Chapter 5

I had gotten into the habit of visiting my father’s grave every month or so. It grew out of our own monthly phone calls that had developed in the last two years of his life. It had become a pattern – a comfortable tradition that allowed me to share more personal and emotional aspects of my life than I had ever previously dared. I’d call in the evening, on the second Thursday of the month. We’d always begin the same. I’d ask how mom and sis were, and he’d always return with,

“‘The loves’ of my life are doing fine…but they’ve got too much energy”.

I’d laugh, and he’d immediately ask,

“And you son, have anyone in your life with too much energy?”

I’d winced every time he said it. And, even though I expected it with every phone call, I still stuttered with my generic answer.

“No dad…and you better stop asking because I’m bound to not look if you keep pestering me.”

He’d chuckle himself, a somewhat gruff sound, that lasted for a short couple seconds. I don’t ever remember him laughing much, so it meant something to get such a sound out of him. Eventually I’d talk about work, things that were bugging me or pissing me off at school and the basic in and outs of the past month. He’d prod here and there, but it really became a time for me to stream thoughts at him – something I never did when I was younger. It bothered me at first, me rambling on and on. But, if I’d stop, or complain he wasn’t saying much, he’d just quietly say how much he liked hearing about his son’s life.

After he died, I began to make a monthly trip to his gravesite. I had only missed the trip once, on account of horrible weather that has stranded my car in a foot of snow. Now at school, I faced a couple-hour drive from my apartment, but it had become a necessary thing to include in my life. I’d stay for a half an hour or so, talking to his grave while clearing the grass around his headstone. I’d imagine his responses to my comments on the weather, the things going on with my school work, my continuing disinterest in a social life. I’d catch him up on the news with mom and sis, and if I was feeling really out of shape, I’d talk about my fears about, which now focused primarily on my impending graduation.

Though I was loathed to admit it, this whole senior year thing was completely freaking me out. Originally, I had a plan. I entered college with a specific path laid out, and so far I had followed it quite well. But, somehow, during the past two years, with the upheaval of my father’s death and my time away from school, I had lost sight of the destination. I had lost sight of the final goal of all the work I was doing, the classes I was taking, the things I was studying.

Mr. Becker’s class confused me. I was, for the first time, engrossed in my work – work that felt quite different from anything else I had previously done. My interested in English, as a subject of study, evolved from my need to somehow express myself. Writing was a hobby, and whether it was a research paper for a class, or some random thoughts in my diary, writing was never something I imagined pursuing. Now, as I waded through piles of research, scouring the publications of academics, writers, columnists and pundits, I could see options for me that I had never considered.

I viewed my undergraduate education as a layover on my way to some highly-respected professional field. It wasn’t here where I would determine my life’s work. I was here to enjoy learning new things, broadening my horizons, and delving into some personal interest that would make me a better conversationalist. The professional path would come afterwards; probably internships in consulting or law, before applying to graduate school in Business or Law.

I was supposed to become someone important, powerful – use my smarts to make myself independently wealthy and respectable. By taking that path, I would fulfill a personal promise; I would make my father proud of what I achieved and, as I saw it, repay him for the life he had provided me. I would choose a career that would allow me to provide for my future family the way my father had provided for me, my mother and my sister. To my father, the ultimate expression of our gratitude would be to surpass his own accomplishments, learn from his mistakes, and our own children the privileges he worked so hard to give us.

I was feeling the pressure of this unspoken promise more and more significantly. As a senior, I was supposed to have a game plan for the upcoming five years. I was suppose to be like my closest friends, Emily or Julie, who, by the end of their junior years, had taken prep courses and entrance exams for their respective post-graduate careers. Emily and Julie had been well-prepared for their futures. They had applications in hand once they had become available, done extensive research on the best schools for specific specialties, and met with career counselors to discuss their personal statements. Now, while I was returning to the undergraduate grind, Emily and Julie were on well on their way to living “real” lives.