The Stork, The Guinea Pig & The Elephant

My father is a science man. He always has been. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t have other hobbies in life, or that that is all he does, 24/7 (come on, he also sleeps, but I do wonder if he dreams of equations, atoms and physic formulas), but it does mean that a big chunk of his life is spent in the science world, be that a physical one, or just a mental one (when you see him still, lost in his own world, trying to figure out something).

Since a very young age, I knew that my dad and I were different (in a good way), that I wasn’t cut out for Maths, Physics, Chemistry and the whole lot. I was always far more interested in History, Arts, Language Theory, etc, but in a need to make my parents proud (as if, to make them proud, I had to do what they did), I stuck with science for a long while, even when I would fail at them miserably. Both my sisters were (and are) fantastic at them, so I wanted to be too, I didn’t want to dissapoint.

My dad used to have science-based chats during our dinners, which I cherised and hated in equal measures. I liked knowing that he wanted to share his private world with us, his infinite knowledge, but I hated the fact that plenty of times these conversations would just go over my head, and I would remain silent, without knowing what to say, think or do. I wasn’t stupid, and neither I am now, I just wasn’t particularly interested, and therefore would close my mind to the posibility of ever understand it.

My dad used to give us plenty of science books too (and in a way, still does, more when we ask for them, because he might have written an article or edited the whole book), and though I always treasured my dad’s presents as a show of his love and willingness for us to learn, I also knew that 9 out of 10 times, I wouldn’t really open the book ever again. In a way, as with everything else, I loved the fact he would share this part of himself with us, but I felt bad for not enjoying it as much as he did.

I clearly remember the day when, at 15 or 16, I had to chose the subjects for my new year in high school. Up until then, I had done science module after science module, and struggled to get as good marks as my big sister, or to even grasp the basic ideas of it all. I just couldn’t do it. I believe a mixture of lack of passion for the subject and the fact that my brain is not scientifically-wired made them very hard for me. But, as I was saying, I remember the day I had the application sheet with the different modules in front of me, and I had just talked to my sister about maybe not wanting to do any science stuff, but being afraid of dissapointing my dad for not following his career path. I remember then sitting in the kitchen table, with my dad, and trying to explain that, history sounded much more appealing than maths, and that art history looked way more fun than chemistry, not to mention Spanish literature, which sounded like the end all and be all of high school learning. My dad listened, patiently, with this big grin in his face, laughing not at me, but at the situation. I remember, clearly, how after I spent what it seemed like hours to explain that it wasn’t that I didn’t love him or what he did, but that it just wasn’t for me, he just smiled, and told me that I had to do what I wanted to do. Simple and obvious words now, but I knew right then that everything was going to be fine, that my father would never think less of me for wanting to do anything in life (as long as I really wanted to, loved it and enjoyed it) even if it was not what he wanted. I knew right at that moment, that my own dad would always be 100% besides me in whatever decision I took, even if it was one that he himself, wouldn’t have done. The world was mine to be discovered, and he was going to be right there with me, waiting to hear whatever I wanted to share with him. That day I stopped hating school, I stopped doing any science modules, and I loved the rest of my learning. I was free from my own mental-prison.

Shortly after that discussion, over ten years ago now, my dad stopped giving me science books. Not out of spite, hurt or lack of love, but because he knew I didn’t want them. I lived happier knowing that I didn’t have to pretend (in a sort of coming out of the science-closet), and him kowing that I was doing what I had a real passion for.

I am reminded of all this because of a very simple thing my dad did recently. Something that, I’m sure, meant absolutely nothing to him, but means the world to me. I started las week my PhD in Spanish Queer Cinema, a subject which is completely unrelated to anything my dad has done in his over 30-year career, a subject that is really close to me, and one that I hope I will have so many successes in as my dad has done in his chosen field.

I received, the other day, a packet through the post from my dad. When I opened it, there was a book inside. My dad still sends me books. It wasn’t his new article published, it wasn’t a new scince is fun book. It was a Queer Literature book, ‘Yo no soy esa que tu te imaginas’ by Angie Simonis, recently published by the University of Alicante, where he works. And it filled me with joy and love knowing that, my dad, can still send me books, and that, this time round, I will read them.

He didn’t write a note, he didn’t say anything. He just saw it, got it, and sent it. Chances are, he didn’t think much of it, chances are, he doesn’t know what this means to me. I’m looking forward to my next dinner with my dad. This time around, we can both share knowledge about our fields, and I know that he will listen, and even if he doesn’t share the love and passion for my area of expertise, I know he will want to know about it, because it isn’t about what we are sharing per se, but about wanting to share it with each other.

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