David McElroy

An Alien Sent to Observe the Human Race

father

Hiding anger was a survival skill,
so you might not know I’m angry

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My crime was slight, but my father was filled with rage. While he was out of town, I had used the record player in our living room. I was about 8 years old. My mother had been there and the four of us — my two sisters, Mother and me — had wanted to listen to some music.

It was some sort of silly, child-like music. I can remember us dancing around the living room — all four of us — having a joyful time.

Then my father came home.

Somehow, he found out that I had used the record player. He had told me numerous times that I wasn’t allowed to use the record player, because I might scratch a record. I could even damage the needle. Or something terrible, apparently.

He flew into a rage and screamed at me. I stood quietly, just as I always did. I picked a button on his shirt to concentrate on. I was required to look at him, but I wasn’t allowed to say anything or show any response. That was the unspoken rule. Most of all, I couldn’t dare talk back or show any hint of anger.

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Dad who made space for daughter reminds me little moments matter

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The little girl’s face was set in concentration and determination. She was pushing the cart with all her might.

“You’re doing a great job, sweetie,” her father said as he pushed the grocery cart at a Walmart near my house. “I really appreciate you helping me.”

Every few steps, he stopped pushing quit as much, so the little girl could feel the pressure again — and then start moving again as she pushed harder.

The girl’s serious expression suggested to me that she had a job to do and that she was proud of herself for doing it.

When she grows up, it’s unlikely this little girl will remember this particular Sunday, but she will probably have vague, warm memories of helping her dad at the store when she was young.

It might not seem like a big deal to either one of them, but I think what I saw is one of the most important parts of raising a child.

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I want to live a life my children will want to emulate as they get mature

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When I was a kid, I thought my father was an important man — and that made me feel really good.

I spent a lot of time in his various offices over the years — in Birmingham; Atlanta, Washington, D.C.; Knoxville, Tenn. and Meridian, Miss. — while he worked for Southern Railway. I liked to go to the office with him at night, on weekends, on holidays. And every time the railroad promoted him, we were transferred to a new city. In his last job before he left Southern, he was a division superintendent for the Safety Department.

He did a lot of training throughout his division. He had a lot of meetings. When there were derailments on his division, he had to go to the site to supervise the safety procedures of the clean-up, which meant he was sometimes away from home for weeks. I saw people at the office treat him with respect and take his instructions.

For a little boy, all of this seemed really important. I was proud of him. I used to like to look at his business card — back when most men in business still used initials — and think that I would one day have a business card of some sort that said “D.M. McElroy.” (As I grew older and learned to dislike initials, I rejected this idea. I’ve always just been David — and never “Dave” under any circumstances.)

About the time he and my mother divorced, everything changed about his work. I never again had the child-like belief that he was important, but I never got over wanting him to be someone I could be proud of.

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