Fathers and Sons: Creating and Teaching Beauty… In So Many Fatherly Forms
What kind of relationship did you have with your father? Was it about creating and teaching beauty for lifelong appreciation between father and son? Or was it something very different?
The Maligned Relationships of Fathers and Sons
If there’s any relationship in human experience in Western society more seemingly doomed to fail, it could seem like it’s the one between fathers and sons. Men have been socialized for so long to live in old tropes of toughness, few words, and just work, work, work. And thinking that’s what a man should always be, or simply not knowing any better, men have carried that thinking into the parenting of their children, often most especially their sons.
Now, many fathers in the last 60 years have broken those stereotypes, choosing fatherhood roles that were deliberately not ones their own fathers had executed. These new fathers realize(d) how ineffective and empty their fathers’ efforts often were (or felt). Yet, still, despite these changes, there’s still uncertainty within the breast of any father, or any honest one, about how to be loving but also be strong, how to teach resilience and responsibility, but also teach the importance of that male taboo word, ‘feelings’ and emotional connection.
And that’s really it, isn’t it? Deep in the heart of the son is the absolute longing for connection with his father in ways that almost no words can explain, at least at a young age. It is that sheer admiration for the man that drives a desire to get closer to him, to have him see you and smile in pride at his little guy, to have him ask how your day went, to have him speak well of you to others and you, to have him genuinely care, but also to have him, in teen years, step out of the way and not try to control your steps.
And maybe this is where it has gone wrong, our execution of fatherhood. Fathers err so often to the extremes of completely checking out, teaching nothing, and non-involvement or being up your ass, constantly riding you, criticizing, questioning, belittling, and never letting go of control. It’s like the males never learned from or somehow lost the wisdom of those primitive societies and their initiation ritual process, which were constructed to both teach the son and graduate him to adulthood, setting him free to be his own man within the context of the society.
Plus, too often, the male ego gets involved. Fathers have often gotten so butt hurt if their advice was not taken, their idea not used, their child not executing his role to make the father proud, all leading to the father’s ego being bruised somehow. It’s such a cliché nowadays, but the male inability to understand the power of feelings inhibits the growth of the son into maturity and the potential for a life-giving relationship between father and son. And, on the flipside, the potential to over-indulge the feeling side, at the expense of teaching work, grit, and responsibility, can lead to sons who never engage the fire spirit that burns in the belly of a young man.
So many frickin’ questions and issues in this father thing, especially when it comes to sons.
The Relationship Between Fathers and Sons: So Many Questions
Here are comments from several of male clients about their fathers, or about their single mothers, when the father was less present:
We lived in the same house and he was there, but he wasn’t ever really present. He was seldom engaged.
He never taught me anything, communicated with me, or gave me guidance. Now, I’m a 40-year-old man and I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.
My dad made me into his best friend, told me everything, and expected me to always listen. It was always about him. What a burden!
Mom gave me so much praise and compliments, even when I had barely done anything, that I stopped believing her and saw her as just blowing smoke up my ass.
He was always criticizing.
He never had time for me.
I feel like he spent so much time working and it was to get away from us.
He provided but there was zero emotional connection.
Would it have killed him to say he was proud of me, or to say, ‘I love you?’ I say it all the time, now, to my kids.
When I graduated from basic training, it was the first time my father ever said he was proud, and I could see it in his face. I ain’t gonna lie, it felt really good, and things changed between us, after that.
I was 36 and had far surpassed my dad’s career accomplishments when my dad finally and for the first time said he was proud of me. It didn’t feel good. All I could think was, “Shove it up your ass! Where was that pride 30 years ago when I needed it?”
It’s like mom was trying to be both a mom and a dad, but she couldn’t be.
A boy just needs his dad.
He never communicated; just work and TV, and maybe time with his friends.
He beat the shit out of my brother and me. When he got home, Mom would wind him up and point him in our direction. He was the hammer…that mom wielded.
He was a horrible listener. He just never got me.
I hated the sonofabitch. But here I am at 50 still paying money each month to help him out and hoping for his approval, or at least acknowledgment of all the shit he did.
My dad was a coward, despite all his bravado bullcrap. And it broke my heart, the day I realized it.
I just vowed to raise my kids the opposite of my dad.
My Own Father’s Funeral
My dad died at 92, in 2020, right at the beginning of Covid, though not because of Covid.
As such, we couldn’t have a funeral in the church, which was a travesty, because he had been a Lutheran pastor for nearly 70 years and the church was his home. Well, the farm was the home of his heart, but his father pushed him off the farm to become a pastor, just as he had done with the older brother as well. I have the letter wherein Grandpa wrote that to Dad. I believe this led to Dad’s lifelong deep lament, which, because he was WWII Generation, he never showed. He was a farmer never allowed to be the farmer he wanted to be, at least ‘til his 60s-80s, when he would go nearly every year, just for sheer fun, up to Mahnomen, MN, to drive 12-hour shifts during sugar beet harvest.
>> Read Parents have been talking kids out of their passion for a long time?
So, per his wishes, we cremated him, intending to save his ashes for a joint funeral with Mom when the day came that she would pass. In lieu of a church service, we had a Covid-hampered memorial ritual by Zoom, all six of us siblings and our spouses, the nieces/nephews, and mom. We told stories of Dad, prayed together (as he would’ve led us), and Dad and Mom’s pastor came in on the call to offer some words and prayer.
Other than the sheer beauty of that late-April day, the one thing that I remember most clearly was my one brother, least prone to showing feelings, the brother I had been closest to, growing up, who had built his own, self-made-man fortune of tens, if not hundreds of millions. He didn’t say much, except, “Dad was an honest man,” at which point he started visibly breaking out into tears, his voice cracking. I think for that brother that was the highest, most respected praise he could possibly give another man, having likely encountered many a dishonest one in his own life.
>> Read "He Told The Story" -- Eulogy of an American
For me, it’s all of Dad’s infernal stories that stick most. He would tell so many stories, then tell them over again, and repeat, over decades, to the point where even the grandkids were respectfully impatient with grandpa’s stories, over their first decades. But those f*ckin’ stories stuck, man. I mean, I feel so connected to the past precisely because of those stories. Mom, on the other hand, didn’t tell a lot of them. She listened. Dad talked.
Those stories taught… about life, humanity, patterns, character, Erlandson family values, and not in a heavy-handed way, just a boring way; or maybe it lulled us into a sort of trance that caused those stories to imprint deeper. And, I think, coupled with teaching us how to garden, work a table saw, fell a tree, turn a wrench, create with wood and nail, replace a damaged shingle, drain/replace the oil, rise early in the morning for family paper routes (we each had one, and he and mom ran support at 4 am), and always check your tires before getting in the car, on top of Greek and Hebrew roots of words and German catch-phrases, it was those damn incessant stories that shaped and informed my own life story, particularly when mixed with the Biblical stories they read to us at bedtime. Their incessance was outdone only by the never-ending classical music playing on public radio on the living room stereo, dawn to dusk as if the soundtrack to Dad’s stories.
My father taught me, and I absolutely believe that was deliberate. He taught all six of us. And, I think I always knew I was being taught. At times, I chafed hard. I just wanted him to shut up and listen. Of course, it didn’t help that Mom was a brilliant, deep listener. I wanted him to be more like her. But, he was him.
It is only in the last 10 years of my counseling that I’ve come to learn from the many men I’ve had the pleasure to be trusted by how valuable being taught is. So many men long for the father they never had, the one that taught them, just f*cking taught them. So many fellas would’ve killed to have had my father, one who guided them, taught them about life, taught them the difference between quack grass and crabgrass, or just plain talked to them. The silent dads, disconnected dads, and distant dads have caused so much damage for sons just longing to be taught, longing for a bond with something bigger than themselves, longing to be seen and loved and have their butt kicked, now and then.
The Needed Father for Logic and Feelings
In attempting to simplify parenting, at times, for clients and families, I’ve oft said, “Parenting is about two things – giving the child a happy childhood and preparing the child for adulthood, not either/or.” Without being too cemented about it, I really believe that for so many teens and young men, the father is necessary for that latter role of preparing the son to function handily in the world.
It's no small coincidence that the very initiation rituals of primitive societies, mentioned previously, were conducted in the early teen/pre-teen years and almost exclusively by men, which often included a ritualized ‘stealing’ of the young fella from the mother. There was a natural progression from childhood to adulthood, from the female energy to the male energy. Now, I personally don’t go much further in the overlay of past societies onto those of today, in no small part because I believe the preparation process by the father of the son starts long before the pre-teen years.
You get the point, I hope – the father is needed to prepare the boy in whatever ways that father (and mother) in the context of society deem important.
But, where I, as the voice of Badass Counseling, take that preparation (and the love and caring implicit in it) is not solely to the sector of operational functionality. In other words, I don’t believe that a father preparing a son for life is just teaching him how to do shit like sweep out and keep a clean garage, buy quality tools, and value education. It’s far bigger than that. The high-caliber father teaches his son that shit and how to understand and operate from the importance of feelings in self and others. It’s not either/or. It’s like, is a kid better off knowing when to use a band saw versus when to use a hack saw, or should they just use a Sawzall for everything.
Well, to me it makes more sense to be fluent in as many tools as possible. Logic and feelings, because you’re gonna suck with animals, women, children, employees, and customers if you don’t fully grasp the import of feelings and how great a driver they are in human interactions and choices. More importantly, you’re going to bear your own deep misery that’ll grate on you, over time, if you’re never taught proper use, care, and storage of the tools of feelings.
It's starting to sound like this article is a winded sales pitch for feelings. And, well, it is precisely that, because feelings, or lack of them, or lack of understanding of them and teaching of them, is the crown jewel of things that will f*ck up a man, a man’s career, a man’s relationships, and a man’s son.
It’s that kind word. It’s the scruffing of the son’s hair (or, in my father’s case, the whetting of his comb with his spit to comb my bangs and push down my rooster top, as we would be walking into a social or church function). It’s the massaging of the son’s shoulders in between matches at a wrestling tournament. It’s the stepping back and letting the boy drive the nails, apply the seed, or take the customer. It’s the ‘Good job’ and the smile of approval that goes with it. It’s patiently listening to the boy or teen’s girl stories or buddy stories that the father knows matter next-to-nothing in the long arc of life, but matter everything in the heart of the boy and thus warrant a silent tongue from the father, rather than a controlling or critical one.
All of these are about feelings and the importance of them.
All of these convey importance of both the boy/young man and what’s going on inside him.
All of these do more than teach mere confidence.
They are teaching the boy to trust himself, trust his intuition, and trust his voice in the world. That’s power that comes from a deeper place.
The master-level father actually asks his son not just what he thinks, but what feels right to him, the son, then lets the son own his feelings and insights. This father doesn’t try to correct or steer much. He lets the boy learn and helps him find the learning without scolding, unless absolutely necessary. By trial and error in a supportive laboratory of a home, the boy more and more connects to his inner voice, learns how to read it, and how to master its usage, just like any other tool.
Did Your Father Criticize You?
In all the decades in all the sports, orchestras, choirs, theater productions, and church sh*t that I was involved in and loved, I always was aware of the fathers who were dicks to their sons. I knew it even by fourth grade when I started Pony League football, if not earlier in T-ball and church. It was ugly, even then, and I was conscious of how ugly it was. I expected coaches to be hard on players. It’s part of drawing out excellence. But it was clear, those fathers who gave extra special dickery to their own sons.
Here's the weird part that has only occurred to me in my 50s. Not long ago, I had the rather startling realization that, sure, I was spanked probably 20 times in my life, by both Dad and Mom, cumulatively; scolded for doing something bad or breaking the rules; and disappointment was expressed in a furrowed brow or a shaken head for showing poor manners or lack of graciousness. But, here’s the nuance, I was never actually criticized by my father. Never. Literally, not even one time in my entire life. He never said stupid shit or hurtful shit. Never. Amid the unending river of words flowing out of my father’s mouth, I was never criticized, as a person, or even much my actions, if at all. My life was my life.
Now, I can’t speak about my four older brothers (and sister) and their relations and learnings from Dad. I can’t speak to the messages they received. Maybe it was different for me, because they’d had five kids before me, or because they were just about to kiss 40 years old when I was born, so they had relaxed and slowed down. I don’t know. But I was never criticized.
And ya know what it taught me? It taught me that a child, a teen, or an adult has enough f*cking questioning of self going on inside that it’s not necessary to lather on the critiques of the peanut gallery. Support and encouragement, as well as positive analysis go a helluva lot further than tearing down the kid or his actions. I succeeded on my own path in life (and failed a million times too, yet kept learning and growing and going), precisely because I was allowed to discover my voice without his voice overwhelming my own, inside me.
Maybe that’s it. Dad’s incessant words, stories, and wisdom woven into them, even if woven in nearly indistinguishable ways, were always optional. That’s it. My Dad’s voice was always on, but it was never mandatory in my life, except when it came to chores and helping out around the house, yard, and gardens; oh, and going to church on Sundays, ‘til I hit high school, which is not unreasonable, as he was a pastor. But, that’s it. Dad never forced his sh*t on me – his criticisms, his values, his expectations, his wants, his anything.
But, because he was this dominatingly good, kind man – a simple farmer and machinist, at heart, who was educated in and valued the Classics, theology, and languages – he didn’t have to say a f*cking thing. I knew, even young, my father was a good man and I was lucky to have him.
And, I also knew I’d never be him.
That was never clearer than in my parenting. He was an infinitely better parent than me. He might’ve kidded me with, “Sven, I’m so sorry, but good looks skip a generation” (or substitute ‘brains’ for ‘looks,’ all with tongue firmly implanted in cheek), but he would’ve never said that about his or my parenting. I don’t think he saw himself as a great parent, maybe because he lived in Mom’s shadow, or maybe because he so venerated his own father. I know he knew he was a good provider and teacher, but he would squirm, I’m sure, if asked if he was a good father.
Yet, I can honestly say, in the thousands of people I’ve counseled, tens of thousands I’ve spoken to or lectured, and many more that I’ve just conversed with, I’ve never met a more adept and loving father than my own. He couldn’t listen for shit, at least not ‘til his later years. But he nailed everything else. He was that good.
He co-signed my college loans, even when I quit three colleges before settling on the fourth. Even though he admittedly didn’t understand his youngest son, he’d still slip a ten spot in my pocket, now and then, back when ten bucks was a lot of money. (Imagine that, a father who doesn’t understand his son but still does what he can to show support financially.) He would gently tease a lot, and wrestle with me physically, even into his 80s, always a physically powerful man. And, I think that was his way of showing affection, beyond the regular hugs.
Y’know, this article was supposed to be…
…a primer on navigating this or that latest hot issue in fathering sons.
But, honestly, I don’t give a f*ck about that, this year, or at least in the week of prepping/writing this article.
A Father Who Taught His Son About Beauty
Instead, I look beyond my bouquet of spring peonies cut yesterday, out my kitchen window as I sit in the early morning at the table, where Dad and Mom daily would have their own morning devotions/prayer/readings. I look out at my hostas, which I’ve always hated as boring; my rhubarb, which I’ve always loved, especially a fresh stalk paired with a bowl of sugar; and my low lily of the valley and tall foxgloves. And, I reflect on my Dad. I never liked gardening as much as he (and Mom) did, not even close. But, damn, if he didn’t nonetheless teach me how to make a pretty one that my girlfriend can now enjoy, as can the hummingbirds, bees, and dragonflies we find so beautiful.
It's quiet, this morning.
Gently, as I write, my ‘Classic Classical’ playlist cycles through Bach’s Christmas Oratorio, Morricone’s Gabriel’s Oboe, Mozart’s Exultate, Jubilate, Webber’s Hosanna/Requiem, and Yo Yo Ma’s rendering of Williams’ Dona Nobis Pacem…and, finally, Dad’s favorite in his later years, Ave Verum Corpus.
I reflect on a Dad who:
at 8 and 10, in the 1930s, teamed up horses in 40-below weather of northern Minnesota to pull the sleigh over unplowed roads to church in the dark to stoke the furnace with grandpa and my uncles, so that the church would be warm when others arrived;
tried to sneak into WWII at age 17;
wrestled at the University of Minnesota, while in Ag School;
got his undergraduate degree in Greek and knew five languages;
grew his own vegetables and fruit;
was a skilled baritone;
had a farmer’s vice-grip handshake, even in his 90s, and
as I sit here, I realize I had a father who, perhaps more than anything else, taught me the power… of beauty.
Beautiful words. Beautiful sentences. Gorgeous flower beds of marigolds, dad’s favorite. Beautiful kindnesses and generosity of spirit. Beautiful hugs and rasslin’. Beautiful things made with tools that held their own beauty of function. The beauty of a wife; and the beautiful service of her that goes with it. Deep, moving, flowing beautiful classical music. Your damn beautiful stories, Dad, grounding me in a beautiful past that you walked and played in, long before I came around. And finally, beautiful laughter, kidding, teasing, and wit.
Dad, you lived amid beauty and taught me the power, importance, and need for beauty and how to be an instrument of its creation in the world. And it’s for this reason that I sometimes think you well-surpassed your own father in parenting, even though I never knew Grandpa, despite the wonderful stories you told of him. My favorite story you told of Grandpa is the one that makes me glad I got you as my Dad. You would recall for us with a smile the story of your family in the car in the 40s and your mother remarking to you kids, “Look at the pretty scenery,” to which your Dad responded, “You can’t eat scenery.”
Yeah, my Dad created and taught beauty, and I love him for it.
The marigolds are blooming, Dad.
Happy Father’s Day.
-- Sven Erlandson, MDiv, Is The Author Of Seven Books, Including 'Badass Jesus: The Serious Athlete And A Life Of Noble Purpose' And 'I Steal Wives: A Serial Adulterer Reveals The REAL Reasons More And More Happily Married Women Are Cheating.' He Has Been Called The Father Of The Spiritual But Not Religious Movement After His Seminal Book 'Spiritual But Not Religious' Came Out 15 Years Ago, Long Before The Phrase Became Part Of Common Parlance And Even Longer Before The Movement Hit Critical Mass. He Is Former Military, Clergy, And NCAA Head Coach For Strength And Conditioning; And Has A Global Counseling/Consulting Practice with offices In NYC, NJ, And Stamford, CT: BadassCounseling.com
