The Love to Leave Me Alone, essay

 Submitted to Vocal Media, July 2022.  Placed 'runner up' in the "Dads Are No Joke" contest.

The Love to Leave Me Alone

 

In every game of chess we’ve played, my father has beaten me.  Except once.  When I was very young, he taught me the complex rules of the game, and I always enjoyed playing against him despite my countless losses.  But one day, he gasped. 

“You have me,” he said smiling.  “With your next move, you can put me in check-mate.”  His disclosure caught me completely off-guard, however.  Still too young to apply foresight and strategy into my chess game, I certainly had not anticipated the position of enormous potential which my father claimed I presently occupied.  I scoured the board, analyzing my every possible move, searching for my first victory.  Yet I simply could not conceive any move that fit my father’s description; one that would win me the game.  He patiently sat across from me while I struggled to discover the decisive maneuver.  Eventually, however, he stood up so that I could continue studying the board without the added pressure of his presence.  “You’ll figure it out,” he told me before walking out of the room.  His encouragement filled me with spirit and I stared even harder at that chess board, imploring the secret move to reveal itself.  But it wasn’t long before I fell into despair.  For the life of me, I just could not figure out how to accomplish a check-mate.  My eyes filled with tears and it became impossible to study the board any longer.  Defeated and ashamed, I left the table to find my father. 

“I can’t see it,” I muttered to the floor between us.  He urged me to keep trying, but I refused, requesting that he reveal the mysterious move, and effectively end the game.  He finally obliged, and dragged my Queen on a diagonal path across the board, through all of his defenses, delivering a fatal blow to his own King.  I remember being devastated after realizing how simple was the solution that I had surrendered. 

Many years later, I again stood ashamed in front of my father, and now without a passport.  Earlier in the day, I had flown from Boston to my parents’ house in New Jersey so that the three of us could travel to Honduras the following morning.  At the time, my brother was serving a difficult assignment with the Peace Corps in Honduras, and we were excited for the chance to give him a much-needed break from his new life of poverty.  I arrived at my parents’ house that afternoon and the three of us caught up, had dinner, and finally reviewed our trip itinerary before closing up for an early night.  Bags were packed, alarms were set, connecting international flights were confirmed.  And then, in an offhand and presumptive tone, my father floated a question towards me.

“You have your passport, right?”  My body went rigid, my brain racing through the memory of packing my bag in Boston.  It took only a second to come to the dreadful realization that I had, in fact, forgotten my passport.  I recalled setting the booklet on top of my desk by the door, but somehow had still forgotten to take it with me when I left my apartment. 

“I’m so sorry,” I uttered.  “I forgot it.”  A thousand tons of shame pulled my head towards the floor.  Without my passport, I would be unable to travel outside the country, unable to see my brother for the first time in over a year.  I could’ve forgotten everything else, literally everything besides that document, and still been able to manage the trip.  To overlook such a simple, crucial, and obvious component was beyond mortifying, and I braced with anticipation of my father’s seething disappointment.  But to my surprise, he received my confession without much of a reaction at all.  He was calm, in fact.  Pleasant, even. 

“It’s ok,” he said. “There’s a way you can still make the flight.”  Astonished, I looked up and saw an expression of gentle confidence on his face.  No trace of sarcasm or malice to be found.  “You can figure this out,” he softly reassured me, and walked upstairs to get ready for bed.  Juxtaposed against my father’s cool confidence, the panic I felt was tremendous.  I hurried after him with a series of wild guesses on how to rectify the calamity. 

“Maybe I could ask one of my roommates to grab my passport and FedEx it to us?” I blurted.

“It wouldn’t arrive before our flight in the morning,” he replied while brushing his teeth.

“Could one of them take a picture of it and text or email it to me?” It was another stab in the dark.

“Airport security won’t accept a picture,” he responded while laying out his clothes for the next day.

I was overwhelmed, and hot tears started to collect around my eyes.  It seemed impossible to imagine a scenario worthy of my father’s hope and confidence.  The memory of that devastating childhood chess game arose in my mind, and I became desperate to prove my determination and perseverance.  The significance of the moment felt monumental.  Yet I was failing.  All of my energy and focus still could not comprehend a solution that would enable me to board an international flight in my current state.  I was beaten.  My vision was a kaleidoscope of tears.  About to resign, and grovel for my father’s wisdom and mercy, I offered one final guess.

“The only thing I can think of,” I stammered, “is if I take your car right now and drive all the way up to Boston and back overnight.”  His response was quick and emphatic.

“Bingo!  You got it!”  my father exclaimed.  From out of nowhere, he produced a set of car keys and tossed them to me.  “See you in the morning,” he said with a glimmer in his eyes, and got into bed.

I drove all night, energized by a deep appreciation for the way my father allowed and encouraged me to think through my problems.  The mischievous pleasure he took in rewarding my triumphant efforts with the toss of his keys was profoundly endearing.  To this day, it is among my fondest memories of him.  Throughout my life, my father has guided me towards countless opportunities for success, yet always respectfully backed away when the moment became mine for the taking.  Some of those moments I was able to seize, while others I was not.  But it was through his guidance and calculated moments of separation that my father gifted me with an independence for which I had always yearned, but never knew how to claim for myself.  He refused to win my battles for me, expecting that I not only to try my best, but take pride in my efforts so that, win or lose, each experience could rest on a foundation of self-worth.  Occasionally, this supervision would feel stern, but I’ve always known it to be rooted in his supportive and unconditional love. 

The next morning, I arrived at my parent’s house with my passport in hand, and returned the keys to my father.  And as he drove us to the airport, like a child under the watch of its devoted parents, I fell asleep in the backseat.