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The theme of fathers and sons is one of the constants of literature, both ancient and modern. From Ivan Turgenev to Chuck Palahniuk, modern literature seems particularly obsessed with fathers and their sons — and sons without fathers.
Thinking this week about Fathers Day, I was particularly reminded of significant memoirs that relate to fathers and sons. One of the most touching of these was written by J. R. Moehringer. His memoir, The Tender Bar, is one of the most elegant and moving accounts of father loss to be found anywhere in modern literature. J. R.’s father disappeared when he was an infant, but the boy grew up in New York City listening to his father’s voice. His father was a prominent disc jockey whose voice came through the radio. Listening to the radio, the boy was filled with a hunger those represented by “The Voice.” Looking for father figures, he found his way to the local bar, where he began to hang around with the men who frequented there.
J. R. Moehringer came to understand that his father was a man of talents, “but his one true genius was disappearing.” The men at the bar, on the other hand, tended to come around and hang around. They befriended the young boy and became, in the main, the only positive adult male influences in his life. They taught him both honorable and dubious male habits and introduced him into the world of men. Speaking of one particular summer, he reflected: “Everything the men taught me that summer fell under the loose catchall of confidence. They taught me the importance of confidence. That was all. But that was enough. That, I later realized, was everything.”
I was deeply moved by reading The Tender Bar and the story of this young boy who so desperately wanted his father, even as he listened to “The Voice” on the radio. Moehringer’s experiences with the men in the bar, though formative and hugely important to him, could never replace the authentic role of his father. How many boys are still listening in hope of hearing ‘The Voice” of their fathers?
Another important memoir on fatherhood, written by a son, is Closing Time by Joe Queenan. A well-known author and contributor to leading newspapers and magazines, Joe Queenan is a professional writer who brings great skill to his memoir. In Closing Time, Queenan offers a grim, humorous, touching, and haunting story of his coming-of-age in Philadelphia during the 1960s. He offers some sweet reminiscences of times with his father, including a break-neck trip in a delivery truck through the streets of Philadelphia. Nevertheless, most of his account is about a man who is deeply tormented by alcoholism. Queenan was abused in both body and soul by a father whose presence was more often than not a threat to his family.
Queenan traces his father’s decline through a series of jobs he could not hold and through neighborhoods of one or another sort of trouble. “My father got broken when he was young, and he never got fixed. He may have wanted to be a good father, a good husband, a good man, but he was not cut out for the job. He liked to drink, but unlike some men who liked to drink, it was the only thing he liked to do. Among our relatives, he had a reputation as a happy-go-lucky fellow who, once he got a few beers in him, would turn into the life of the party. He was not the life of our party.”
Closing Time is a moving book and I learned a great deal about Joe Queenan, Philadelphia, and life as a boy there in the 1960s. Given the chronological overlap of our lives, I could not help reflecting on the fact that my boyhood was so different than his. Reading the book made me all the more thankful for my own father and more greatly concerned for the many children, both boys and girls, who knows such pain at the hands of an abusive and/or alcoholic father.
After reading those two memoirs, one may wonder if many sons are moved to write memoirs about their appreciation and affection for fathers. At this point, it is good to remember that literature favors disaster over peace, conflict over calm, and, in a general sense, pain over pleasure. A father doing a good or adequate job as father does not make for the kind of character and plot that drives so much literature. Furthermore, too many writers in our own day would be frankly embarrassed to write a memoir in which they honor and celebrate their fathers. It simply isn’t done.
That is what makes Made in Detroit: A South of 8 Mile Memoir by Paul Clemens such a refreshing surprise. Clemens, who grew up in one of Detroit’s transitional neighborhoods during the 1970s and 1980s, saw the city transformed before his eyes and came to know his father as the great Gibraltar that held his family together. Clemens’s father appears as a normal dad in the context of his working-class neighborhood. Dads were just there and they did what they had to do for their families. They may have been short tempered at times, but they were occasionally capable of much fun with their children and they showed their absolute dedication to family by the fact that they gave themselves to such hard work under such difficult circumstances. More often than not, they were tired to the bone, even as they had to patch a wall or discipline a son. As Paul Clemens relates, fathers in his neighborhood demonstrated a central task of manhood by doing what, under almost any circumstance, just had to be done.
He writes: “Families were fundamental to the way the area was organized, which is not to say that anyone spent much time getting sentimental over them as a concept. Families were viewed like most other things in this life, which is to say as sometimes dreary and ultimately disappointing, but preferable to a long list of even less desirable alternatives. . . Though they cursed aloud while doing so — and, internally, likely cursed the days they’d wed our mothers and fathered us — the men in our neighborhood, whether in hats and gloves during the dead of winter, or sweating and swearing up a storm in the middle of the summer, somehow manage to fix broken carburetors, replace drafty windows, and keep basement furnace is going a little bit longer, while their wives bought box after box of whatever was on sale and saw to it that their children didn’t waste all their money at McDonald’s. . .”
In his own way, in Made in Detroit, Paul Clemens demonstrates a model of respecting and honoring his father while telling the story, warts and all. His book is unique in being both gritty and sweet. I would suggest that Christian men — and fathers in particular — would do well to read this kind of literature. These secular memoirs, filled with both pain and promise, tell us a great deal about the world around us and, at the same time, remind us of our own calling — even as we hear that voice through words of pain.
Happy Father’s Day. Let’s be sure our children hear our voices and know our love.
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I appreciate the fact that many people have found my 2009 Summer Reading List to be helpful. The list is just a start, of course, and it was intended from the beginning to be helpful also for Father’s Day. Thus, it is long in history and military history — which is no coincidence given my own enjoyment of these reading fields. There will be more to come this summer.
A few comments have raised issues or questions. Why no fiction? Well, that is a horribly difficult genre to recommend in the same sense that I can recommend many non-fiction titles. I will mention a recent novel below, but a recommendation is something else. I find recommending fiction to be excruciatingly difficult. I read several dozen novels a year, enjoy many of them, and would gladly recommend a few of them . . . if I knew what kind of fiction you like to read. I like many forms of fiction and have a collection of favored authors. I probably learn more by reading fiction than by reading much non-fiction. Still, the great challenge vexes.
With Fathers Day looming, I read Home Game: An Accidental Guide to Fatherhood by Michael Lewis. Lewis is a well-known author who, like others before him, decided to reflect on fatherhood. Nothing very profound appears here, but Lewis’s secular bemusement about what he is supposed to feel toward his young offspring is often fun to read. His language is bracing, but he is onto something when he asserts, “Maternal love may be instinctive, but paternal love is learned behavior.” Sadly, it is a behavior some men never learn.
Home Game is often funny, and the diary Lewis keeps after the birth of each of his three children is never boring. He affirms the fact that the experience of parenthood makes a man grow up (something many men are reluctant to do). My favorite line in the book, and one I know will be appreciated by my colleague Russell Moore: “School-age children are the rats of our time.” His reference is to the fact that rats supposedly carried the Bubonic Plague and the Black Death. As Lewis continued: “After a day of happily swapping germs with their peers, my children apparently returned home with what felt to them like a mild cold, and kissed their baby brother — who promptly lost his ability to breathe.” Don’t worry; he regained it.
In Republican Leader, John David Dyche offers the only significant biography of Sen. Mitch McConnell yet to appear. Dyche does a good job of capturing McConnell in his essence — a master politician. The most interesting part of the book for me was his recounting of McConnell’s boyhood and years as a college student. The author’s account of McConnell’s political rise — and especially his campaigns for the U.S. Senate — is riveting. Republican Leader will be of particular interest to Republicans (what a brilliant observation) and Kentuckians, but anyone interested in contemporary American politics will find the book both interesting and useful. I wonder, would a biography of Sen. Harry Reid be as interesting? I’ll be on the lookout. In the meantime, I am on the hunt for a really good biography of Speaker Nancy Pelosi.
Reading Republican Leader also reminded me what a lousy politician I would have made. While every position of leadership is political in some sense, electoral politics requires what we might call a certain “flexibility” on the issues that I would find impossible.
In City of Thieves, novelist David Benioff has written a masterful work of contemporary fiction. The plot of the book is absolutely brilliant, his characters are so authentic that they seem to jump off the pages, and the dialogue is spare. Benioff takes the reader into the heart of despair as the Wehrmacht strangles Leningrad. A 17-year-old Soviet patriot, Len Beniov, finds himself facing execution when he, along with a slightly older young man, are given a choice: Find a dozen eggs for the colonel’s daughter’s wedding cake, or be shot in the back of the head. So . . . they go after the eggs. Their determined search for the eggs becomes a journey into human depravity and lingering hope. No one reading this novel will escape being moved by the account of horrors within and without Leningrad — and within and without the human heart.
City of Thieves is brutal, and is not for the faint of heart. It glides very close to nihilism, but pulls back. It is one of the most thought-provoking coming-of-age novels I have read in years. I thank the eager salesperson at Borders who recommended it to me. One interesting aspect of the book: Supposedly, it is loosely based on Benioff’s own grandfather’s experience as a teenager trapped in wartime Leningrad. After spending time with his grandfather (then living in Florida), Benioff told him that he needed clarification of parts of the story. “David,” said the grandfather, “You’re a writer. Make it up.”
So, what are you reading? Please recommend what I otherwise might miss. Disagree with a comment above? Let me hear that, too. Read on.
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As Solomon warned, “Of making many books there is no end” (Ecc 12:12). There is no way to read everything, and not everything deserves to be read. I say that in order to confront the notion that anyone, anywhere, can master all that could be read with profit. I read a great deal, and a large portion of my waking hours are devoted to reading.