Memory can be an interesting thing. The life I lived in my past was always under a veil of lies, set up by my mother and siblings. My whole life, I felt as though I had memories that were false because they were always denied by my mother with such fervor that I truly felt as if I had no choice but to believe her. There are entire years of my life that I do not remember due to the state of mind that I was in. But there is one thing that I have always known. My dad, despite his flaws, loved me. The memories I have of him are nothing but happy, loving ones. Despite what my mother would have me believe. And I see that love through Dan, in the way that he loves his children, and sticks through the marriage with Roseanne despite the odds. It must truly be a hard thing to stay with someone who wants to be miserable so badly that they will blame anything and anyone for their misery.
In this episode, we see the flaws of Dan peak through that mimic my own dad’s. He was not a perfect man. He did not treat my mother like the fairy-tales imply a woman should be treated. But that is because my mother, like Roseanne, is not a princess who is in need of a prince to come and rescue her. She is more like the dragon protecting the castle, with the princess inside. But the dragon is not a creature that wishes the princess the best in life. The dragon is a being who was created to keep the princess locked away in her tower. And that is something my mother seemed hell bent on. She did not wish for me to explore the world because then I would not be under her thumb, willing to live the life that she wanted me to. She wanted me to stay locked away in the tower she forced on me, because then she had all of the control. Because that’s what it has always been about: control. Just like Roseanne growing jealous of Dan speaking to another woman, these emotions are stemmed from lack of control. Roseanne blames Dan for wanting to be with someone else, when that was likely never the case.
Watching Roseanne makes me wonder about the relationship my mother and dad had with each other. Were they ever happy? The stories my mother would tell me throughout the years always painted my dad in a negative light, but that is not the man I remember. Deep down, I know that my dad loved me. I know that he tried for a relationship with his children but was always met with a brick wall. I can only guess on how hard it must have been for him to feel so alone, cut off from those who were supposed to love him. It breaks my heart to think about him sitting in his empty house, thinking about the happy memories we shared together, reaching for them but being unable to grasp a hold of them.
For me, memories are like wispy clouds in the sky: high above and impossible to reach. My mind has locked them away so tight that I may never be able to find them. I’m scared if I ever do. Terrified about what I may find buried deep within the recesses of my mind. So I hold tight to the good memories, the ones of my dad taking me out on his boat. The memory I have of my dad trying to teach my brother how to fish. How much my brother seemed to hate it. We spent hours on his boat in the middle of the ocean, my brother holding his fishing rod like it was a snake about to strike. Then, suddenly, he got a bite! My dad leaped to his feet, ecstatic to teach my brother how to reel in a fish. But my brother could care less. He sat there rolling his eyes, reeling the fish in with as much excitement as a sloth. After a few long and agonizing minutes, I couldn’t take it anymore. I jumped to my feet, grasped the fishing rod, and reeled in the fish. I don’t even remember anything about the fish at all. The only thing I can recall is the look on my dad’s face. It was the first time that I ever felt like an adult was proud of me for something, and it would be the last.
My dad had hoped for the stereotypical moment of teaching his son how to fish, but he got something greater. In that small moment, he taught me what parental love was supposed to be. That it wasn’t about disappointment and fear. It was about sharing your love of something with someone else. Hoping that they succeed and feeling euphoric when they do. Celebrating in their success, no matter how small they were. I remember the fishing days with my dad fondly. Whenever I tried to share them with my siblings, they always focused on the bad things. The things my mother taught them to focus on. But I refuse to live my life in the dark parts of my memories. I chose to seek out the light and to embrace it. I chose to be happy. That can’t be bad, can it?
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