Center of Gravity

An essay about my dad, which is to say: an essay about me

You can move anything if you can get your center of gravity right. My dad taught me that. I’ve watched him move impossible things—fridges and couches and round bales as big as a car. He’s right, and it’s true, but that’s only part of it. It’s also true that you have to possess a certain kind of belief. A belief in the predetermined, different from being a person who is determined. A person who is determined might say, “I will move this couch by myself no matter what.” A person who believes in the predetermined might say, “This couch must move, and therefore, I will do it.”

I inherited or learned this way of being. While in labor with my first child, the midwives said, over and over, “You can do this! It will be so worth it!” At some point, I snarled, “I don’t have a choice, do I?” They were either offended or unfazed—I was in no shape to care. I meant what I said, though. I didn’t have a choice. But it was also a rallying cry to myself. It must be done, and so I will do it. There’s no way out but through.

Lately, many of the personality traits that I was brought up to believe were inherently good are being called into question. Am I dogged or am I stubborn? Am I a self-starter, or am I an egomaniac? Am I steadfast, or am I a martyr? The internet is trying to convince me of this and that, therapy is casting everything in a new light. I watch the videos. I nod in therapy. But I feel myself resisting. My knees lock beneath the table. My jaw sets itself without me realizing it.

You’re just like your father, I’ve heard more than once, mostly in exasperation. I am just like my father. I will work myself to the bone. I will shoulder whatever needs to be shouldered, and not necessarily cheerfully. But I’m also just like the father who wears sunglasses at children’s events to hide my tears. I’m just like the father who came straight over after an exhausting workday at the scrap metal yard to walk my screaming newborn up and down the stairs—the only thing that made him quiet. I’m just like the father who can lift, move, carry more than should be possible. I am just like the father who always finds a way to make it work, who gives all of himself even when he probably shouldn’t.

A martyr, you might call him. Us. I can see that there are better ways to be. Healthier ways. But I love my dad. I have been wholly, singularly loved by him. And so I think I’ll keep on. Being like him, that is. And if, at the end of the day, my loved ones feel wholly, singularly loved, well, they can call me whatever they want.