About Fatherhood

In a recent History on Fire episode, I tackled the subject of fatherhood in history. Specifically, I looked at a whole bunch of case studies which seem to suggest that, across the centuries, good fathers were the exception more than the rule. And this got me pondering if much of history—with all of its wars and bloodshed—perhaps is the product of child abuse coming home to roost.

As I mentioned in the episode, it is entirely possible that this horrible historical record is the result of the fact that most of what we know comes from a very small sample. The majority of people whose names are remembered in history books, from emperors to CEOs, tends to be heavily skewed toward narcissists and generally awful people. Chasing power, in fact, often means having to screw over people in the process, and be willing to sacrifice everything to feed one’s power addiction. That’s why less than pleasant people lean toward those roles. And of course, it’s not surprising that most awful men had awful fathers and, in turn, were awful fathers themselves.

I don’t know if the majority of fathers of common people were as terrible as the ‘elite’ examples I analyzed in the episode. At the cost of being overly optimistic, I like to think that good fathers are hidden in the lost pages of history and in the unrecorded lives of millions.

What I do know for sure is that I was lucky enough to have a hell of a good father. That being said, I’m sure that, had they been in my shoes, quite a few individuals would not have been thrilled with some of my father’s choices.

On a material level, we were poorer than most people I knew. The street we lived on was notorious in Milan for being a hub of sex work. More than once, coming home, I had to make my way in between drug dealing gangs fighting each other with broken bottles. The homes of pretty much everyone in our neighborhood were broken in at least once. Muggings were common. In our apartment, paint and plaster would regularly rain down from the ceiling, and the carpet was so old that I could swear we probably lost some guest in its giant folds. I had no money to play video games like my friends, but I’d scrounge together a few bucks every other month to buy a magazine that reviewed video games, so I could spend hours letting my imagination fly and picture what it’d be like to play them. Given this socio-economic context, it may not be surprising that many of my acquaintances engaged in activities that ranged from quasi-legal to ‘not so much’. More than once, I asked people on the street if they could spare some change. I could go on, but I think you get the idea.

The funny thing, though, is that I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, since my father’s choices led to experiences that are worth more than any amount of money can buy. Wanting to spend as much time as humanly possible with me, he decided not to pursue the kinds of jobs that would keep him at an office for most of the day. Making a living as a writer meant little in the way of money, but plenty in the way of time with me. We played basketball together all the time. We spent hours every day talking in depth about any subject you can imagine. We watched movies together on a regular basis. We had lunch at my grandparents’ house multiple times per week. We created stories and played constantly. Of course, we were poor, but so what?

I recall once one of the many visitors passing through our household to chat with him and pick his brain commented how much he envied my father’s lifestyle. “You are so lucky,” he kept saying. After the man left, I felt bad for him and asked my father if there was anything we could do to help him. My father chuckled. “That guy makes in a month more than I make in a year. He wants the free time I have but also wants much more money. Our lifestyle is not luck. It’s a choice—one that he is not willing to make.”

When growing up, I made my own choices and moved far away from him, not once did he give me a guilt trip. No ‘after all I’ve done for you.” He had put me as his number one priority for nearly two decades, but the moment I was ready to venture on my own, he immediately switched gears and did nothing to hold me back. I can’t think of a single day together when he didn’t make me feel loved. I don’t know how many people in history have been lucky enough to have what I had, but I hope it’s a lot. I am certain that if everyone did, the whole history of humanity would be very different.