Final Mission

Not long ago, I watched the 1993 film, The Remains of the Day. Based on a novel by Kazuo Ishiguro, it's a Merchant Ivory Production about life at a British estate, pre-WWII. It stars Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson, as the butler and housekeeper, respectively. There is the most subtle element of potentially romantic feelings between the two, but Hopkins's character is far too repressed to ever be able to acknowledge them.

Today is the 25th anniversary of my father's passing. There's rarely a week that goes by where I don't think of him -- what his life would have been like had it not been cut short by cancer, how our father-son relationship would have evolved as I'd grown more into adulthood, what he would've thought of everything that's happened since August of 1997, etc. I've also come to realize that he's one of the reasons I tend to be drawn to emotionally unavailable men in fiction and, sometimes, in real life.

Growing up in the late-eighties and early-nineties, I was a big fan of Star Trek: The Next Generation, tuning-in every week to the adventures of the starship Enterprise D. I liked a lot of the characters: Data, Geordi, Worf, etc. but Jean-Luc Picard was my favorite. This didn't even register with me until the season 4 episode, Final Mission. Wesley Crusher (Wil Wheaton) and Picard (Patrick Stewart) are stranded together on a planet. Picard is injured. Things are looking dire. At one point, Wesley says to his injured nonpareil, "I've never told anyone. All of the things that I've worked for - school, my science projects, getting into the Academy... I've done it all because I want you to be proud of me."

When Wesley Crusher uttered those words, I silently thought, "Same here, Wes, same here." It was then that I realized the fairly odd desire to please Picard. I say odd, because he's a fictional character. He existed in a writers' room and a television recording studio. He wasn't real. What it took me years later to realize was that he was also my father. At least, in a way. Emotionally unavailable, light with praise, yet someone in a position of authority that you would want to make happy.

Mr. James Stevens (Anthony Hopkins) in The Remains of the Day is another person I found myself drawn to. Perhaps not wanting to please, per se, yet fascinated by his character. There was no way he was ever going to be able to provide the attention and support that Sarah Kenton wanted. That is the great tragedy of the story. It is the great tragedy of certain parent/child relationships. It is the great tragedy of so many types of relationships.

A writing assignment in fourth grade, about adults who'd made a positive impact on us, saw me choose Mildred Sims, my second and third grade teacher. I interviewed her at my desk at home, wrote the paper, and it was one of the district-wide finalists. We were all invited to read from our reports at the Champaign Public Library one afternoon. I dressed-up in a suit and tie. Mrs. Sims was there, as were my mom and dad. It was a long event, and I was one of the last kids to speak. Not long before I went up to the podium, Lewis looked uncomfortable. Clutching his collar, he said it was hot in the auditorium, and he left to go to the main lobby. I didn't say anything, but inside all I could think was, "Wait... please don't go. I want you to hear me read."

I was a precocious little creative type. I used to like to draw a lot. I took art classes. I had my own line of comic books, read only by my friend Derrick, and sometimes my mom. One day, after completing a drawing I was particularly proud of, I toddled out to the living room where my father sat on the recliner, and showed it to him. He promptly crumpled it up and tossed it aside. Lewis had been reading the HBO program guide, you see, and I'd had the temerity to place the drawing in front of it. He scolded me when I began to cry. I never showed him anything else I ever created - not a comic, not a drawing, not a radio program I was in.

As I got older, and 1) began wanting to date someone, and 2) realized I was gay, I consciously decided that the best partner would be the opposite of my dad - someone who was thoughtful, sensitive, who would remember my birthday, who would care about things that were important to me, whose attention I wouldn't have to work for. I am fortunate to have found such a person. That doesn't mean that I haven't chased unavailable men during my life, in some form or fashion. My late-teens and early-twenties were riddled with guys who I was besotted with, where the intensity I felt for them was in great part fueled by their inability to reciprocate.

Whether it's a 20th century butler, or a 24th century starship captain, I've always found myself drawn to emotionally unavailable male characters. It took me awhile to understand why, but it all seems to go back to a 20th century father who died 25 years ago today. In an admittedly twisted way, I've sort of carried on our father-son relationship, although this time it is most definitely one-sided. You see, I get to imagine his reaction to the things I've done since he's been gone, and it almost always better than it ever was in real life when he was alive.

I've never told anyone this, not even myself. But, all of the things that I've worked for - serving in an elected office, having a solid relationship, owning a home, having a good job... I think I've done it all because I wanted him to be proud of me.