Abandoned by his mother only a few months after his birth, Taft had to rely solely on his dysfunctional dad. A man who always kept his word but could be very cruel at times. By the age of fourteen, the teenage boy knew what he wanted to do in life. So, he carefully laid out a plan: graduate at the top of his class, earn a degree in finance, and join a prestigious firm. But, one obstacle would be extremely difficult to overcome – the continued presence of his ne’er-do-well, alcoholic father. Thankfully, his dad’s many years of harvesting in the darkness would eventually yield much-needed light…
I remember every single moment.
It all started when I was eight or nine, I don’t recall the exact year, only that it began in the most benign way possible. At first, it was just a few beers with buddies. But after a few runs of bad luck, the social component and its accompanying jovialness simply disappeared.
Fortunately, the downturn took quite a bit of time to really take hold – years’ worth of de-evolution from a lighthearted soul to something entirely different. Early on during the metamorphosis, a valiant fight took place, but ultimately, an unwinnable struggle wore away the will to bridle. Overcoming wasn’t a possibility because the personality at the center just didn’t have the fortitude or the motivation.
So, the sickness – if it is indeed a disease – clenched its grip tighter and tighter until it could not be broken without serious intervention. Even that practice, which can produce positive results, didn’t work. Concerned peers eventually gave up and left one by one, just like his wife (my mother), and subsequent ex-girlfriends.
The entire, prolonged experience left a very different man than it found. And, that deranged personality was what I was left to deal with throughout some of the most impressionable and formative years of my young life. So, my childhood nearly became a casualty of my father’s malfeasance. An ordeal with such length and depth, it almost stole my future before it began. After all, my past was one filled with hugely influential, yet negative obstacles.
That’s why I can easily recall such vivid details.
8/9
My father Frank was a draftsman who aspired to be an architect. He loved the trade but wanted more than just drawing out someone else’s creations. For many years, he drew blueprints and other documents before attempting to earn a degree in architecture.
When he entered the program, I’m not entirely sure, but it was sometime during my sixth-grade year. I only remember that because one of my teachers at the time was married to a structural engineer who occasionally worked on projects with my dad. I can’t recall his name, but he always referred to my father as “Franky,” a nickname from his childhood he didn’t like whatsoever. To him, it sounded unserious. In fact, he often went by his formal name, Franklin.
Many people over years (these included – even to this very day), ask me how I got my name, Taft. Some instantly conclude it’s some type of homage to the tenth chief justice, the twenty-seventh president. But, they’re wrong. It actually doesn’t have anything to do with the historic figure. In fact, my father once told me when I was younger, my name, Taft, isn’t supposed to mean anything at all.
You see, my dad wanted me to have an important-sounding name and he thought Taft fit that description. Regardless of his preference, the structural engineer, a sometimes colleague of my dad’s, always called him Franky. My father believed people would have more respect for him if he were an architect and not just a draftsman.
I clearly remember him bringing home all sorts of textbooks and studying for hours evening after evening. That is, until the booze got into his nose. Not just a few beers, but hard liquor, which at first, started as one or two nightcaps. Although, it would soon be much more than a couple of pops.
I can only guess, but do nevertheless believe, his nightly growing alcohol consumption was directly related to the state of his professional life. As I’ve stated, a couple, maybe a few beers in the evening was fairly routine when I was about eight, maybe nine years old. That’s when he started taking courses toward a degree in architecture.
Even though my mother left us many years prior, my dad did date, albeit sparsely. He met Maggie when I was nine, a detail I remember well because she worked at a local bank and was a friend of the structural engineer. Her job had something to do with construction, I suppose commercial financing as I look back now. The engineer introduced my dad to her and that’s how their relationship started.
Maggie and my father got along really well. She encouraged him in his pursuit of earning an architectural degree and spent many weekends with us, like the time we went to the zoo and also when we visited the car racing museum. Sadly, both of those two places are long gone, but the three of us had a lot of fun, and I have very fond memories.
Then, things took an abrupt turn. Maggie had to leave the country and go back home. I remember it had to due with her family, but neither she nor my dad told me why. What happened next, I’m sure put my father on a self-destructive path – Maggie never came back. All I know is she was in an accident; my dad never did really explain.
Still, in the wake of that tragedy, my father refocused, putting all of his energy into his studies, and did not date for quite some time. He even cut down on drinking, only having a beer or two every couple of days. It seemed like the shock of losing Maggie had a tremendous impact, but strangely positive. That was, until the next big blow.
10/11
In the seventh grade, my dad enrolled me in a STEM program after an entire summer of me nagging him about it. I wanted to build something, just like him and our relationship was the best it had ever been, almost like Maggie was somehow still part of our lives, as if she were present all along.
He was near finishing his architectural degree and took on more responsibilities at work. The lead architect at the company let him come up with new concepts and spearhead different projects – though the lead architect still had to sign off on all my father’s work.
As a result of his contributions, the firm gave my dad a big promotion and he had a lot of friends over at our house. It was typical for two or three of his buddies to stop by a couple of times during the week and practically every weekend there was a party at our house or at one of his friends.
After the promotion, there was more than just frequent socialization, he bought me a new trail bike and a four-wheel ATV. He said it was only fair, given he bought a brand new pickup truck. Then, on a seemingly ordinary school night, he came home with a thirty-five-foot travel trailer. It was less than a year old, bought from a friend of a friend for a nice discount because the original owner couldn’t travel any longer.
Not too long after, Karla came onto the scene. She wasn’t at all like Maggie. In hindsight, she was the typical rebound relationship. They bickered all the time. But, he tried to make it work, taking us on camping trips. When her car needed repairs, he’d pay to have it fixed. And, when she wanted new clothes, he’d give her money to go shopping.
One morning, just as my dad was about to take me to school, her car broke down for the final time. Instead of driving me as he normally did, he told me to walk to the bus stop, several blocks away, and take the bus so he could pick her up.
They wound up going to a dealership later and came home with a late-model, convertible sports coupe – only room enough for two. That’s when things between us started to change. Rather than all three of us going on camping trips, he’d drop me off at a schoolmate’s house for a two-night sleepover and he and Karla would spend the weekend together.
As a child of just ten or eleven, I didn’t understand it. Now, I have enough experience and perspective. But, at the time, it was confusing and it felt like she was much more important than his only son. I can look back and see he was just doing what he thought was best for their relationship and letting me grow up a little at the same time.
Still, it was very tough for me.
Around the time I was finishing up seventh grade, everything changed again. It started with a mistake my dad made on a project at work. At first, it didn’t seem like a big deal, but within just days it ballooned into a gigantic mess. He’d come home, deflated, and wouldn’t talk about it – at least to me. He spoke behind closed doors to Karla, which always went the same way. They’d be whispering, then speaking louder and louder, eventually shouting at one another.
The tense exchanges ended with her storming out of the house or with him sitting silently on the couch, stewing in his own anger, drinking beer after beer. A day or two would go by, and they’d patch things up between them, only to repeat the whole cycle. I remember it because it drug out over a month, resulting in the company’s longest and most important client leaving, obtusely cutting off all communication, and never coming back.
His life was a disaster unfolding in slow motion. And, that’s when the emotional and physical abuse started.
Stuporous, stinking, offensive breath came down to assault my olfactory senses as if it was a malicious, personal ambush. An experience repeated almost nightly that I could never escape, no matter how I tried – usually accompanied by fetid armpits and sweaty arms, which were used in a variety of emotions and applications – sometimes to exert an unwanted bearhug, other times to carry out harm.
Before this, he rarely ever raised his voice. Sure, he did get angry occasionally, but it was always expressed in a muted but stern tone. He wasn’t mean. He wasn’t nasty. He simply spoke bluntly and that was enough to get my attention when I did something wrong.
This mature, restrained approach fell away in a short period of time, replaced with violence. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the first victim – Karla was.
During one of their arguments, she blamed him for the whole situation at his work. So much, it sounded like taunting. His response left her with a black eye and a bruise across her face. She ran out of our house and stayed shut up in her place for the next ten days.
Somehow, some way, they patched things up and pretended like nothing ever happened. That is, until it happened all over again. This time, she fought back and then sped away in her coupe. I was the only one left to deal with the drunken rage.
Just like with Karla, he apologized profusely. But his circumstances at work didn’t get any better for months and months. The company was on the verge of going out of business, during what he called “an economic retraction.” I only had a vague understanding of such conditions, but the fun trips we took together, the new stuff he used to buy, it all stopped. The abuse continued in their place.
I always had to guess when he started drinking and came near me. And no amount of experience would guarantee the right answer. Who would it be? The happy drunk? The imitation contemplative academic? Or, the dread fiend?
It was all very scary, extremely confusing, and completely out of my control. (I learned the later fact of life when a teacher noticed a welt on my arm and a partially swollen lip.)
She sent me to the school office, where I naively explained how I got the injuries only to have my dad personally refute what I said, making a ridiculous excuse about me falling off the swing in our backyard. (Because that swing, he took down himself when I was about seven years old because it was just too rusty and unsafe.)
So, this was my reality, no matter how cruel or unfair. But, it taught me plenty of valuable lessons. Some were more important than others. Nonetheless, all those experiences, both large and small, helped to forge tenacity, a volition anchored in self-preservation. Moreso, toward the pursuit of accomplishment. Not an unattainable goal, but a realistic path to self-reliance and perhaps, to a comfortable, middle-class lifestyle.
12/13
By the time I was twelve and in the eighth grade, Karla was long gone, but the abuse remained, usually after a night of heavy drinking. My dad’s friends also came to our house a lot less and eventually, not at all. He didn’t go out after work either and there were no more weekend parties.
One might think such debauchery would have an impact on his career, but it didn’t. He never drank a drop of alcohol during the day and somehow managed to sober up just enough in the morning to make it through his 9 to 5. He also struck up a working relationship with a large developer who opened a new office in town. They forged an alliance of sorts, a strategic partnership. Of course, I didn’t understand it at the time, but now, I do.
It must have been a lucrative collaboration because this developer brought residential and commercial products to the company my father worked for. Close to finishing his architecture degree, this new opportunity inspired him to resume college classes.
The new plethora of business also gave him an excuse to quit feeling sorry for himself and just as before, he drank less and less. The fewer nights he drank, the better – sober dad didn’t hit me, but drunk dad did. Needless to say, I greatly preferred the former over the latter.
It was a huge relief and allowed me to concentrate on the things that should be most important to a tween boy. I didn’t have to dread going home or to bed – they were once again safe places.
My father’s relationship with the developer allowed him to position himself as the single-biggest influence in the company. Even though it only employed about a dozen people directly, it was profitable, and my dad offered to buy the business, giving his boss, the owner, the opportunity to retire a few years early.
Being the new head of the company, my father didn’t need a degree in architecture. Now, he employed them. So, he stopped taking classes and put all of his time and energy into the business instead.
For the first few months, it was nothing but chaos. Although, it kept his mind occupied and that meant he drank very little. It seemed like everything was as normal as it could get. But, he still didn’t have anyone in his life other than me, and that’s when he started dating Regina.
She was nice, but a total fake. I’m quite sure he knew she was only interested in money, but he truly thought that given enough time, she’d come to actually love him and me too – she didn’t.
One afternoon when I was off school and had a free day, he gave her a handful of cash to take me to do something fun. Instead, she dropped me off at her friend’s house – a total stranger who sat outside and smoked cigarettes while I watched two boring, little kids’ movies in a row.
When I told my father about it later on, he explained I shouldn’t complain so much. He told me Regina was an only child and didn’t have any real experience with kids. I’ve never felt so unloved as I did at that moment.
Then, his bad luck returned again, and this time, with a vengeance.
Out of nowhere, he got a phone call from his auto insurance company. They informed my dad that Karla was at fault in a bad accident and was being sued for liability. When he asked how this had to do anything with him, the insurance company told him her car was still on his umbrella policy. (He kept the coverage because his name was also on the title.)
After he hung up the phone, he walked to the pantry, grabbed a bottle of booze, and poured a stiff drink, guzzling it down. I distinctly remember feeling an ominous sense of dread, of fear. But, he followed it with a glass of water and didn’t drink another drop for days.
His dry streak ended when he caught Regina cheating. He found out about the other guy when she cleaned out one of his bank accounts and charged a bunch of things to his business credit card.
But, that’s definitely not where his new series of misfortune ended.
14/15
My first week or so as a freshman was a lot like anyone else’s I suppose. It’s an awkward experience, being thrust back to the bottom of the school social hierarchy again after spending an entire year at the top in junior high. I not only had to deal with that but my father’s problems, too. By this time, our relationship was nearly irreparable. Making it worse was the fact he learned his most trusted right-hand man was embezzling money, with the help of the company accountant. As if that weren’t enough, the new big developer client severed all ties and filed a lawsuit against his business.
He had no choice but to file for bankruptcy, but was able to keep some personal and business assets. After the final hearing, my mother reappeared, though he never told me about her brief return. (I learned, later on, she was deep in gambling debt and sold off some of his equipment without his permission by forging his signature.)
For months and months, he was caught up in all kinds of litigation, drowning in a pile of debt of his own, and in a sea of booze. I became his go-to choice for taking out his frustrations. But, unlike in the past, I was bigger and stronger. So, I fought back, but it only made him all the more resentful and angry.
Late one night, just as I was about to fall asleep, he threw my bedroom door open so hard, the knob punctured the drywall, as he grabbed my ankles and drug me feet-first off the mattress, causing my head to hit the cold tile floor. I woke up in the hospital with stitches in the back of my bruised, swollen skull.
I remember my eyes hurting so very badly, I could do little else but squint. For the majority of my stay, I was in a fog. The day I was eligible for discharge, no one came to check me out. And, since I was still a minor, law enforcement got involved.
The same day, his body was found – he’d committed suicide the night before.
44/45
My father died thirty years ago. He died a broken man, one without purpose or even the slightest bit of hope. I learned a great deal from his struggles and made deliberate, calculated choices. I earned a degree in finance and have been with a leading firm for the past nineteen years.
Today, I’m sitting beside my wife of twenty-six years, and she’s just as beautiful and caring as the day we met. We’re proud parents, attending our son’s college graduation. He’s been working as an intern at an aerospace firm for the last year and will join full-time after being awarded his diploma.
My father may have done many bad things in his life, and I can’t say I could ever forgive him. But what I do know is that all those tough, tedious years of him desperately trying to harvest in the darkness led me to flourish under the brightest of lights.
