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Should Parents Have Individual Pursuits?
Sadhika Pant
 September 20 2024 at 05:17 am
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In those restless days of my early twenties, I had my share of heated arguments with my father, as most young people are bound to do when the world still feels black and white. It was always over what I was so sure was the right thing—how a child should be raised, how love ought to be shown, how a family should stand together. I’d like to think I was driven by the pursuit of truth—and maybe in a broader sense, that’s what we’re all chasing in our fiercest debates—but if I’m honest, I was really trying to assert my own ideals, to prove to myself that my way of thinking was the right way. Regrettably, I must admit that there were times when I pushed him a bit too far. Sometimes, when the talk turned to how he ought to be as a father (and I wince now to remember how ungrateful I was to even suggest such things), and he found he couldn’t get through to me, he’d simply say, with a kind of quiet resignation, “I am a poet too.” At the time, those words meant little to me. If anything, I felt that he was trying to use his personal ambitions to get out of familial responsibility. If he had said, "I’m human too," I might have grasped that he was only trying to tell me my expectations were too high. I suppose my father found his individual identity in his poetic endeavours more than anything else, and perhaps that’s why he chose those words. Only recently, after finding myself in a similar situation, did the meaning behind them finally dawn on me. Some people express their love through words, while others do so through actions. It's easy to fall into the trap of thinking that actions are more genuine, more real, than words. And often, that’s because many use words to make grand promises they never intend to keep. Perhaps that's why young girls so often fall for guitar players or men who spin poetic lines for them—there’s a certain magic in words that feels intimate, a promise wrapped in melody or verse, making it easy to believe that the heart behind the art is as sincere as the beauty of its expression. But often, they are left disillusioned when those words fail to manifest in real, steadfast devotion. Older, more conservative folks will say it's because only love shown in actions counts, that words are fleeting and unreliable, and that in the end, it's the quiet, consistent gestures that matter most—not the fleeting thrill of sweet talk or romantic verses. That being said, there is value even in love expressed through words and gestures, as long as it’s sincere. It’s not so much about which love is superior or more legitimate, but about understanding that people have their own peculiar ways of loving others. My father was a writer. That’s not to say he did not believe in following through on important commitments, taking care of family in practical ways, not taking action during times of crisis, bailing out on his provider/ protector responsibilities. Never in my childhood did I feel short of anything — toys, games, holidays, books, pencils, even pencil boxes for that matter. He did the best he could. But he was also generous with his words — he spoke to me with warmth, shared his thoughts on what mattered to him, and often told me he was proud of me. Those words may not have solved every problem outright, but they strengthened my resolve to take them on. They didn’t resolve a crisis, yet they helped prevent us from spiralling into one many a time. Like most poets, my father reflected deeply on the human condition, drawing from his experiences with those closest to him, and much of his work captured the feelings, insights, and reflections that came from those bonds. He wrote about themes that felt too expansive to directly connect to his personal experiences or emotions—topics like the burden of existence or the search for meaning. Yet, so much of what he pondered was rooted in his own life, shaped by his interactions and relationships. Is there anything outside it? As a poet, he expressed his love to his family by dedicating a lifetime to honing an art born from those very experiences and connections. How foolish I was to mistake his poetic devotion for neglect, failing to see that his art was itself an act of love. Here I was, with no children, no adult responsibilities, and no life experience, trying to instruct a grown man on how to love his family right. In my eagerness to impress myself, I failed to appreciate this invaluable contribution he made, because he dared to hold an individual pursuit like poetry over my unreasonable demands as his adult daughter. Because he dared to be something else too, besides a father. Image source: The Waltons (1972-1981)
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