Converged

     

    There were just so many instances in my life when my father tried to shove his own tastes and likes down my throat.  It was common place; I accepted it. Did I want to listen to my AM radio in peace?  You betcha.  Did I want to watch "Love Boat," without a lecture on dumbed down culture? You better believe it!  Of course, the worst part was the public shaming.  How many times did I want to just melt into the hot vinyl seat of that  1968 Belvedere station wagon when my dad blared his KJAZ station at full decibels so that I could "appreciate" Lester Young's solo at a traffic light?  Or how about when he tricked my sister and I into seeing what we thought was a cute little fairy tale movie in this tiny, dirty, obscure theatre in  north Berkeley ? It actually turned out to be Jean Cocteau's interpretation of "Beauty and the Beast," and not the warm fuzzy Hans Christian Anderson one we were so familiar with. I still remember those disturbing animal costumes even though I was only nine.

    My father redeemed himself my freshman year of college when he drug me to a play in San Francisco. I was majoring in drama and was home for the weekend.  I would have much rather been with my friends that night but I  had sadly run out of excuses.  Our tastes converged that night.  That play, in that tiny theatre in Fort Mason, was a blend of arguing, passion, timing, emotions, and the intricacies of family relationships.  "True West," was one of Sam Shepard's finest works.  I remember my father and I talked, and overlapped the whole drive home from San Francisco eagerly sharing the best dramatic nuances we had seen, and heard.  We were still talking even after we slammed our car doors in unison, and started up the concrete path to our home- oblivious to what had just finally happened between us.