The Glass Box

When I hopped off the school bus I was greeted by the faint sound of music wafting up the road. It was classical music so I knew it was coming from my home.

It was like a gentle messenger, drifting to me on a silent breeze.

It told me, “Father is resting on the couch.”

It said to me, “Father is immersed in his music and his thoughts.”

It cautioned me, “Be careful and be quiet when you enter the house.”

I shuffled my feet along the sandy street, slowly making my way home.

The music was growing nearer. I could here it well now. It was Beethovan…it was Symphony No. 5.

I lingered on the side of the road, listening to the powerful message that the symphony relayed, “Father is feeling frustrated. Father is feeling powerless. Father is feeling defeated. Be very cautious and go directly to your room…silently, very silently.”

My father was a man full of contradictions. He was handsome and charming but beastly and violent. He was powerful, passionate and volatile yet incredibly delicate, sensitive and predictably unpredictable. He was extremely loyal but did not trust anyone. He was a visionary with enormous amounts of energy but he lacked the stamina and discipline to see his visions through. He was admirable and despicable.

His dichotomous personality made for a capricious life. We lived from moment to moment, never knowing which direction to walk. One moment he would be jovial and as brilliant as the sun…then the breeze would shift unpredictably and he would whip into a furious tornado of rage.

I spent my childhood desperately trying to capture that ever elusive ray of sunshine found in the eye of the storm. I would do anything to persuade the rays to part the clouds so that I could bask in my father’s happy moments, however transient.

I wanted to have a stable, peaceful life. But even more than that, I wanted my father to feel content and peaceful in his life. You see, from an early age, I recognized that my father was a terribly frustrated man. I knew that he was dissatisfied with what he was able to achieve in his life and I accepted that he was an idealist looking for perfection as well as a romantic disillusioned by reality.

I noticed that other parents seemed to find great satisfaction and personal achievement in the accomplishments of their children. There they seemed to find much gratification, satisfaction and inner peace. So, I tried to materialize my father’s failed ambitions through my own achievements. In this manner I hoped to effect his cheerful disposition.

I was bright, talented, charming and polite. I was mindful, obedient and respectful of authority. I strove to make him proud with my accomplishments by always achieving top marks in school and competition. I tried to amuse him with intelligent conversation and wit. I aimed to please him by conscientiously heeding instructions, rules and manners.

But, as far as he was concerned, I was a horrible disappointment. I was an awkward duckling, an underachieving idiot, and a scandalous embarrassment to his name.

Nonetheless, I was the most faithful and dedicated of his three children. I was the one who ran to greet him with open arms even when he came home in a frightful mood. I was the one who bent willingly to his tyranny. I was the one who forgave him every time he beat us needlessly, terrorized us insanely or accused us unfairly. I was the one he lashed out at in the most frequency and with the most vehemence (my sister and brother will concur).

The beatings that my father bestowed on our delicate bodies were the least scarring of his maltreatments. The psychological terrorism of never knowing where to tread, what to say, or how to behave was far more damaging, to be sure. We never knew if a napkin left haphazardly on the dining table would send him barreling through the bedroom door with a rod in his hand, or if a mistimed chuckle would pluck a string in his nerves whose vibrations would rock the house. We would void quickly so as to avoid being kicked out of the bathroom before we were finished and scurry down the halls to deter confrontations in small spaces where we might be shoved aside or worse. Years of unfair treatments and sub-humanizations left cataclysmic wounds that will never quite heal completely.

The funny thing is that he treated everyone else quite lavishly. He could make the pimpliest pauper feel like a princess and the dumbest dude feel like Einstein. Everyone thought he was the most charming, intelligent, interesting person they ever met…and he was…for them.

My father was an amazing illusion…A disillusioned illusion.

Things are a lot different now. In the past few years he has started taking anti-depressant medication. That and his age have helped to tame his temperament. He is much more at peace with himself and life now…and I am glad for him. But the turbulent years living in his murky shadow left an indelible mark on tender psyches.

Although these years cannot be retracted or erased they can be stored away for future reference. These memories have been placed carefully within plain view. They reside in a glass box. They are constant reminders to me of the important life lessons that my father taught me over the years.


The glass box reminds me to be patient and forgiving. It insists that I be understanding and compassionate – that I give everyone the benefit of a doubt. It propels me to defend the weak and pity the meek. And most of all, it compels me to give everyone the respect that they deserve simply by being alive.

I am my father’s daughter.

His blood runs undeniably through my veins.

I look like him.

I think like him.


I share his passion for music, art, the written word and beauty…

And I inherited his natural sociability and quirkily comical personality…

But I will not act like him.

I am a better person for having lived with him.