More on my dad (or, when it rains, it pours)

I promise I won't always hijack my blog to write about my dad, but on the heels of the first Father's Day since my dad died, today would have been his 68th birthday. I sit here reflecting further, trying to connect to him emotionally/psychically, swimming in memories, thankful that the experience of walking him to his death shifted the focus of my mind and heart to sweet moments rather than sites of pain and struggle in our relationship. Thankful, too, that it's further pushing and inspiring my own political analysis, helping me put words to what's been (growing) inside. I continue to work through this complicated web of feelings, continue the process of opening my heart, continue looking for words and ways to speak, heal, connect, create an integrated/politicized identity/experience that feels both respectful and loving to myself and my experience and accountable/honest to others. And I think about how to best open doors for others to come through and speak (I don't mean to imply here that others need my assistance to speak, but that I strive to be always-conscious of the privilege being affiliated with Bitch brings, and the many ways I can actively work toward building an inclusive and collective movement for liberation). About experiences and identities that are often overlooked or ignored. About family politics... The politics of love and death... The politics of the ways we live our lives... The politics of unlearning and (re)building... The politics of justice, compassion, home, intimacy, "safety"... 

I sit here looking into the wooden cigar box that, at least for now, contains the only objects I have of my dad's. It both saddens me and makes me laugh at how little I have and what the objects actually are.

• A Zippo lighter with his name engraved on it (he liked to smoke)
• Another Zippo lighter wth his navy squadron seal, "Silver Kings," attached to it (like I said, he liked to smoke and did so until he was diagnosed with cancer) 
• 3 tire gauges (he loved cars)
• A tie clip in the shape of a car (like I said, he loved cars)
• An old wallet with five tattered photos tucked deeply inside – one of my mom, one of my sister, one of me, one of him and his first car, and one of our first home/trailer
• An old watch
• A tiny pencil
• A black post-it note with his signature in gold ink (I snatched this when I was cleaning out his workroom after he died in a desperate attempt to have something that I could hold and know, literally, that he'd touched/created). 

For some reason, probably in a frantic attempt to organize my desk months ago, what's also in this box is a page I ripped out from AK Press's (an amazing anarchist and collective publisher/distributor) book catalog, folded up. I unfold it and notice that I've underlined the following sections: 

• "Capitalism is an economic system based on exploitation, private ownership (theft) of society's resources, and a logic of ruthless competition." 
•  "No government, 'revolutionary' or otherwise, has ever liberated its citizens from gender, racial, or class oppression." 
•  "Anarchism, and the anarchist movement, is about emancipation, empowerment, and agency." 
• "Because destroying one form of oppression only leaves the others to fester, anarchism tries to focus on all unequal power relations simultaneously."  
• "[Anarchism is] a revolutionary analysis that helps us understand the roots of domination." 
• "The repressive hierarchies of capitalism and the state create human beings who are mere shells of what we could be, stunting us mentally, physically, and emotionally...We're then taught to blame ourselves for this situation instead of looking for the institutional roots of our problems."

As I mentioned in my last post, my dad's internalized classism ran deep. The few times I tried to talk to him about radical politics, he wasn't receptive. Even when I was heavily involved in union/labor organizing and explained how it would've benefited and protected him and our family, he couldn't (didn't want to?) hear it. 

Interwoven through all of this, I reflect on the Feminism In/Action discussions and discussions I have as part of my everyday life – how frequently I hear feminism continually defined as a women's movement. Throwing aside my belief that we do not have a "movement" of feminism right now, at one of the discussions, I said something along the lines of, "Feminism as a struggle only for women is not the kind of feminism I want to be a part of; I think it's a waste of time."  Several people laughed, thinking I was kidding. I wasn't. I'm not just talking here about trans-/genderqueer inclusion and ensuring we're as mindful as possible about making space for further evolutions in gender identity and expression. I'm talking about actively engaging boys and men. 

Again, on this day, I can't help but think about my dad and other working but struggling men like him (many who are depressed and consider themselves failures), and wonder: Where do they fit in a "feminist movement?"  Or, for that matter, leaving aside mine and others' problems with the specific word "feminism," where would they fit in a lot of "movements" for social justice?

When I was back home in Minnesota last month, I visited Fort Snelling, the military cemetary at which he chose to have his ashes buried.

The sheer expanse of the cemetery and the uniform, matching gravestones are undeniably beautiful. On the day I visited, a bagpiper was playing while walking through the cemetery. It was profoundly moving. But I also can't deny the pain and righteous anger at seeing the final symbol of my dad's life connect to the US military, a system and symbol of violence, domination, imperialism... 

...

I want to end with another video, but first some background/qualifications. As I've mentioned, my dad wasn't a very emotionally expressive person, except on rare occasions. He also came from an Evangelical Christian family. One thing that consistently moved him to a state of profound feeling and expression – tears, sobbing, rocking – was the gospel/spiritual music of his childhood. Those were, to me, the moments he was most human. Watching him in these moments and feeling the profound emotional opening and connection was incredible. Sometimes, if I'm honest, also frightening, because moments of emotional intimacy between my dad and me were very rare. 

I first heard the song "Amazing Grace" at a funeral when I was nine years old. I remember being profoundly moved – something inside me literally shook – by the melody and the words, even though I didn't grasp the meaning.

Since then, the song has moved me in that way – not the literal meaning but the melody and the poetry/depth of the words. I didn't know until this past year that this song was one of my dad's favorites, too, which I guess is both sad and beautiful. His only request for his memorial service was that this song be played.

During my dad's last week of life, I would sit on his bed and we would watch this video over and over, me in awe and my dad coming and going from the dimension we once shared. I sat there on his bed and realized how deeply emotional he was, when something spoke to him. The video is of someone who, for better or worse, spoke to him, Wintley Phipps. I don't know much about Phipps except that he's connected with the Evangelical movement (and also, I think, Oprah?). Coming to terms with my dad's Evangelical roots is work I've only recently begun. It feels risky to put this video out there because I know I have a lot more work to do around this aspect of my family history (i.e., I've tried to disavow this part of my family history, which means in part that I have very little understanding of it, so if this video pisses you off, by all means say something), but Phipps tells the most powerful history and sings one of the most incredible versions of Amazing Grace I've ever heard. So this, I share, in honor of my dad.