He

Written for my creative nonfiction class

He gives good advice on matters of importance.  On a regular basis, I pick up the phone and hit any of the numerous speed dial keys in hopes of a solution to my every-day issues, but he does not have a speed-dial key.  I would not waste a minor issue on him.  He would dismiss it—think less of me even, for being troubled by something so miniscule.  But for the tough stuff, he is always there. 

            I will be graduating from college soon and am at the point where I am this close to throwing away all my dreams and just take an office job.  My friends look at me as if I am crazy when I tell them my international plans. My mother patronizes me by telling me what I want to hear while trying to hide the sarcasm in her voice.  In her mind, she thinks I will not actually do it--that I’ve got that dreamer’s disease.  But he understands.  After everyone else has not taken me seriously, I finally dial his number.  We small-talk for awhile, and then I let out the problem.  His words are encouraging, exactly what I’ve been searching for.  I’m left feeling relieved and inspired.  I forget about the office job. 

 

I will tell you what I know about him:

            He was born in Waco, Texas on April 9, 1953, exactly thirty-two years before I was.  He was the first of five children to be born to his mother.  She was the daughter of bar owner and an alcoholic from the time she was twelve.  She had another son with a different man a few years later, then three girls with another man (one of the girls possibly had another father, which is strangely a big joke in the family).  His mother married the father of her three girls, who was involved in the military.  The five children, his mother and the man whom he has always referred to as “Dad” lived in Germany for many years, where he and his siblings went to grade school.  At some point, his stepfather died of cancer, and he and the family found their way back to Waco.  His mother frequently stayed gone for weeks at a time, leaving him (still in grade school) to take care of his much younger siblings.  She smoked four packs of cigarettes a day and drank endlessly all day every day of his entire life.  He fought his younger brother’s bullies, screened his sisters' dates, and drove all the way to Kansas at age eleven.  By seventeen he had had enough.  He lied about his health in order to join the army and escape that life.

            He met his wife just four months before his son was conceived, and they married on January 12, 1980, in an unusually small ceremony.  The three moved to a college town while he earned his degree and then moved to the middle of nowhere, outside of his original hometown.  They lived in a shack while he built, with his bare hands and no help, a ranch-style, two-story home a few feet away.  He installed the plumbing, laid the tile, cut and nailed each board and shingle himself.  He landed a job with the government, and by the time his daughter was born, he was working his way to the top of the company and had bought up all the land around his custom home.  The shack now houses his airplane.

            As I am writing this, I am realizing how many blanks there are in his biography, if written by me.  I knew that I did not know much about him, but once I lay down on paper exactly what I know—everything, that is—I realize that these facts only take up two paragraphs.  To further emphasize this, I realize that I know nothing about his father, other than somehow he ended up meeting him a few times, though they only became acquaintances.  He found out that he had many more brothers and sisters, and he still has not met many of them.  He does not even know their names.  When his father died, he did not go to the funeral.

 

There are many other, not so tangible facts that I have learned from my experiences with him.  I know that although he never left his family or touched the bottle, he raised his kids a lot his mother raised hers.  He worked endlessly, pushing the responsibility of raising his kids onto his wife, whom he treated like a slave. In fact, his mother even warned her not to marry him, but she did anyway. He never involved himself in his children’s school life—he never even knew if they went to school.  His methods resulted in his children bonding close together, as a way of defense.  He often used violence to enforce his will, just as his mother did.  By the way he talks, he has never regretted anything he has ever done.  And neither has his mother. 

            By seventeen, I had had enough.  I packed up the bare minimum of my belongings and left the house he had built with his bare hand and no help.  Four months before my graduation from high school, I moved into an apartment without telling him where I had gone.  Now five and half years have passed since that day that I left, and just as he does with his mother, I rarely call him—only for good advice on matters of importance.

 

Although I have pushed the truth away my entire life, a little growing up has told me what I cannot deny any longer.  Now approaching twenty-four years old, I realize how much I am like him.  I dream unrealistic dreams, with no regard to how impossible others think they are, just as he does.  I long for his overseas experiences and free spirit.  I can only take so much of an unfair upbringing until I pack my things and leave.  I share his birthday.  I even see him in the mirror.

            When he gives me his inspirational speeches, he swells with pride.  I tell him my fears, and he always responds, “You can do anything!  You are a Parker!” But I never understood what that meant.  He’s the only ‘Parker’ that I’ve ever known.  He’s the only ‘Parker’ that he’s ever known.  But I guess that’s exactly what he means.

Author's Note

I would really like a better title for this one....

Reviews

[SM Davis]

I have chills. The last line here is impacting beyond explanation. You've done a fine job with this. There are a few words left out here and there, but I'm sorry to say that I stopped tracking them because I was so caught up in your imagery. If you go back and read it, you'll find them.

VERY WELL DONE!

I'm not sure I understand the purpose of the numbered paragraphs. It may be that you are writing within the parameters of the assignment, I don't know. However in your tagline you said it was for a creative non-fiction...

It is certainly creative. Were I grading this, I would mark it down a bit for the missed words or typographical errors. This has a very smoothe flow to it, like melting chocolate. It is palatable and believable, but I would take it a few steps further. In creative writing, it is all about the wording. The painting of the pictures yes, but also putting a distinctive flare. You have a superb start here, I think a little more fattening of the paragraphs would be a good thing.

[Carrie Montgomery]

oh..my.
this is so powerful. It reaches out to me and makes me feel as though I have found a long lost sister...YOU ARE SURE HE IS A "PARKER"?! LOL!
This sounds so much like the relationship I have with my father! He even calls me drunk ever so often to tell me how much he loves his TWO GIRLS ( he is speaking of my 2 half-sisters and I always want to yall: "HELLO?" what am I? YOU HAVE THREE DAUGHTERS,IDIOT!) any way this is wonderfully written and touching. great job!