In fiction as in life, fathers are not cardboard cutouts: my defense of fictional fathers

A common gripe voiced this year about the freshmen curriculum is the less-than-stellar father figures in our literature. While there are some fair points to be made about the questionable nature of our fictional fathers, the statement that they're all bad is quite unfair. As we look toward the end of the week, one that honors our fathers, I thought I'd take a swing at dispelling the myth that all our books focus on awful dads. To be fair, some do. But I challenge you to think a bit more deeply about that broad statement to see if there are more redeeming qualities these dads harbor than you give them credit for.

The least defensible father appears to be Capulet from Romeo & Juliet. At first, it seems like we have a father who is ahead of his time and wishes his daughter every happiness. But by the end of Act 3, he is screaming at his daughter, wishing her to die in the streets because she won't go along with his plan to marry Paris. On this one, I'm with you. This character change has always confounded me. I can only chalk it up to Shakespeare having to move things along and add a plot twist that would make Juliet want to take her life. A bit unsatisfying if you ask me.

Five People You Meet in Heaven also includes a father with less-than-ideal tendencies. Eddie's father is displayed through his alcoholism, his short temper, and his violent outbursts. On the surface, he's not a good man and certainly not admirable. Like Eddie as an adult, his father is insecure about his lot in life. He believes his son thinks he is better than him. When we learn of the true cause of his father's death and the fall-out with Mickey, we see that there is more to this man than a violent, angry person. While his case is not compelling enough to warrant him a "good father", to write him off as purely bad--considering not only that he tried to protect his wife the night Mickey died, but also tried to save Mickey--would be a mistake.

Johnny not a good father? Bite your tongue!
(Smith 328).

Those cracks in the argument that all the fathers in the novels are bad become gradually more distinct in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.  On the surface, Johnny is the man. He's good looking, he loves to sing and dance, he's madly in love with his wife, and adores his children. But, he is also weak. Alcohol is his kryptonite. 

Yet, despite his struggles with alcoholism, we see the love his children and wife have for him. They know at his core, Johnny is a good man with a good heart. He takes time to listen to his daughter, to tell her stories--as fantastic as they may be--to teach her to dream, to apply herself, and to appreciate and respect her mother. He is constantly trying to educate his children about life, about nature, about song. He is the dreamer that makes Francie see possibilities beyond Brooklyn and a large part of what enables her to go out and seek success.

A father who shares Johnny's flaw is Ed's dad from I am the Messenger. We never get the chance to meet Ed's dad, but from the way Ed discusses his father--and the way the narrator does at the end of the novel--it is clear that his dad, like Johnny, was a good man with a serious weakness. Yet, it is his dad's weakness that ultimately makes Ed into the man he is by the end of the novel. Without a clear picture of the path he is heading down, despite the love he bore for his father, Ed knows he'd end up just like him: a drunk with wasted opportunities. It takes some prodding by his mom and the man behind the cards for Ed to find his purpose. When he does, it is clear to the reader as well as to Ed that his dad loved him and was loved in turn.

In Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, we have a few father figures we can assess. Henry's dad, much like Eddie's, is set in his ways and shuts Henry out. However, in Henry's father's case, he believes he is doing everything to give Henry the best chance at a successful life. He just doesn't realize that his definition of success is not the same as Henry's. Furthermore, he is abiding by the customs he was raised with, and has a hard time navigating this new world and its culture.

While Henry does not have the best model of a good father, he does an admirable job of trying to bridge the gap between himself and Marty. He remembers what it was like to not have the chance to make his own decisions in life and ensures that Marty will follow his own happiness. In doing so, he's able to find happiness for himself long after he believed it possible.  

Lastly, Keiko's dad is flat out amazing. We only have brief glimpses into the character, but he clearly represents the American ideal of making your life what you want it to be. He passes this belief on to Keiko. He enjoys "American" music, harbors no prejudice against the Chinese, and makes the most of his time in the internment camps. Mr. Okabe is certainly a dad to admire.

Students can see Dr. Manette evolving into a present and caring father.
photos drawn by Hannah McIntosh

While all the previous books have had a mixture of good and bad in each of the fathers, there is no denying that A Tale of Two Cities presents us with a father who is good in every sense of the word. He is a good doctor, a good citizen, a good husband, and, when finally given the chance to be, a good father. He devotes his later life to making Lucie happy--going so far as to not only forgive a wrong he'd never thought he'd be able to, but also to defend the descendant of that wrong because he could see the love between his daughter and Darnay. He knows that people are not black and white and that children should not be held accountable for the sins of their fathers.

In saving the best for last, the hasty generalization that all our fictional fathers as bad is dismantled. Hans Hubermann repeatedly puts himself at risk by standing up for injustice--painting over Jewish slurs, offering bread to a starving Jew as he marches down the street, and harboring a young Jewish man to make good on a promise. Aside from being a human that epitomizes a good man, he is the model for a wonderful father. It is Hans that allows Liesel to grow in every way imaginable. It is Hans who teaches her to read and who shows her that humans have the capacity for evil, but so many more have the capacity, and propensity, for good. He helps her grieve the loss of her family and opens her eyes and heart to love again. It is his strength that allows Liesel to keep moving forward after the bombing of Himmel Street. He is a man among men.

Everyone, real or fictional, wants to believe his or her dad is Superman--and we all do to some extent. As children, we do not believe that our dad has any weaknesses, and we can believe so fiercely in his invincibility because we're kids and do not know of all the stresses, anxieties and vulnerabilities that occupy space in his mind. It isn't until we get older, when we start to see dad as a man separate from the person who kissed skinned knees or drove the monsters from under our beds, that we can see the cracks in his armor. But just because he is human--flawed and imperfect as the word implies--he is no less a wonderful father.

Our real dads deserve accolades for the everyday feats they accomplish without armor, capes or superpowers. We recognize their human qualities and understand they're doing the best they can with the tools they have at their disposal. It is easy to condemn from afar, and much more difficult to strive for understanding--to look at the whole picture and see a person's motivations or limitations--before making our final judgment.  In the words of another great fictional father, Atticus Finch, "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...until you climb into his skin and walk around in it" (Lee). 

Dads, both fictional and real, deserve as much.

Works Cited:

Lee, Harper. To Kill a Mockingbird. Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1960. Print.

Smith, Betty. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. New York: Harper Perennial, 2001. Print.