It’s not that my dad was super creative, rather than upfront as shit. He didn’t get creative because he wanted me to know shit for what it was. He was always telling me about the woes of the world, lending me magazines to read with nasty articles in them.
I read about this thing I think it was in Kosovo. Some soldier went into a house, pointed a gun at a little girl’s head, and ordered the father to rape her. He cried and pleaded but the soldier would have none of it. He wasn’t fucking around. So, to save his daughter’s life, he did the deed. Goddamn. Example. Again, not creative, but after I read that, I knew this stuff happened.
My dad was a bit annoying with this at times, but I’m glad he did this, because I learned a whole lot of stuff. Nasty stuff, but shit people need to know. But he never gave me, or exposed me to disturbing material and just left me with it. He’d explain it all to me, and tried to make me understand the contents of what he was showing me, or what I saw around the place. He wasn’t militant about it though. My dad was a goof, and always acted like a clown, so when something affected me too much, he’d use humour to relieve me. Some of it was crude, but it did the job. A lot of people may not appreciate his type of humour, but eh.
He taught me a lot about people and emotions. Some of it were his theories only, and sometimes they went a bit far. But he did his best, on something he was passionate about.
He did the same with things going on around us, or at least tried to offer a perspective. Why people made fun of me at school because my clothes were all old and used up, or why my friend Amanda was getting hit in the face with a belt if she came home 20 minutes late.
He was this big hippy guy, and even in my early twenties when I went to bum money off of him, he’d still have newspaper photos stuck everywhere in the kitchen. Human cruelty and shit was something he really felt deeply about, it wasn’t all just for me.
He did indeed want to teach me to be grateful for living where I was, and having what I had. But he also wanted me to know this stuff was going on. He didn’t want me to lead a sheltered life, and he pretty much let me have my experiences without telling me how wrong or bad they were. That sounds bad, but it’s not like he let me do whatever I wanted. He gave me strict but reasonable rules, and always did his best to make me understand things. I really love that he gave me so much freedom, and didn’t censor anything from me. He never, or at least barely, grounded me, either. If I did something wrong, again, he’d sit down with me and explain why what I did sucked and everything. His biggest aim was to teach me things as I went along. He’s dead now though, and now I’m all missing him lol.
But yeah, not the most creative guy, but I appreciate how he did things. Newspaper photos, helping me with my homework by replacing the words for my grammar assignments with cusswords to keep me interested, (he did his best, the rest was up to me, not his fault I suck) or reading me articles about ghosts or aliens as bedtime stories, since he knew I was really into that.
Most people think that’s horrible and that he was the shittiest dad, but trust me, without him I’d be a lot worse than I am now.
My mom wasn’t like that though. She told me that gay people are complete evil and their blood is black, that everyone who speaks English is an asshole, that if I don’t do what God says, I’ll burn in Hell forever.
And of course, when my parents divorced, dad was the Devil himself. Haha. I think her intents were actually genuine, but she’s mad as all Hell. I was way too young back then to really understand what my mom was saying though, and again my dad cleared stuff up for me when I told him some of what she told me, before I went off to live with him.
Yeah I’m not really answering anything at this point, just sayin’, my dad rules lol.