Absolutely freakin’ not, instinct insists. History is overstuffed with Great Santinis and Darth Vaders, and I’m damn well not going to join their ranks. The last thing I want is to be in the hospital suffering through my final decrepitude while my boys fight in the hall over who has to go in and make small talk today.
But there’s a dark part of me—hidden behind the hugs—that relishes the ability to intimidate. In an era governed by the beige interactions of cubicle diplomacy, it’s kind of nice for a guy to have his word be law every once in a while. Management gurus can preach about consensus building, but the truth is that in our go-West-young-man society, patience has long been dismissed as wimpy. Anger is a shortcut to results, collateral damage be damned. Occasionally, I’d like to yell “Jump!” and see everyone else’s feet leave the ground. And the allure of being formidable runs deeper than that for me: I want to reclaim a much-misused parental tool, albeit one that is valuable only if meted out with extreme precision, like saffron or threesomes or seersucker suits.
Gen X dads are still sorting out the dueling role models our culture has served up. In one corner are the Greatest Generation fathers who taciturnly got the job done, assumed their affection was implied, and weren’t above the occasional belt to the ass. In the other are the touchy-feely boomer parents who say the fear factor has no place in the paternal palette. Thanks,
Thirtysomething. It’s left to us to find the middle ground.
My college-professor dad was not scary and, he tells me, never thought about being so. He is elegantly formidable, and his words carry so much weight that his very occasional disapproval is still enough to rock my world. He spurns outbursts as if they were Amway salesmen. It was my mother’s more visible emotions that taught me to appreciate passion and anger. My wife was one of three sisters and the daughter of a father who never offered a window into his demons, so she’s flying blind too.
We’re certain of only one thing: This “boy energy”—whatever alchemy it represents—must be understood, nurtured, and channeled so that we don’t end up rearing the next exurban Slobodan Milosevic.
I’ve had four years of trial and error—lots of the former, too much of the latter. But I’ve learned a handful of techniques to help a guy control his inner Hulk while making sure Bruce Banner never takes a long vacation.
Use anger as a tool, not an outlet. Controlled thunderousness in the service of something, whether it be preventing filial roadkill or punishing callous behavior, is an entirely different beast from personal anger, which usually has nothing to do with your child and everything to do with your bad day. Your stuff is yours; deal with it among adults. Don’t ensure that the sins of the father are visited upon the sons.
