The Shield

Invulnerability. The greatest superpower in the world.

Not invincibility, which is slightly different because it technically means “can’t be overcome,” opposed to invulnerability, which means “can’t be harmed.” And also not immortality, which as a little kid, I always got confused with both.

We all love those “between these two things-that-don't-exist, which would you choose” questions because they reflect something about us as people. And if invulnerability is one of the options, I always choose that.

I wish I could be emotionally and mentally invulnerable, immune to insults, irrational fear, and most importantly, manipulation.

Like the kind I suffer at the hands of my dad. Yes, I’m back to calling him my dad. Because that’s, well that’s who he is.

It’s Easter season and my mom has asked us to go see a musical production put on by a local church. It’s church, so I don’t want to go. But it’s also a family event and I don’t know how many more of these we might have left together. So, I relent, suck it up, and drive our little family to church.

I’m nervous, because I don’t know how my dad will react and I can feel my heart beating slightly faster than normal. It’s something that happens more and more frequently, and I’m starting to wonder if I need to buy myself a blood pressure monitor.

My dad normally moves quite slowly, and today is no exception. He takes his time, inching up each stair and holding on to the handrail. Occasionally he flails his arms as if to move faster, but his feet still move at the same pace. It’s like those people who pretend to move faster when crossing a crosswalk, just to spite or laugh at the drivers waiting for them to get out of the way. The difference is my dad isn’t messing with anyone, except maybe me.

But then suddenly, once the sanctuary is within reach, he puts his hands on my mom’s shoulders and pushes her—almost shoves her, even. They’re now both moving faster than I thought they could. It’s almost like he’s running. I glance off to the side, and I now realize why my dad is racing for the entrance.

There’s someone in a wheelchair right next to us, being rolled towards the same set of doors. They’re moving quite slowly, but could beat us to the door, which my dad won’t have. So he pushes my mom to the front so that we go first. Because if he hadn’t, we might have had to, oh I don’t know, wait an extra fifteen seconds before entering the sanctuary and getting our seats, which by the way someone else has already reserved for us!?

My dad has always been like this. I remember when I was a kid, and a passenger in the car while he drove. He doesn’t let people merge in front of him, whether they’re cutting or not. It got us into an accident once.

“What are you doing?” I demanded of him once when he started speeding up as someone tried to merge into our lane.

“He’s trying to get in!”

Come to think of it, my dad has never been good about answering my actual questions.

“And why does it matter? Who cares?”

“You cannot let people cut in,” he barked. “What happens the next time? Everyone else will do it too.”

Impeccable logic. Truly. I had no idea how to respond to this and so I don’t think I did. As if the universe is somehow an all-knowing being that responds to your every move. Sorry, Dad. The world isn’t just about you.

I think it’s this same logic that drives my dad to make it incredibly difficult for the people trying to step over us to reach their seats. A family friend was kind enough to give us seats in the aisle, which unfortunately means that for every person with seats in our row, they get to face the gatekeeper that is my dad, who doesn’t stand when they approach him, doesn’t move his legs as they try to step over, and practically knees them in frustration of having to exert any physical energy whatsoever.

There’s not a lot I can do, and I just want it to be over.

Even when the show starts, I’m watching with my eyes, but my attention is elsewhere. Half my mind is always wondering what my dad is doing and if something is going to spark a public reaction.

The same is true when we go to another Easter service and my dad steps away to go to the bathroom. He’s now out of my vision and I can feel my breaths pick up the pace. The sanctuary is quiet because somebody is praying, but instead of listening to an expression of gratitude to Jesus for dying for our sins, I’m imagining what my dad is doing. Maybe he’s failing around and about to hit someone. Or maybe he’ll push someone over because “they were in the way.” Or maybe he’ll spit on—

“EXCUSE ME!”

A voice booms and echoes from the back, piercing the silence.

It’s my dad.

I lean over and bury my head in my palms. Jesus, I’m so sorry.

It’s times like these that make me want to leave my dad at home, permanently. Sitting on the couch is mostly what he does anyway. Although, lately I feel like he’s been getting physically worse. I’ve noticed that he’s starting leaning his head on his shoulder, as if his neck is struggling to support him.

Every few weeks, I notice something like this, and I wonder if part of this is in reaction to my change in attitude towards him. I try to tell myself that I don’t have that much control in life, both his, and mine. Sometimes, having less control is liberating.

I’m starting to get tired myself. I’m getting better at becoming invulnerable, letting my dad do his crazy antics and not letting them hurt me. But I’m not getting any better at disconnecting. I really do want to leave him at home. It would be so much easier. As if somehow I could just leave my dad in a metaphorical prison. He is, to some degree, a danger to society. We all kind of are.

And with that thought, I chastise myself for having the desire at all. Sure, I don’t want to see my dad hurt other people, but I wonder if keeping him locked away from the world isn’t only detrimental to him, but if it’s actually a bad idea to sanitize society from him, or people like him. Maybe other people should have the chance to respond and express graciousness to him too.

And so when my mom and I plan to visit a family friend’s restaurant, probably for the last time since they’re retiring, I begrudgingly take my dad. I want this meal to be special for my mom since she’s always liked coming to eat here, and I don’t want anyone to ruin it.

It doesn’t stop my dad from trying.

When the owner comes to speak with us, my dad folds his arms and leans back in his chair. When my mom and I keep the conversation going, he shoos her away. When the owner still doesn’t leave, he starts hissing.

I feel an impulse to yell at my dad, but I don’t take it. Instead, I turn to the owner.

“Don’t mind him,” I say, actually wanting the conversation to keep going.

“I know,” she surprises me with a smile, “don’t worry.”

Danger makes a second pass the very moment I grab the last noodle off of a plate, and my dad jerks his hand towards a waitress and points to the plate like he’s actually trying to use his finger to break it.

“Oh, you’re giving this to me?” the waitress says, sweetly.

He growls at her.

“Oh, you’re so nice, thank you!”

She lifts the plate and adds it to the stack resting on her arm.

“Thank you…” I sigh and smile sheepishly at her.

She flashes a grin back at me. I can tell, she gets it.

I decide to leave them a nice tip to make up for their troubles. And it is trouble, there’s no point in beating around the bush about it. But it seems necessary, to keep my dad in this world and to acknowledge that he is still a part of it. And for once, I feel a sense of contentment, and not frustration, at being with my dad.

“Did you like coming here?” I ask my mom as we get back into the car.

“Yes,” she says. “They are closing, huh?”

I nod. I wonder if she’ll actually remember that detail. I wonder if she’ll remember even eating here. But at least for myself, I’ll remember that our last lunch at this restaurant turned out quite nicely, and that my dad got to be a part of it.

The experience helps me learn that instead of carrying a sword and attacking what I see is a problem with my dad, I can bring a shield, and simply defend everyone else from him. Maybe the best offense, is a good defense.

And so because I don’t want to lock up my dad, I learn his impulses. At dim sum restaurants, I preemptively ask for tea when we’re starting to run low, so that my dad can’t yell anyone down for being slow to pick up the teapot.

When he goes to the bathroom, sometimes I lie and say I need to go too, just so I can go with him and keep a watchful eye.

When we go grocery shopping, I always park next to where you return shopping carts, on purpose.

My dad has this habit where, when leaving, he always leaves shopping carts in the most convenient place possible. Half-raised on a curb. Parked next to another car. Anywhere but those designated lots because it’s “too far.” I really don’t like it when he does this because it’s mildly rude to anyone who has to collect shopping carts, but more importantly, I don’t trust that he won’t bang a cart against another car. I don’t want to have to deal with that.

And so I always park next to the designated shopping cart lots. Because my dad will properly return the cart if it’s convenient for him.

It’s my way of adapting. It takes a little bit of a toll on me, but if it means I can take him out, without harming anyone else in the process, it’s worth it.

I think the truth is, as tough as playing defense can be, it has always been a quality I’ve found attractive. If I’d been paying attention, I’d realize that even more than my choice in superpowers, there are lots of other expressions of the fact that I appreciate qualities, roles, and characters that are more supportive. I never gravitate towards the stylish, but instead towards the ones that heal, protect, and can take a beating for the team.

Like medics, more than soldiers with guns. Klay Thompson, more than Steph Curry. The drummer, not the lead singer. Captain America, not Iron Man.

Because I’m not a rockstar. But I can be a rock.

And right now, I think that’s what my family needs.