Purgatory

Amr is a few years younger than I am. Back when I met him, in my early twenties, this seemed like an eternity. I couldn’t imagine him, and certainly not myself, as a parent navigating the meaning of fatherhood in an ever-changing world. Why would I? Neither he nor I was parented. We were looked after, educated, and given a non-negotiable compass about right and wrong. We were probably also loved, a love we chose to believe existed, not out of deep conviction, but to make our childhood reality more palatable. A love that looks much like faith, lacking in facts, reason, and common sense. A love that is better kept unquestioned.

I have a boy and he has a girl, we think they’re delightful, and we believe this view is entirely objective. The kids are close enough in age to enjoy each other’s company, but far enough in character to wonder if they would ever choose to carve a place for one another as they grow older. I wonder if this occupies Amr’s mind as much as it does mine. 

Once, both our families were sitting in our living room contemplating where to take the kids and what to do for the afternoon. I announced that the first kid to get ready would get a star. I recall a time when we moved mountains for the shiny star sticker; it partially worked. Amr’s daughter jumped into action, and my beloved maverick had to intervene and plant a seed of rebellion.

“Why are you running, Sasa?” 

“To be the first one ready and get a star?” 

“Why do you want a star, Sasa?”

“Who doesn’t want a star?”

She left us all and went to her room to get ready, while Nezar slowly adjusted his position on the couch, preparing for the eventual action of getting up. A strategic maneuver, not to get up, but to make his future decision to leave the couch a bit easier. His defiance of the man is both a source of great pleasure and frustration to me. His ability to demonstrate this defiance with the sleeze of a politician and the appeal of a charming artist is a source of admiration and envy. Sasa, on the other hand, is obviously a future candidate for a Supreme Court Judge, refined, composed, and opinionated, and yet she strikes this fine balance of being herself while not rocking the status quo. Can’t blame either kid, as the apple never falls far from the tree.

As we took a stroll in a little beach town on the Adriatic Sea, we formed a line. The kids were in the lead, skipping with the joy of childhood. Amr’s wife and mine followed the kids to make sure the kids stayed within radar range. We stayed at the back of our train, contemplating our good fortune to be where we are and reflecting on a different time and place.

“Do you recall a similar experience to this in your childhood?” I asked Amr

“Fortunately not, and for that I’m deeply grateful to my parents.”

“You need to unpack that for me.”

“An experience like this would have been the literal definition of hell.”

“Why?”

“I would be torn between the desire to run free and crippling fear of doing something wrong.”

I understood my friend’s dilemma. We were treated like kids and expected to behave like adults. We had obligations that far surpassed our developmental phase, with none of the privileges. We were expected to be organised at home, excel at school, defy all of our instincts, ignore all of our desires, and be happy. It wasn’t complicated at all, and yet only a fraction of us were able to meet these criteria. We were left with a few impossible options: to resent the odd few who could do it, to resent ourselves for not being able to do it, or to abandon the society that set those rules. 

“Amr, it sounds more like purgatory rather than hell.” 

“One is physical torture, and the other is psychological torment. Take your pick!”

“I would take hell any day of the week, purgatory isn’t for me.”

“Now is my turn to ask why?”

“Hell is pain, and pain I understand. Purgatory is discomfort, and that, I struggle with.”

A nuanced difference. Many may argue that such a distinction is barely noticeable, and I would agree with them, but I see it, and once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it. I’m used to holding back these convoluted ideas that roam freely in my brain, but not with Amr. He’s one of a few friends who could engage in theoretical gymnastics for the love of the sport, and that’s exactly what he did.

“I would have thought discomfort is easier to bear than pain.”

“It is, but the currency for discomfort I don’t have.”

“And what would that be?”

“You see, pain requires resilience, and as it happens, I have an abundance of that. Discomfort requires patience, I’m not sure if I ever had it or if I ran out.”

“It was never a quality I associated with you back in the day, but you have gotten more patient with time.”

That’s the beauty of old friendships. You surpass the fear of rejection, you forget the pain of abandonment, and you unburden yourself with the weight of beautifying yourself. I can be my weird, peculiar, very strange self and stay with the comfort that my friend sees me, understands me, and accepts me. 

“I got better at pretending to be patient. Do you know the difference?”

“I suppose now you internalize the discomfort of having to be patient.”

“It only seems fair. Why should I bleed over others just because I’m uncomfortable?”

“You’re challenging the whole foundation on which our entire generation was parented.”

“I don’t see you following our parents' model on: How To Win Friends and Traumatize Children!” 

“That’s true, my reference is 50 Ways to Traumatize Your Child!”

We laughed at our humor, for we see ourselves as a very humorous bunch. There was a point when we realized we do Dad Jokes, and we leaned hard into it. The secret and superpower of Dad Jokes is that they don’t take the audience into account; they are for us dads. For the fathers who were thrust into fatherhood and had to land on their feet, find their way, or make it along the way. Dad jokes are not a symptom of disconnection with what is new and hip; it’s a self-distraction and a coping mechanism. It’s the acceptance of a disconnect between the reality we perceive and the reality we realize. 

“What would your boy want to eat?”

“It’s always a pizza.”

“Good for you. I wish Sasa were the same way.”

“She doesn’t like pizza?”

“She does, but it’s not always a pizza. Just another purgatory to torment me.”

“Your hell is options, and my hell is a lack thereof. Hell is a mysterious place indeed.”