James V. Tatum, circa 1988. My Dad. My dad was tougher than old jerky with many flaws. But I loved him and miss him. One summer, when I was home from college either during the summer of 1987 or maybe 1988, my parents’ plant shop & nursery burned to the ground while I was home during summer break. (Suspicious timing, I know — but I promise, it wasn’t my fault!) It was dirty, sweaty, back-breaking work — but my dad and I together cleared the rubble, cut away what couldn’t be salvaged, and rebuilt the business from the ground-up better than it was before. It took a lot of ingenuity, there was much yelling back-and-forth, and we made a lot of “creative” mistakes requiring even more creative “fixes.” (How we passed code I’ll never know!) Because there was no income while we were building, we set up a tiny Fourth of July fireworks shack to make grocery money while rebuilding. I snapped this photo of my dad while he was taking a break, just after selling some Roman candles or glow worms or something more dangerous to a bunch of kids. That’s why he looks so grungy here: he needed the break! I’ll never forget that summer. The time spent and the work together healed a lot of what was painful and fractured between me and my dad. ⁂ There was a particular moment that stands in my mind as the most singular and most important memory of my relationship with him. The three of us, dad, mom, and I, were struggling to place a 100-square-ft tarp of plastic sheeting over the bare, curved ribs of the new greenhouse — when a gust of wind ripped the sheeting from my mom’s hands, then mine, then my dads, and the plastic sailed aloft in the wind, over the building, and out of our control. After scrambling to recover the plastic before it landed in traffic, and before making a second attempt, Dad took a moment to berate me — harshly. As was my custom, I weathered his castigation in silence. Always a moment away from anger, Dad’s tirades and hurtful words were common behind-the-scenery fare at home. My dad’s anger never depleted him, instead it *fueled* him. He didn’t live to fight — the fight gave him life. But, unlike the many times he had yelled at and insulted me before, this time I needed to reply. Something inside me had changed. The dynamic between us had shifted. I knew it, and he did not. I no longer had to accept and absorb his anger. I was done. He needed to know. I finally interrupted and firmly, but calmly, asked, “Do you want my help?” I really wanted to know the answer. Puzzled, and suddenly off-script, he asked, “What do you mean?” “Look,” I said, “I don’t actually *have* to be here. I have a job waiting for me back at school, and I’m paying my own way. I’m here because I love you and I want to help. I’m not here because I am *required* to be here. But I want to help. If you want my help, then stop calling me names, stop yelling at me, and stop insulting me. Treat me with respect, that’s all I ask. If you can’t do that, I’m gone.” My mom watched this exchange in silence. As I waited for my dad’s reply, I expected another outburst. I actually wasn’t sure what I would do. But, to my surprise, his face melted and he wept. Then he embraced me. Then he apologized. I don’t know if I also wept in that moment. But I am now. From that day until the day he died, my dad never again spoke harshly to me, insulted me, or called me names (at least not in earshot ツ). He was always unfailingly fatherly from that point on. He frequently told me he loved me. ⁂ I never understood my dad, but it’s fair to say that I was a mystery to him also. I didn’t know then what I know now: when he married my mom, I was a wee mixed-race, adopted boy and he was a deep-south racist with deeply ingrained notions. (Which he ultimately overcame, I believe.) We were bound to have trouble, especially in the early years. I only wish I could have understood then all the dynamics that I understand now so that we could have had this moment sooner. Then I could have enjoyed my time with him more. Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I wish you were here. Taken: June 30, 1988 at 12:00PM
