthed it and kind of proud of how it turned out, but maybe I should've been more objective.

Anyway, today I was cleaning up my hard drive and found a handful of files related to a story I once planned to write about the love between a father and his daughter. The idea was to explore how you very much love your spouse and of course you're totally devoted to them, but having a child introduces a whole new type of love. To paraphrase Louis C.K., once you have a child, your wife is just some stranger who yells at you. The kid is a blood relative. Now that I have friends with daughters, it kind of takes on a new relevance.

Maybe you'll like the following excerpt; maybe you'll hate it. Maybe I'll someday return to this and the other clippings and round them out to a full story. Or not. What amazed me was that for years I haven't felt able to get fully inside the head of a character who isn't me. But here's some evidence that one Spring afternoon in 2000, I did. I don't remember it at all, but apparently I was able to draw on an emotional experience I've never had and bring it across convincingly and, in patches, rather poetically. How about that.

***

As I watched her on that stage, it surprised me how my entire consciousness was overtaken by pride. As a parent, you're supposed to be proud of your child. But this experience exceeded that age-old obligation to applaud when she sang or say "good job" when she tied her shoe for the first time. Sitting there in the dark, with Kathy at my side, it took some time to pinpoint where this feeling was coming from. Why was I more proud of her dancing than her riding a bicycle or multiplying fractions?

It was probably her third performance (this was a mega-recital, some students appeared in multiple numbers) by the time it finally hit me. This was different because I had nothing whatsoever to do with it. Not only was I completely unqualified to judge her performance on any sort of empirical measurement, but I also played no part in her dance education (besides shelling out a pretty penny for it). This was a passion and a talent that she had developed and nurtured on her own, and the fact that she was dancing better than anyone else on that stage was purely a result of her own commitment, with no pressure from her mother or myself.

I was awestruck after it was all over. Kathy was very impressed as well, but somehow I sensed that her investment was somewhat less. We met with Danni outside the theatre after the rest of the audience had dissipated and congratulated her over and over again. But she had a party to attend, with her fellow dancers, and it was our duty to return to our cubby in suburbia. So we drove home, and as we swam through the stream of headlights, I noticed that I was still beaming, over half an hour after the last curtain had dropped. I looked over at Kathy. She was sleeping.

Danni called the next day to thank us for coming, and I answered the phone. I started to congratulate her again, to tell her how proud I was, and I realized how difficult it really is to communicate with your children. To reach beyond that obligation of parental love and pride. How could I make her see my sincerity, make her see that it exceeded the cliched sentiments of congratulation that she had already expected? I bumbled a little bit, trying to use terms I'd heard her mention about dance theory and execution. It wasn't just because I'm her dad that I knew she was the best dancer out there. She really was. As I stumbled over my words, trying to find something new to say, I noticed some discomfort coming across the line. "Okay, Dad. Okay. Thanks," she was saying - and I could hear an embarrassed smile on her lips. That was when I realized the terrifying truth: a father can't sound too excited about his young daughter. It starts to feel creepy. To this day, I am positive that she doesn't know how much I love her - to actually tell her would sound like a come-on.

At this point Kathy came in from playing with the dog and it was time for girl-talk. I bowed out gracefully – no reason to add more pressure to the already confusing situation.

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