On the day I finally get used to it

April is National Poetry Month! I aim to post a poem each weekday in celebration of the form. Some old, some new, some published, some never before seen.

The societal expectations commonplace to my [whyte cishet] culture at the end of the 20th Century were:

• Graduate high school with GREAT (not good) grades

• Obtain a degree from a prestigious university

• Marry

• Establish yourself on a growth-oriented career path

• Buy a home

• Father at least two children

• Etc.

The pressure that comes hand-in-glove with those expectations is crushing. For years, I believed that questioning these expectations was futile. I took them as a foregone prophecy; any deviation from The One True Path would result in serious self-flagellation (bouts of depression, alcohol abuse, seclusion, worse). Adding to that: these expectations are often peddled by the patriarchy as a means to continue the patriarchal order. As an only son, I felt / still feel immense pressure to continue my family name / lineage (not from my own family, it needs to be said, rather from those devilish Societal Expectations).

From multiple angles, I wondered how my fatherhood chapter might read. I fantasized about raising my children to value creativity, would sing lullabies to them if they were fussy sleepers, read my Navy journals to them as bedtime stories, show them how to change a bike tire in under ten minutes, and along with their mother, hike with them for hours in our National Parks. Once I got past a certain age, the prospect of becoming a father began to feel increasingly unrealistic. I imagined attending this future child’s high school graduation and gazing around to find I looked like a grandfather—in stark contrast to the younger and much more attractive parents in attendance. In delaying fatherhood, I would be denying new grandchildren to my parents, denying my sisters the opportunity to be aunties again, denying potential cousins to my nieces and nephews. I began to worry about my legacy.

I could write an entire volume about the mixed feelings I’ve had about this topic, but one sunny Sunday, a few years ago, I took a walk by the North Branch of the Chicago River. I brought along my notebook and a cleverly disguised beer, and sat on a park bench. As I observed sobbing parents chasing down screaming toddlers, watched scantily-clad juveniles groping each other behind dumpsters, winced as a third-grader kicked another boy in the nuts—hard—and then laughed about it, I had a real moment of clarity…

On the day I finally get used to it


I shuffle to the river
like George Bailey
and grimace at a dim distortion: 
May breeze bending back 
what’s left of
my once-lush mane;
sun melting
the folds of my forehead;
eyes that once glittered—
now squinting and dull 
behind bootleg Oakleys.
I spit at my reflection
and lean 
l   e   i   s   u   r   e   l   y
into the day:

no rush to leave Nala at little league / no madcap dash to tote Bran to ballet class / no bubble baths / no crabby naps / no syrup-fingered, snot-faced snuggles / no Scooby Doo / no sippy cups / no Crayola Monet to bedeck the bidet / no sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite / no nitelite glow tonight.

No shame today.
No reason to feel sad at all.

If I like, 
I can crack a brewski at three,

doze on the davenport
as the Twins pound the Padres,

knock off by eight,
and sleep—like a slipped sloop—

pining no longer for the sea.

…for good measure: