Ours was not a harmonious relationship. The few adult conversations we managed only cemented our divide with righteous opinons, thrown from both sides of the tent. He died unexpectedly in 2006.
A year or so before, he made a rare appearance at my home. The time of his arrival signaled this was not just a random stop. It was almost 8:30 PM – very late for this aging farmer to be out for a visit. He was looking for solidarity on an issue he faced with my grandmother, his mother. We were sitting in the den. I listened but remained Switzerland, neutral in my response.
My three children entered the room, ready for bed and wanting to say goodnight. After sufficiently filling their hug tanks, they headed for their rooms with my smile following them. As their feet drummed up the stairs, he turned to me and said “Which one’s your favorite?”
There it was. The ghost elephant that always lurked in the room with us was now standing center stage. I looked at him for a moment and replied flatly, “I don’t have a favorite.”
“Tsssssk!” His comment dripped with disbelief. “Sure you do.”
I repositioned myself on the sofa. “Well, you know, I can see that some people do have favorites. I’ve actually thought a fair bit about how and why people have favorites and what affect this has on the people involved. And I can tell you I absolutely do not favor one of my children over another. I love them differently. They are different people. And I love them equally.”
He challenged me. “Lisa, everyone has a favorite. You do too, you just won’t admit it.”
Silence. I repositioned again.
“You know, you were never my favorite.”
WHAP! Oh, I certainly knew this. But hearing him actually say it… Verbalizing the you’re-not-good-enough haunt that chased me… His words ripped across my heart.
My voice quiet now, “Yes Dad. I’ve always known I wasn’t your favorite.”
“Well, you didn’t like working on the farm. You just wanted to read books all the time. Always had your damn nose stuck in a book.”
I fought back the tears, determined not to lose my composure and realizing what a defining moment this was.
Dad left shortly thereafter never knowing how deep his words cut. From his perspective he was only speaking the truth as he knew it. In his world everyone has a favorite. It’s just the way it is.
Hot tears slid down my cheeks as his truck pulled out of my driveway. In the quiet I realized that, even though I was clearly not his favorite, even though part of me yearned to be his favorite and knew I would never be, I loved him as I always had. Maybe even more because now I understood that he didn’t know what he didn’t know.
And I wonder now… Do racists think in a similar fashion? Is this their “truth”? Everyone has a favorite someone, something, anything. So why not have a favorite skin color? It’s just the way it is. Black people are lazy. That’s just the way it is. White people all want to keep us down. That’s just the way it is. More righteous opinions that cement the divide. More words that slice more hearts. We don’t know what we don’t know.
