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My mom told me recently that getting Hazel (our dog, a tiny brown toy poodle) has made my dad gentler. It’s true. He baby talks to her, takes time out of his day to walk her and talks about her all the time. Upon hearing this, there was a gut reaction of jealousy. The dog coincidentally joining our family right as I left the house for college seemed like a cruel joke. On visits home, I watch my dad meticulously plan Hazel’s trips to the dog park and bathe her after with an uncharacteristic and unfamiliar tenderness. Why couldn’t my dad have become gentler for me? Was I not once just as much of an innocent creature in need of love? But, inexplicably, these feelings never manifest into resentment. One reason, obviously, is that Hazel is the cutest dog ever and I have nothing but love for her. The other reason is that I think I can feel in my bones how good she is for him.
To see my dad shrouded in love for another is a rare sight. He has never shown much affection to me, my mom or his parents. I’ve always been told, “Of course he loves you!” but the sheer frustration and emotional toll of having to assume that rather than be shown it was always too much. I didn’t understand how I was supposed to believe that I was loved by him with no basis of a kind gesture or words of appreciation, and my every attempt at connection being ignored. Every homemade birthday card being shoved into the bottom drawer, every conversation falling flat into disinterest and awkwardness. Instead I turned toward resenting him, which was easier. I would always blame him for our relationship — or rather, lack thereof. He was the older, wiser one; why couldn’t he put his ego aside and express his love? Even now, I don’t blame myself for my resentment. It’s undeniable that how he has treated me has hurt me.
Yet, as I peer through a crack in the bedroom door, seeing my dad and Hazel curled up together with the same peaceful expression on their faces, I can’t help but simply feel overwhelmed by the amount of love I see. It’s clear to me how good it is for him to have something he can express love towards. I understand it’s no longer about me or the resentment I held towards him. It heals me a little bit just to see that he has this potential for love inside of him. I can start to see hints of love in the moments I thought were anything but that.
The love is concealed in the moments that are a little too close for comfort, shrouded in awkwardness. When I stayed up all night making a Father’s Day cake for him, only to be met with laughter, I now know that was the only reaction he knew, and that there are hints of appreciation in it. I know we both feel a little too seen when my mom and all our relatives point out how similar we are, from our looks to our sense of humor, knowing that we will never talk about the fact. And yet, there is love in knowing we share so much. It’s hard to have a conversation that lasts more than two sentences, but there is love in the fact that we keep trying to start one, even if he only knows how to talk about school or work. The disconnect won’t disappear overnight, I know. There is still so much unsaid. But despite all the angst and misgivings, the love he shows Hazel reveals the love he has for me at the core of our relationship.
It truly shakes me to my core to admit to myself that I love my dad and he loves me, but once again, I will not turn to resentment. The hurt is there, but that’s OK. I can have compassion; compassion for the tiny brown toy poodle who doesn’t realize she immediately got the love I have craved for 18 years, compassion for the father whose heart I still intricately understand despite it never being opened to me. The younger versions of me didn’t know how to do anything but blame and resent, but I realize now that if my dad can show love to Hazel, that love must be inside him, and some of that love must exist for me, no matter how mangled it may be by our fatherhood and daughterhood.
MiC Columnist Vivian Park can be reached at pvivian@umich.edu.
The post Hazel appeared first on The Michigan Daily.
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