When My Father Died, I Felt Relieved. But An Unearthed Childhood Photo Has Me Wondering More.

1975 was not the greatest year for children's fashions, but I was trying to be a baby butch.

My mom reported that she knew I was having a boy or a girl when I was active in the uterus. I'm not sure if it's a better description of my gender than "heaven-help-us girl".

I emerged as a fully formed, sensitive, opinionated coastal genderqueer after being sent from central casting to play The Kid Who Would Wreak Havoc.

My mother told me what to eat when I asked to be a vegetarian. On a Sunday afternoon, I followed my mom around from room to room, pestering her about what we could do to keep harp seals out of harm's way. She wanted to take care of her home.

I would miss the school bus when it rained. I wouldn't be able to prevent worms from getting run over by returning them to the grass because I wouldn't have enough time.

I was given an art project by my third- grade teacher. We were told to draw the story after she repeated her 45 record of Gordon Lightfoot's "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald". As I attempted to crayon the capsized boat with the sailors spilling into the water, the lyrics made me cry so much that the teacher had to call a conference with my mom.

My dad was not happy when my mom was called for crying-related emergencies.

My offspring would be my father if Archie Bunker and the Great Santini overcame their status as fictional characters to give birth.

He was raised on a struggling farm near the town of Caro, Michigan, by an even more difficult father. He bragged that he had never seen his dad smile.

” How to Win Friends and Influence Peopl e” and ” Winning Through Intimidation” were self-help classics of the 1970s. He would announce the start of breakfast by hitting his fist on the table and saying, "Act enthusiastic, and you'll be enthusiastic!"

He said that most people are just about as happy as they make up their minds, which seemed to me to be a reference to Dale Carnegie.

I wasn't upset.

I was concerned about the worms.

The harp seal.

The animals.

The wives of Edmund Fitzgerald.

I didn't want to wear a dress on picture day.

My dad would try to head off a sob attack by asking if he was going to cry.

He never reconsidered the effectiveness of his behavior modification technique despite the fact that the answer to that question was almost always yes.

My mom always told us that my father never hit us in anger, and although that particular narrative doesn't match my recollection, I prefer my version. If you are going to get hit, it would be better if you said, "I'm mad"

My dad was a smoker for a long time. He was diagnosed with lung cancer when I was young. I felt sad to see him suffer so much from futile treatments, but the weaker he got, the less scared I was.

I wasn't sure if I was happy or sad when he was sick. I was hurt by his pain. He didn't explode across the dinner table for an offense only he understood, but drinking in between bites of food was an inexplicable and random pet peeve that left me with a bloody nose.

He was no longer ambivalence when he died. He was relieved that he wasn't suffering anymore. It was easy to feel safe. The man who beat our dog with a two-by-four wasn't living in our house anymore. There was no longer a fear of being next.

I was guilty of feeling relieved.

I don't think the Germanic culture of rural Wisconsin helped me to read other people's emotions. My cis gender siblings were less likely to become a focus of my dad's anger and my mom missed him. It could be a lot.

I pretended to be sad so that I wouldn't have to worry about the death of my body.

When I came back to school, my physical education teacher said that I was very brave.

I decided to call this brave.

I kept my grief secret until I was 40 years old. A new friend heard me reference a bad memory of my father and she was happy to hear it.

You are also a member of the Glad Dead Dad club. It loosened decades of guilt that had been tight around my chest. I was relieved to learn that I was not the only member of the club.

I had a great day after my dad died from lung cancer when I was a kid. Philip Morris should be written a letter. I think Big Tobacco doesn't get many thank you notes.

It wasn't the world's most nuanced post, but it was a relief to be open after years of feeling like a villain in a Disney movie There wasn't a simple relationship. I don't understand why I would expect my feelings to be easy.

My sister scanned thousands of pictures my dad had taken during the last 30 years of his life. She sent me a link to the photo album site and said she found the cover for my next comedy album.

I was able to click through the site. There were a lot of pictures of trees damaged by ice storms, our station wagon looking small next to giant snowdrifts, children looking small next to giant vegetables, and a large slobbering outdoor dog. Each person in the group had a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other.

She was referring to a photo.

I was carrying a bat but not playing baseball. I was living my best life in the woods.

The photo is courtesy of the person.

My dad would have had to stop whatever he was doing and get his camera, film, and flashbulbs from the house to take this picture because he didn't carry his camera a lot. It doesn't seem like it's motivated by annoyance It felt like someone took a picture of this child.

My Slightly sarcastic New York Therapist will say in her Slightly sarcastic New York Way, "Hmmm, whenever I refer to my parents as the cliche "Doing their best", my Slightly sarcastic New York Therapist will say in her Slightly sarcastic New York Way, That's really true. That was their finest.

They could have done worse, given their skills and resources, but they wouldn't be in the running for parents of the year now.

I wondered how much more of me my dad saw, but didn't know how to communicate, in this photo. If my father had been given access to any tool to improve his relationship with me, what would have happened?

My dad wouldn't have become the kind of parent who gave his children multiple choices about what brand of yogurt they preferred and who had an ironic mustache. Perhaps he could have been proud of the sensitive, not-a-man, not-a-woman that I have become if he had asked about my pronouns.

I am still grieving for my dad. It wouldn't be right to turn in my membership card for the Glad Dead Dad's Club because I'm so grateful for the years of safety he provided for me. My tears, which would make him bananas, reflect my sadness for both of us and our missed chance to know and be known.

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The article was first published on HuffPost.