KarMel Scholarship 2007

“I Never Told Dad”

By Mark Malan

Desciption of Submission: A story of my father's death and how it set me free.

I was once asked, “What was the best day of your life and what was the worst?” At the time it was asked, in 1997, I was able to admit that the answer to both of those questions was the same day: November 13, 1989, the day my father died from a heart attack, the weekend before Thanksgiving, my freshman year at USC.

I was in my dorm room; it was a Sunday evening when my mother called. She had waited until she was composed enough to be able to tell me. In that moment, as the words came to my ear through the phone, I was overcome with grief. I screamed, “NO!” and began to sob uncontrollably. When my roommate and friends from neighboring rooms came in, all I could do was hand them the phone so that my mother could tell them, I could not form words.

Eighteen years old, and my father, at age 45, was gone. We had not spoken much in the few months prior, but had a wonderful conversation as I left for college. He took me aside after we had loaded the car and told me, “I know I haven’t been the best father, but before you get married and all that, you and I will take some time and do something together, just the two of us.” Even writing this now, I am fighting back the tears.

My father was a red neck, an Oklahoman, a US Marine and a blue collar man; all he ever wanted was for his children to have a better life than he did. I don’t think I ever appreciated him as much as he deserved, but I hope that he knew that I always loved him and still do. In my eyes, he was a powerful man, and I honestly lived in fear of him. One time he had told me, “The Marines taught me 101 ways to kill a man, I only need one.” He was like that, but he always made sure that he attended at least one show of each of my high school plays. When I was senior class president, he did all he could to support me and my classmates. I was blessed to have “cool parents” as was often said to me.

I wanted to be a son that he could be proud of, but that person could never really exist, not inside me. I remember returning from my exchange student year in Yugoslavia; I had gotten my left ear pierced (it was hip then). After hugging me, he leaned in and said to me, right there in JFK airport, “Little man, you had better take that out before I rip it out! You look like a God dammed faggot!” That was a cold ride home from New York to Delaware.

Yugoslavia was not a progressive country, by any means, but the adventure itself had given me a sense of independence, a sense which melted away during that ride home. My mother and I debate on occasion what we think my father’s response would have been if I had ever come out to my parents while I still lived at home. As much as I love and miss him, I believe it would have been ugly and I would have been lucky to only be thrown out of the house.

How could anyone find the death of their father to be their best day? I did not recognize that right away. I was not crying over his death and then dancing for joy right after. That first night, I just laid there in bed, thinking of nothing but my father. That night, my whole life began to completely change. He was gone now. In our last face to face conversation, it was clear to both of us we loved each other. Nothing could change that now; there was no opportunity for me to do something, or tell him something that would make him angry at me. I no longer needed to fear him discovering anything about me that he would despise.

Having given and received love from others in the years since, I know that it was the love I felt from my mother and my father that have enabled me to surrender myself to love, without fear. I will always love my father and I owe him for much of who I am today, both with his parenting and his departure from this world. I do not know what my life would be like now if I continued to live in a lie, and I am glad that it is as it is. I miss you Dad, and I will always love you. Thank you for setting me free.

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