Becoming my Dad

Frank R. Foery was an Army man for three decades. While he wasn’t at all like the bullying Marine Col. Bull Meecham from The Great Santini, he was a straight-up military man who wasn’t on the best terms with his softer side. Touchy-feely does not apply.

I remember the first time I hugged him as an adult. He was uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable. It was awkward.

Over time though, Dad softened. I wouldn’t say he cried easily, but I saw him cry -- several times. Always tears of joy and always quickly stopped, but the old tough guy was becoming a bit of a softie.

I started from a different place; I’ve always been a crier – more like my Mom than my Dad I guess. But I’ve noticed of late that, as I’ve gotten older, I cry more often and with less provocation, just like my Dad.

Watching the EastSiders the other day I shed a few tears as I remembered what it was like for me as a twenty-something gay man trying to make a relationship work. Recently I’ve cried over Orlando, Nice and Dallas. Hell, watching Star Trek: The Next Generation I even cried at Tasha Yar’s memorial service.

This morning I listened to I Honestly Love You, a very special song to me, and sobbed out loud. I followed it up with Wild World and Father and Son from Cat Steven’s iconic Tea for the Tillerman album. Both songs flipped on the waterworks.

I’m perfectly at ease with this new, wetter me. Gibran wrote “The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.” Cynic is one hat I wear, but emotional sap fits too.