Call Me, Maybe?

Dear Dad,

We haven't spoken in three or four months. That's not so unusual, except this time there's no communication because you've decided I'm morally wrong about something. You believe you have to take a hard line on this, show me I'm wrong by depriving me of you. Or perhaps this is all a misunderstanding. Perhaps you aren't talking to me because of Mom. Her fear often causes her to skew scenarios and create broader misunderstandings. Maybe you want to talk to me. Maybe I should reach out.

But not today. And not reaching out today scares me. I could lose you anytime. Your health hasn't been the best. Our lineage is prone to strokes and heart attacks and kidney stones. You are older now, close to the age your father was when he first experienced a stroke. I could lose you at any moment.

Photo taken just over a year ago.

I don't want to lose you. What's funny about this truth is it's why I'm not reaching out. What if your choice not to talk to me was born of your personal logic? I know you love me, but I know you need your religious beliefs to stay safe. My family challenges those. Not intentionally. Not maliciously. Simply by existing and embracing who each of us is. By choosing to live outside doctrine. We have our own beliefs built on the same principles as yours: compassion. But we believe firmly in a lack of judgement. That is where we differ.

I understand why you and Mom need to cling to the idea of judgement. It holds you accountable and keeps you emotionally safe. It is the reverse for me. The idea of a punishing god is horrifying to me. I reject it fully. If there is a god, let her be merciful. Let her be she, because I have suffered enough at the hands of masculinity. Enough to believe if there is a hell, it is a state of mind we create for ourselves in the life we are living. And if there is a heaven, we create that too.

There is no compulsion in religion. This is what I was taught. Yet your beliefs compel you to stay away from me, to push me away from you. This rift compels me to keep my own children safe by refusing you access. Despite being adults, we can't agree to disagree and move on. You have to be right. Even at the cost of a child's well-being.

You know of what I speak, so I need not be specific for your sake. Some things must stay private, for others' sake. But I will say this: What is so wrong with honoring each other for who we are? Religion, I believe, is meant to serve the user through improvement of life. There are countless ways I could follow yours and share in that experience, except you are tribal in your views, believing your path is the best path. I was born to it, and even though there is no compulsion in religion, there is compulsion in your style of parenting. Either I do as you do, or I am an orphan.

Again, maybe this is all Mom's unique perspective as shaped by her fear. That would not shock me. She has always worked to facilitate our relationship according to her fear. This in no way absolves you from blame. Three months and you haven't even texted hello, even on my child's birthday. Mom sends gifts she says are also from you, but I wonder. She plays peacemaker poorly. She is hurting as much as I am. I expect you are too.

I doubt you will find this missive, but if you do, I'd love to hear from you. Not to argue. Not to hold space for you to tell me I'm wrong. I already know what you believe. I do not believe what you believe. You do not believe what I believe. You have your way and I have mine. Can we not respect this tenet of your faith and still love one another? Or am I an unbeliever to be punished through you culling me from your life? And then punished more by a punishing god after I die?

This is a hell. There's a way to stop creating it.

I'm not sorry for the choices I make for my family. Each one breaks the patterns you showed me to break when you sought help to stop hitting me. Whether you like it or not, I am following in your footsteps. The ones that lead toward light, warmth, goodness and strength in family. I just wish you were present in my life to witness the incredible, beautiful power of that transformative strength.

Anyway, I miss you. Give me a call.

Love,

Shawna

Call Me, Maybe?

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