In therapy, in court, and in second grade

I was about seven the first time I was sent to talk to a therapist. My parents, having divorced not long before, were in the middle of one of those epic visitation court battles that make you wonder how it’s possible for so many people to be so irrational, and then you remember the lawyers are getting paid so they don’t have much incentive to calm things down. I gather my mother suspected my father of abusing me in some way and wanted proof so she wouldn’t have to let me go stay with him for six weeks in the summers in Alaska.

It’s never been clear to me exactly what she had against that–I do know she was stridently alarmed about the hitchhikers he would pick up with me in the car, and now I can hardly blame her. And it’s true that in many instances over the years it became clear to me that my father’s desire to lay down parental law was quite lacking, either through philosophical opposition, cluelessness, or apathy, which lead to some rather inappropriate situations, like taking me to “entheogen conferences” (aka drug parties for aging hippies) in the Marin Headlands and then letting me, at sixteen, date a 35-year-old civil engineer I met there (before this anecdote disturbs you too much, let me assure you that he didn’t take advantage of me, and I was absolutely complicit in any smoking up and making out that may have ensued). But she couldn’t have known all that then, though clearly she had her inklings, and wanted to do her due diligence.

The therapist asked me what kinds of games I played with my dad, and I listed the normal stuff: kite flying, reading books, taking walks, visiting friends, playing horsie. “Can you tell me more about ‘playing horsie’?” “Uh, yeah, my dad gets on all fours and I ride him, or climb under.” You know, duh, lady, horsie. I could tell from her reaction that she didn’t think playing horsie was nearly as fun–and innocuous–as I did. She was also obviously displeased to learn that my father didn’t take me to church–not surprising, since the therapist was less a mental health professional than the counselor at my mom’s church. But in the end she concluded, rightly, that nothing untoward happened with my dad. I wonder how that was for my mom: Yay, my child isn’t being abused! Crap, I have less ammunition against him!

As part of the court proceedings I was asked to speak privately with the judge. My mother had coached me on the reasons I was to give as to why I did not want to spend more time in the summers with my dad. Nobody ever asked me what I actually thought, so I’m not sure I ever really considered the question myself, but judging from my vivid memories of talking with the judge–sweating with nerves, sitting straight up at the front of the high-backed chair wearing the water blue moiré dress my mother’d made for me to wear in a wedding–I don’t think I was very convincing with my monologue: “Um, I want to swim at the Country Club, and…go to Vacation Bible School…uh…” and in the end my dad won the visitation battle.

My mom kept saying she thought he’d paid off the judge, or that her lawyer was too old to be competent, but I think the judge did right. And it couldn’t have hurt that these reasons I parroted were lame ones not to have a relationship with my father. I also believe, in retrospect, that lamenting to a black judge in the deep south that I wouldn’t get to spend enough time at the white-only Country Club pool couldn’t have been a smart way to bolster my the judge’s empathy for my mom.

Plus my dad was really fighting to be with me; sure, he’d moved nearly as far away as possible, to Alaska; sure, he (reportedly) was extremely tight-fisted with child support and didn’t pony up for any extras, like piano lessons; sure, he didn’t help pay for college. But to his credit my father has always tried to spend time with me; has always written me long letters every week, called me for long talks, been there for me emotionally in the same way I can always rely on my mother physically. As parents, my mom and dad are yin and yang. On the whole I treasure the time I had with my father, and value it as an antidote to my mother’s completely opposite style of upbringing. I’m grateful the therapist and the judge didn’t find a way to stand in the way of that.