Parenting, even the word seems to demand reverence. A sense of pride and awe proceeds from any who speak the simple phrase, "I am a parent". Yet what does that entail? How do a father's hands mean more than just the simple emotions, and following physical motions that combine to form life? All too often creating life is looked upon as a mistake, or a streak of bad luck. Yet it can, and should be viewed as the crowning achievement of a person's life. I will explore what a father's hands see, what a fathers hands know, and the way a child views his father's hands.
The Artifact I am using is a photograph of a man's hands. The photo is shot in black and white which really accentuates the deep lines, crevices, and scars of the hands. I notice the darkness of the left hand, especially the pinky. The sides of his hands are dirty and dark, no doubt marked by years of hard manual labor. The darkness of the top part of the photo, implies that we are not focusing on the body connecting these hands, but on the hands alone. What makes a father's hands worth studying? All humans are different, different religious beliefs, different race, different priorities, different addictions, and different views on what a family is. Yet, all humans have a father. No questions or witty commendations can negate the fact that every human being has a male involved in their conception. The context that we find this photo in is all derived from the beholder. The up loader(http://manuelsview.blogspot.com/2009_06_01_archive.html) gave us no insight regarding where the photo was taken, what situation this man is in, or why they chose to take this picture. The context would seem that a man is showing the work of his hands, his hand are old and withered and paint a compelling picture of work and sacrifice.The picture seems to have a clear message, the hardworking hands of a man are shown, this seems to imply to all, that a man should work hard. It seems to say that having scarred and wrinkled hands denote manliness. Yet often many children today are born to mothers who have barely seen the child's fathers face, let alone hands. The analysis contained here-in will show how the worth of a fathers hands is measured in the work he does for his children, and the time he spends mentoring and loving his offspring . Today more than 27% of children live in a fatherless home(http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/06/18/pew-report-on-fatherhood-_n_879629.html#s294303&title=Income_Influences_Absence) what topic could be more important at this time?
Ideological Criticism helps one take a strong hard look at what the ideal is behind the rhetoric being viewed. The ideal that men should be good fathers who work hard for their family could be viewed as a Marxian view, because of the communal nature that fathers have. It could also be viewed in a Hegemonic view because many would argue that fathers are the epitome of Hegemony. I believe fathers are followed and obeyed because they act out of love for their children, but Hegemonic's would teach that we follow out of a misplaced totalitarian view of fatherhood. I choose to do my analysis with a feminist ideological view, it sounds absurd to view the only completely and undeniably Male characteristic of Fatherhood through the (seemingly) anti thesis view of a Feminist lens. Yet this analysis will show the legitimacy of this claim. (which hopefully will increase legitimacy of children) Legit.
Feminism finds its roots in the heart of every human being, all things caring and nurturing seem to stem from a feminist view. It is a view that encourages love and interdependence, while shunning away fierce independence and malicious narcissism. Viewing a fathers hands through this view gives the best ideological view of why my father used his hands, and did what he did for me.
As I think of my fathers hands, through a feminist lens, I see hope. My mother and father were married in 1987 my mother the youngest of 8 children, (all married in the temple) fell in love with my father who was 8 years older than her and had 2 children from a previous marriage. His first marriage ending with a nasty divorce including fraud and depression. My father was in debt with poor credit, complete with a mustache and mullet(thank you Billy Ray Cyrus) it is clear that he made every Mormon parent quake with fear. Upon asking for my mothers hand, my grandmother ran out of the room crying. Grandfather looked crushed that his youngest was taking this route, but grudgingly agreed. They were married(in my grandparents back yard) and began life. My Father worked 2 jobs to support my mother as she finished a teaching degree. Two years later in July when a screaming 7 pound 14 ounce me, was placed in my fathers hands he silently decreed that he would work all day every day to provide for me and my mother. Ideologically my fathers first response could have been to just live with my mom, thereby surpassing the awkward encounter with my grandparents. Yet because of my mothers desire to be married and "do it right" he underwent the torture of asking to un-relating future relatives for a permission that was overall un-needed. The feminist view is characterized by self sacrifice. Would you ask the angry in laws? He then made a strong oath to my mother and I, an oath that would come to be characterized by long days, missed fun, sleep, and supposed luxury. Yet he made that oath knowing all to well the consequences it would have. Why?
Toddler days were spent in pure bliss, my father worked two jobs while starting his own HVAC company to ensure my mother did not have to work. Night after night I remember him coming home filthy and tired but always in the mood to build legos or read a book. He never once missed an opportunity to help me feel loved, his hands would slowly and tenderly play with small GI joes or Legos. Although his hands had already put so much effort into manual labor jobs, on any given day there was always an extra spark of brilliance waiting for a quick Hot wheels race or sand box castle creation. More than once my fathers hands went to bed stained with grease and covered in cuts, yet sand was surely found under his fingernails from our night time construction. Feminism helps to show that a true man will never get so caught up in his work to forget about those that he works for. Many thousand pairs of fatherly hands are so busy fighting to provide for their family they forget who they are fighting for.
Soon I was driving my stay at home mother mad with constant curiosity and pushing boundaries to their breaking points. One day my mother threw up her hands and called my father demanding, " COME HOME NOW AND TEACH YOUR SON A LESSON!" Obedient as always(not the first or last time he would be hastily called to the battle front) he would arrive and give me a look of shame(hurting more than the spanks to follow) after a long look he would bend me over his knee. I would shut my eyes and grit my teeth knowing the day of reckoning had come. He would bang his hands hard accross my rear, but the pain was not there, the sound was clear (surely was music to my tired mother's ears) yet I would look up at him and in his eyes see mercy. He would then pretend to be all the more vigorous in his distribution of my mothers will, yet the yelps and tears that came were more to legitimate my fathers rouse. After my "lessons" I would always find a moment away from my mothers eyes to hug him and apologize for letting him down. A fathers role as the enforcer is almost always a secondary function of the mother, as if she would call the "big guns" in to take care of my foul temperance. Yet my father would teach the feminist ideal of Compromise and appeasement of all to me. He would risk the rage of my mother in an attempt to save me from any more pain than was absolutely necessary. My father tried to never pick sides but to find a suitable compromise for all.
As a young man my fathers hands opened up a world of mechanics, car problems suddenly became long Saturday projects. The feel of hot oil spilling from a cracked Pan would send me into convulsions of pain. Yet when my pain seemed indomitable, my father(as the dutch boy of old) would fill cracks with his own fingers until I could secure a proper receptacle. Almost without a care he would clean off his hands then tenderly grab my hands and show me how to bandage up burns. His hands taught me how to downshift for more power to pass a semi doing 55 on I-15 or how to gingerly change a light bulb. It was his hands that first introduced me to the trance like power of 6 nickle plated strings being tickled into musical submission. My truest passions and basic knowledge are founded in his strong scarred and callused hands. A feminist lens helps us see that my fathers intention was not to burn his own hands, but to teach me that given enough strength, any task was potentially accomplished with grit and patience. He filled me with excitement for the day when I would put my hands in burning hot oil with no wince of pain. He shows the power of strength.
Now as I am an adult I see my father's hands in a new light, the reality of stress and exhaustion that comes from 12 hour work days is all to clear to me. I am in awe of the power his hands have and the love he shows by sacrificing his sleep, personal plans and desires to spend exhausting hours chasing me around out back. He has never once flinched in the face of sacrifice, or shown any hint of preferential treatment to me or his other 3 children. He is a man, his hands are a mass of calluses and scars, the on-set of arthritis is clearly visible. It has been years since he had the patience or coordination to pluck a few notes on the guitar, yet the memory is strong. He now is a reassuring backer, he is constantly encouraging me with phrases like, "hang in there" or "You can do it". His greatest gifts of self esteem are given in simple phrases like, "I am so proud of you", "when I was your age, I never dreamed of doing what you are doing". Those simple phrases mean so much to me. From a young age my fathers hands have held my goals, my ideals, and most importantly my hope of who I could become. My father has affected every aspect of my life by simply being in my life. He cares and I know he does, my core values and integrity is based on his stalwart example and unending strength. He sacrificed for me and I know it, I know that I am worth sacrificing for. The most noble of all feminist traits is achieved here, interdependence. My own self worth is tied to the perception of value that I see my father holds for me. His hands taught me what my hands can do, and what great hands helped to shape me. What I do with my hands are a direct reflection on what his hands taught me to do. What will your hands teach?
Although my Fathers hands are now rough and withered, stiff and physically unappealing, they invoke in me the strongest realization of who I am and what sacrifices have been made for me. With every scar or callus, I see legos and alternators, Hootenanny and model cars. His hands now give me firm embraces, pats on the back or an occasional slap on the neck, yet the love he spent for me then, fills me with desire to do good now. My fathers hands are not attractive, or wealthy, but they taught me the value I have. They taught me who I am. It is clear that we must take our roles as fathers more seriously and that society as a whole must start encouraging fathers to be a more active presence in their families lives. A fathers influence can never be dulled or muffled. Throughout the ringings of my journals or posts of a thousand bloggers we hear the influence of a fathers hands. With the millions of hands in the world, and the millions of uses of those hands. My fathers hands have clearly spoken to me; "You are loved and I sacrifice everyday for you, yet if you need more I will gladly sacrifice more. You have unlimited potential and are great, handsome and noble. You are my son and I love you."
What will your hands tell your children?
