Ground Control to You Captain

My dad has been obsessing for years about his last name. More recently he has spent hours on the phone with me voicing his frustration at having been given a name which he didn’t want. My father was born out of wedlock. In 1937 in a very religious Catholic town, being a bastard was not good. Twelve years later, my grandmother managed to secure herself a husband who was willing to adopt the bastard and give him a name, thus a chance in life. So far, it all seems rather straightforward. However, for some obscure reasons which he cannot himself quite explain, he feels diminished by this change of name which occurred over sixty years ago.

Before we go any further, let me remind you that only recently have I told my dad about the molestation I suffered as a child and since, he has been meticulously avoiding any mention of the subject. My desire is not to spend every conversation debating these matters but surely an acknowledgment would be in order.

Last week, my dad called. He was beside himself. He had been doing research on the family tree and the matter of the name keeps coming back to haunt him. He had apparently contacted whichever government agency responsible for name-change, and was appalled at discovering that should he be twelve years old today; his mother would not been able to change his name without his approval. He had been going at it rather hectically for about forty minutes by the time I finally lost patience.

“For heavens sake, are you a complete idiot? Who cares what name you have now? It is no big deal.” Of course, this outburst was not to go down well. You see, in spite of all appearances, my father’s love is highly conditional and volatile. One of the golden rules is to never, ever annoy him, in which case he would abandon you for however long, until he forgot about your misbehavior. But my days of begging for my parent’s love and approval are over. All I want is peace now.

“You don’t understand, today they would not be allowed to do it.”

“Put things into perspective. They probably did what they thought best for you at the time. You can’t compare the two periods. Children had no voice back then; life has changed in sixty years. You are no worst than all these women who had to change their names because they got married. Move on, there are more important issues to deal with in life.” My father is used to more understanding on my part. For a moment it took him aback, for a moment only.

“Have you any idea of the torment I suffer?” yelled my father. My blood curdled in my veins. I find my parents so utterly unreasonable and egotistic.

“Let me help you put things into perspective, dad. If I was starting school this year, you would all be in jail and I would be living in a foster home. Because if thirty years ago sexually molested children were unheard of, now-a-days the symptoms are pretty easy to recognize. You may have spent most of your time away from home, but it does take away your responsibility in this matter.” I was livid. “And just in case you can’t quit remember you selfish bastard, since then you have had two children who still bear than name. Does it not count for something?” It was obvious he was not expecting it and quickly changed subject.

How can these people be in any way related to me is a mystery. I am so tired of them all. I guess I may finally be ready to let go of them.