Getting all teary-eyed
Dads, college, and crying
On Monday nights, my parents, my sister, my brother, and I would sit downstairs in our unfinished basement and watch Little House on the Prairie.1 I adored Laura and often wore my hair just like hers, in two long braids. My dad would protest watching the show before it came on, saying that Pa cried too much. But I knew he loved it just as much as I did. He had to, because I saw myself as his Half Pint, (even though I was the oldest, not the second daughter.) Somehow, my dad always predicted when Pa was going to cry. He would start in on Michael Landon, “Oh, here he goes again, Pa is going to get all teary-eyed.”
The TV show Little House on the Prairie. Photograph: Gary Null/NBC/NBCU Photo Bank via Getty Images
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized my dad always knew when Pa was going to cry because he felt the emotion of the moment. It was his own way of keeping the tears from flooding his eyes. As a child, I assumed that he just somehow guessed right. Every time. Or maybe it was just a thing you knew as an adult.
My dad has always felt things deeply. Just like Pa. When he was here for Z’s graduation this past June, he warned me that Z leaving for college would be both one of the proudest and hardest days in my life as Z’s parent. I remember the day they dropped me off for college, looking out my 7th story window and seeing my family standing below on the sidewalk waving goodbye. My side of that story was filled with hope, excitement, and possibility. I know now that for my parents, the other side of that story, while it held those things for me, held loss. The first child leaving and starting her journey as an adult.
When I returned with my husband and boys from our family trip on Sunday, I went out to the grocery store to grab food for dinner. It was the first time I had been alone since before the trip. I put my seat belt on and was about to put the car in gear when I felt a sudden heaviness in my chest. The pressure was heavy and unrelenting, I almost felt as if I would choke. Grief. I knew this presence, was sadly familiar with its course. The sudden weight, pushing down; the panicky feeling that I wouldn’t be able to withstand this emotion; the wish for it to just go away, to stop. And the tears. These were not tears I could hold back or stop. This was the culmination of five days of not letting any of this through. So I had my ugly cry in the driveway and then headed on to the grocery store.
This intense burst of emotion was followed by a general irritation with myself. Why did I feel this way? Couldn’t I just accept that this was happening without all the sadness? Other people seemed to have walked through this process just fine with short, poignant posts about balancing the absence with the knowledge that their student was embracing every moment of college life. Why do I always have to feel so damn much? Why couldn’t I embrace my child’s excitement and anticipation and just stay in that emotional space?
I also know this place of irritation and wishing I was someone I just am not. It’s a space I’ve often occupied. Because I do feel things deeply. And I know that just feeling what I feel is the best way through. When I don’t, the emotions come out sideways in irritability and low motivation and lack of interest in most anything. Better just to have the crying spurts alone in my car.
Monday came and was busy with work. After dinner, we were taking Z and most of his stuff to his dorm room for early move-in. He would set up his room and then come back home until Friday. Once I wasn’t occupied with work, the tears were there any time I stopped for a moment. I continued to battle with myself between wanting to button it up and stop already and knowing that wouldn’t help in the long run.
I pulled it together once we started getting everything to the car. The ride over was good, chatting with Z about the next few days and what was ahead for him. And then there was stuff to move from the car to his dorm room. Roommates to meet. Clothes to be put away and a bed to make. Z was directing us what to put where and while he is not a particularly emotive young man, I could sense the excitement. And that’s what my heart needed at this moment: To see him engaged and energized and taking charge. To have a physical place to imagine him in, the space that will be his second home for the next year.
I called my dad today when I was walking the dog. I told him about our recent trip and shared the details of helping Z move his stuff into his dorm room. He said to me, “Now, Rache, I know I warned you about this. It’s not going to be easy on Friday.” At this point, I don’t need the warning, but I do feel comfort in knowing my dad is feeling this right along with me. And just like he made it through all of my siblings’ departures, I, too, will learn how to be in this new relationship with my Z.
As an adult, I realized that the depiction of Black and Native American characters in both the TV show and the book series of Little House on the Prairie were racist and dehumanizing. Reading Caroline Fraser’s biography of Ingalls Wilder, Prairie Fires, provided a deeper understanding of the ways in which the white Western pioneers displaced the Native Americans. While these books and the TV show held a special place in my childhood, it feels remiss not to acknowledge the ways that racism shaped the narrative and actions of the pioneers.