Natalie Antonia May
The gift of life, to start, though he didn’t play as big a role as my mother. He kind of just signed the card.
A puppet from wherever he traveled for work. A Hedgehog from England. A Wombat from Australia, which married my American Porcupine. They had several, cross-breed, dual-citizenship babies. One time, he staged a puppet birth. Porcupine went into labor and produced a smaller porcupine. For my amusement, or maybe for his.
Big eyebrows. Green eyes.
A nightly bedtime story, and never the one I wanted. Tired of the same few tales I loved so much, he would change them to his liking. Matilda became a Mormon missionary. The Very Hungry Caterpillar died of starvation.
A way with words, and a love for them. The ability to reliably produce a pun or a rhyme.
The occasional hug, when appropriate. Or maybe only when required. They’re usually from the side.
A kit that turns children’s stories into published-looking books. And again the next year, and the year after. A reason to keep writing.
His impressive, if selective, memory. Porcupine’s full name is Porque Pumpernickel Pretzel Snake-a-pine Bacon Horse Mommy Los Angeles Fluffy Squirrel. He committed it to memory, and he still knows it a dozen years later. Though I’d challenge him to name two of my friends at school.
A bedtime song, if I got sick of my stories being corrupted. His offerings included a cheese-themed parody of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and a broccoli-themed parody of “On Top of Spaghetti,” which is, in fact, already a parody.
Trouble saying I love you, and
Trouble hearing it.
A small wooden box with red curtains to act as my “puppet theater.”
Lessons in riding a bike. So, so many lessons. He found a way to lift my training wheels without fully removing them, so I could get used to the balance without losing the support. He lifted them higher and higher, and forced me out the door every day to practice. And now I can ride a bike.
A slender frame that lends itself to long-distance running.
An utter lack of hand-eye coordination which makes it challenging to dance. A warm home.
A skinny housecat, whom we fattened up. We named her Trixie after my favorite story. She died two months ago and that’s when I learned that my father could cry.
A porcupine-shaped cake for my ninth birthday. He baked and decorated it himself. The occasional, celebratory bonfire. Never on “Spare the Air” days.
Patient attendance at every one of my “puppet shows,” no matter how long-winded, unscripted, or ridiculous.
The gift of example. My siblings and I were riding our bikes to school one day when some crabby lady on her porch yelled that if we had to ride on the sidewalk, we shouldn’t be riding at all. “I respectfully disagree, ma’am,” he replied, and we continued on to school. What more was there to say?
Lessons in algebra. Held at the dining table from after dinner until well past my bedtime. He paid no regard to his own evening plans, to the glass of wine or movie or sleep he was missing. He sat with me until it was done.
A nightstand, built to my specifications. A bedroom painted purple.
A card on every birthday, in which he wrote many nice things but rarely “I love you.” My father, due to some combination of his stoic nature and his own stoic nurture, struggles to express certain emotions. His favorite substitute for “I love you,” is “I’m proud of you.” Somehow, pride is easier. It’s measurable, earned on account of my accomplishments, through all he’s taught me and all I’ve done with it. Through pride, he can dance around love. But like I said, my father is not a good dancer.
A necklace with a gear-shaped pendant and a green gemstone. Lovingly chosen from the three options my mother presented him.
Enthusiastic cheering at my cross country races. In exchange, I’d bring him a slice of the team banana bread because he felt too awkward grabbing it himself.
Lessons in driving a car, in the giant abandoned lot a mile from our house. And then in our neighborhood. And then downtown. And then on the freeway. A sincere belief in me that allowed him to stay calm when I drove up a median and when I almost hit two pedestrians. The gift of faith. Genuine, relentless faith.
Enjoyment of card games, chocolate, and non-fiction. A dislike of crowds.
A dry, cynical sense of humor that has us laughing at stupid signs in CVS while we wait for our flu shots. A Halloween-themed ad for KitKats reads, “Have a Boo Break!” What the fuck is that? It’s not a pun. It’s not a rhyme. It’s just nonsense, we lament. Seriously, what the fuck is a Boo Break?
A hug after I failed my first driving test. Because I was crying and it was required.
Patient attendance at my high school’s production of the Monty Python comedy showcase, two years in a row.
My entry fees to an annual 5k that we ran together. Not exactly together–I always beat him.
A hug after my speech at my high school graduation. Because he had seen all the work I’d put into writing it. Because I delivered it well and clearly. Because he was proud.
A letter on graduation day, which he wrote for me my freshman year. It’s the only letter I have from him that says, “I love you.” Because he knew I wouldn’t be reading it for another four years. Four years to work up the courage to watch the words land.
A college education, so I can learn things that can’t be taught at the dining table. Help with packing and moving in and assembling my new nightstand. Well wishes and a swift hug goodbye. He knew I’d do just fine.
Fancy software for my screenwriting classes.
Pride in my lineage. The ability to speak about my father with warmth and admiration. My dad says this. My dad would find that so funny. My dad wrote this song about cheese and here’s how it goes.
His peculiar form of parenting, which sees success in terms of what he gives us, not who he is, or what he does. Somehow, gifts are easier. They’re measurable. He loves to give us all he can and see what we make of it. He has relentless faith and he loves when he’s right.
A reminder to do my taxes, renew my passport, open a savings account. A flight home for the holidays. A practice interview for a job. A read of my resume or an essay I’ve been struggling with. The rare conversational text, if I text him first, or if I ask him what Porque’s full name was because I knew he’d remember even though I’d long forgotten. Computer advice. A cookie recipe. A phone call, arranged by my mother, which ends with “goodbye” and an empty moment where “I love you” lingers but never lands.
The occasional memory that makes me laugh out loud, like the way he says “thin mint” with emphasis on the “mint.”
Space to use his gifts and to find what he can’t give me. Support that’s lifted but never fully removed. Which is the highest form of “I love you” after all.
Natalie Antonia May is a sophomore in the School of Communications, double-majoring in RTVF and Political Science. Outside of class, she writes and performs comedy with Overtime, The Blackout, and Mee-Ow. She is passionate about writing across many forms and is excited to be featured in Helicon’s winter issue!
