Missing Each Other

A “relational perspective” conceives of relationships as co-constitutive endeavors where all persons involved affect each other (Bochner, 1997, 2004). A relational perspective treats interaction as a “jointly authored, incomplete, and historically situated” affair (Bochner & Ellis, 1995, p. 204), a “slippery” process “constantly on the dynamic edge between order and disorder” (Baxter & Montgomery, 1996, p. 69). A relational perspective views persons in interaction as interdependent, never-completely-predictable beings (Bochner, 1989); we are not machines (Soukup, 1992). Consequently, a relational perspective treats disappointment and conflict as products of joint interaction, of people being, working, and relating—together.

In “Seeking Father” (Adams, 2006), I used a relational perspective to understand the relationship I have with my father. In particular, I described my father’s failed dreams of being a professional golfer and him never wanting my dreams to fail.

I described us, playing together, in five father–son golf tournaments, my father making sure that each time, upon finishing, that I had a trophy regardless of whether or not we won.

I described seeing my father abuse my mother without him knowing that I saw; postdivorce, moving with my mother and leaving, at my father’s house, five father–son golf trophies; and my father saying that he stopped my mother from having an abortion.

I described my begrudging attempt to join the high school golf team and ruining my ability to compete in two state competitions, knowing that my inability would hurt my father.

I described hearing my father jokingly call me a cocksucker at a time when I was not yet out to him as gay.

I described saying “I am gay” to him, after his mother, my grandmother, died, and telling him—lying to him—that she knew about my sexuality.

I described my refusal to be concerned about his death, and my father apologizing, to me, for using the derogatory, homophobic term “cocksucker.”

The story ends with me selling my golf clubs to my father, during, at the time of the writing, one of our last times together.

I described feeling stuck between two narratives, one that said my father and I must work things out in order to fulfill our responsibilities as father and son (Pelias, 2002), and another that told me to let go of the relationship, to realize that I can’t choose my family or my relatives.

I created “Seeking Father” to illustrate how we’re accountable to each other, how we’re victims and oppressors who simultaneously hurt and are hurt and who never decide to quit. I wanted to alter the relationship I have with my father, to improve our living conditions, to, in the words of Holman Jones (2005), help change not only us, but also the world.

In this project, I continue a similar trajectory. I use a relational perspective to illustrate to describe moments when my father and I perpetually miss each other—moments when I long for him and how he longs for me, how we fail to connect, how we hurt and are hurt but never decide to quit, how we practice stifling communicative patterns, and how we both seek love. Maybe we’re in love, somehow.

Missing: longing for, regretting absence, feeling loss.

Missing: failing to meet, losing connection, talking past.

My father and I: missing each other.

In his teens, my father cut contact with his biological father, Carl Eickhoff. He changed his name from “Eickhoff” to “Adams.” He never told me about Carl or the name change.

I learned about Carl and the name change because I found my father’s sister’s birth certificate—a document listing her name as Eickhoff—in my grandmother’s attic. I asked my grandmother about the name. She became angry with me, told me what happened, and said to never speak about Carl or the name change again.

In 2004, I secretly contacted Carl. I wanted his story of my dad. Carl told me that he continued to love my dad, but was scared to contact him. I called Carl once more in 2005, but then ceased contact; I felt guilty talking to him without telling my father.

On December 20, 2008, I read Carl’s obituary in the local paper. It made no mention of my father. I called my dad, but didn’t say much, only the typical “Hi” and “How are you?” I never said anything about meeting Carl or that Carl said he loved him. Missing each other.

I began “Seeking Father” (Adams, 2006) with the statement, “My mom always told me that I’d either be gay or that I’d marry a Black woman” (p. 704). My mother would say this when I would express dislike for my father. She thought that I would do anything to spite my father, and the possibilities of being gay or marrying someone of a different race would be lasting, severe measures I could take to hurt him; to her, my father had a history of disliking gay and non-White persons. From this premise, when I came out as gay I forced him to confront his prejudice towards nonheterosexual others—a confrontation that comprises much of the “Seeking Father” essay. What is not mentioned, however, are the changes in my interpretation of his attitudes toward non-White others.

For nearly one year, my father dated a woman of Middle Eastern descent, a woman darker skinned that his usual lighter skinned, White love interests. To my knowledge, he had never dated anyone who couldn’t easily pass as White. My father seemed to step out of his racial and skin-colored comfort zone.

While race is still an explicit issue for my father, indicated by derogatory comments he’ll sometimes make about non-White populations, I take from his relationship that race and skin color have lessened on his hierarchy of relational concerns. And, while I want to ask why he may have changed and how he can be against some races and not others, I do not. I want to have meaningful conversations about race and want to perceive my father as becoming more accepting of difference, but I fear hearing otherwise. Missing each other.

December 2006. “I’ve softened as I’ve aged,” my dad says on the phone. He called to discuss his frustrations with a family friend. “I know Tom dominates everyone, including his wife. That’s not right, and that’s probably why his kids don’t speak to him. I think that’s also why one of his sons cannot keep relationships with women; he tries to dominate them.”

Much of my dissonance with and dislike of my father stemmed from watching him abuse my mother. Now I listen, with surprise, and wonder if he ever recalls his domination and abuse. And, while I enjoy hearing his (new?) perspective toward women, I again decide against telling him how his abuse contaminates my memory of us. Missing each other.

December 2009. Dinner with relatives, one of whom recently came out as gay. Jokingly, two relatives say that I “started a trend”: as I have been out to them since 2004, they suggest that I recruited another person to my gay team. I found the comment somewhat cute, but recognized how it could be perceived as offensive—it trivializes and pokes fun at same-sex attraction. After dinner ended and the relatives left, I told my dad about the comment.

“It’s none of their business,” he says. “I don’t know why people talk about others.”

“I thought it was funny,” I respond, trying to encourage him to talk more, to say what he thinks about same-sex attraction, and, more specifically, about me.

“It’s none of their business,” he says again. “They should keep their mouth shut.”

The conversation ends.

I perceive his commentary as protective and dismissive—protective, because I perceive my father ridiculing relatives trivializing and poking fun at my sexuality, dismissive, because my father and I do not talk about my sexuality. I long for a more engaging response: I want him to comment on my sexuality, to recognize and respect it. But I say nothing. Missing each other.

“I’d like to see you today,” dad says on the phone. “And take you to dinner.”

“Sorry, dad. I am catching up on school work.”

“No problem,” he says. “I’ll come another time.”

Another call: “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks.

“Preparing for school,” I say.

“Oh, okay. I thought about coming to see you. I’ll come another day.”

Another call: “I’ll try to make it to see you this weekend,” he says.

“I’ll be at a conference,” I reply. “May be next weekend.”

“Yeah,” he says. “May be next weekend.”

I want to see him, but only when it’s convenient for me. I consider an abrupt visit, from him, a burden, and I don’t want to make him, or us, a priority. Missing each other.

March 2010. I call dad. A typical conversation until he abruptly says he must go.

“You okay?” I ask.

“I have to go,” he says. “I’ll talk to you in a few days.”

“What’s the matter?” I respond. “Talk to me.”

“I’m just so proud of you,” he says crying. “I wish I had been around more. I wish I would’ve been a better father.”

“That’s the past, dad. Let’s talk and act different now.”

He calms, and the conversation ends with me, feeling uncomfortable with his crying; him, wanting to tell me something meaningful, but lacking courage. We stumble together, moving awkwardly and absent harmful intentions. Missing each other.

May 2009. I enter my father’s house; the house in which I lived from 1982 until 1994 and the house in which he has lived, by himself, since 1994; the house where I lived much of my youth; the house I haven’t visited in more than a decade. I walk throughout to see what has and has not changed. I enter my former bedroom.

“I haven’t touched anything,” he says.

Time hasn’t touched the space: swimming ribbons from 1987 still decorate the wall; with exception of the comforter, the bed is the same; the desk with remnants of grade school—pencils, broken crayons, stickers, scented erasers; a wood box filled with once-loved stuffed animal toys—a sock monkey, two Cabbage Patch kids (“Brendon” and “Veronica”), and Teddy Ruxpin, a 1980s “talking bear” who moves its mouth with the playing of a cassette tape. I approach the large bookcase and see autographed baseballs, an altered Golf magazine cover on which my face graces the cover, and five father–son golf trophies.

“You haven’t touched anything.” I say, somewhat ambivalent.

“Nope. I didn’t want to touch your things.”

I try to make meaning of his comment, the untouched room, and us, as father–son. I sense that my father has missed me living there, of us being together. I recognize that even in the rough times, the times when I didn’t speak to him (out of a fear of coming out) and he not speaking to me (after having came out), our lack of talk did not motivate him to remove my awards, replace the furniture of my youth, trash my toys, or hide our trophies. I regret thinking that I disliked him for thinking he disliked me, regret thinking how our relational experiences may have been different had I just said or done something differently or had he called me out on my lack of openness with him. I regret not saying how much I appreciate the unchanged room.

In May 2010, I take my partner into the room to show him the artifacts from my youth. My dad, following us in, once again says, “I haven’t touched anything.”

“You haven’t,” I respond, somewhat ambivalent.

“Nope,” he continues. “This is your room and these are your things. I won’t touch them.”

Missing each other: My father says he likes my partner, but never asks about our well-being or life together. I also don’t ask my father about why he doesn’t ask about us.

Missing each other: My father and I talk a few times each week, but only about certain topics: the weather, work, the lives of friends and family. I make no effort to change topics.

Missing each other: My father hates his business—a restaurant—but is not skilled in any other trade. Recently, a drunken man punched him in the face. Off-duty police officers who happened to be in the restaurant restrained the man; had they not I believe my father would’ve shot the man with one of his many guns. At least he says he would. I only listen.

Missing each other: Telling me he’s lonely; me, listening more.

Missing each other: Knowing that he hasn’t been to a doctor in nearly a decade and knowing his diet is terrible, consisting of gobs of red meat and all-you-can-eat buffets. Knowing he doesn’t have health insurance, and that he has no savings or equity. Knowing that his business is failing, has been trying to hold off debtors for years, and has recently sold his living room furniture to make a car payment. Knowing, but not acknowledging.

Missing each other: Waiting for the call that says he’s been attacked again, or that he’s had a heart attack, or that he’s killed himself. “I never want to be diagnosed with cancer, trapped in a hospital, or be put in a nursing home,” he’ll often say. “I will kill myself first.”

Missing each other: Feeling guilty for writing these words, but not knowing what else to say.

Missing each other: longing for, regretting absence, feeling loss.

Missing each other: failing to meet, losing connection, talking past.

Missing each other: Deciding to write—as talking, living, being together hasn’t worked.