The sharp, sulfuric scent of the geysers filled the air, mingling with the crisp, pine-scented breeze that drifted across the wooden path. It was summer in Yellowstone, and the sky overhead was a bright, unbroken blue. The ground beneath us bubbled and hissed, steam rising in sudden, ghostly bursts. I was just a kid, maybe five or six, but the surreal landscape felt like the surface of another planet, alien and dangerous.
I tried to keep up with my parents, but the narrow, creaking wooden planks we walked on felt precarious, barely wide enough to hold two feet side by side. My small hand slipped from my mother's grasp, and a wave of panic washed over me. The geothermal pools, with their strange, boiling depths, were just a step away on either side. One wrong move, one stumble, and I imagined myself plunging into that scalding abyss.
Terror gripped me. I started to cry, tears welling up uncontrollably as fear overtook any attempt at bravery. My knees wobbled, and I couldn’t take another step. The path seemed to close in on me, every creak beneath my feet feeling like a taunt from the unknown depths below.
Suddenly, strong hands lifted me from behind. My father. He scooped me up effortlessly, holding me close against his chest. His voice, normally gruff and demanding, was gentle for once.
“It’s okay, son,” he said, his tone soft yet steady. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
I buried my face against his broad shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of his aftershave mixed with sweat. In that moment, he wasn’t the imposing, fearsome figure who loomed large in my young world. He was just my dad, the one who caught me when I stumbled. It was one of those rare moments when his love felt tangible, warm, protective, and unyielding.
Yet, it was the very same hands that had, only a few months earlier, whipped me with the belt until the welts rose on my skin. That was after the fight at kindergarten. I’d gotten into a brawl with another boy, a small, wiry kid who’d been picking on me for days. I don’t remember what he said that set me off, but I remember the feeling that exploded inside me, hot, uncontrollable rage. It felt good to release it, even if only for a moment. One solid punch and the kid went down, clutching his eye, screaming in shock and pain.
I felt proud, like I’d defended myself the way I was supposed to. But that feeling vanished the moment my father found out. His face turned a shade of red I hadn’t seen before, veins bulging at his temples. He was furious, not because I fought, but because I didn’t “fight for the right reasons,” as he put it later. There was no soft embrace then, no reassuring words. Instead, he grabbed me by the arm, dragged me into the garage, and lashed me with his belt, hard and fast. Each crack of leather against skin carried a lesson he was determined to teach: strength is to be used with purpose, not recklessness.
The two memories sat side by side in my mind, like mismatched puzzle pieces. My father’s arms could be a place of solace, but they were also capable of delivering pain without hesitation. The conflicting emotions were confusing to a young boy, and it shaped how I viewed him for years. It wasn’t that I hated him,not then, anyway. But I certainly feared him. And that fear mixed with admiration in a strange, volatile cocktail of emotions I would carry well into adulthood.
He wasn’t just my father. He was a legend in our family. Born and raised on a farm in Kansas, he was built for football. Big, broad, and fast. He could have gone pro, they said. He’d been recruited by a professional team, but he turned them down with a bluntness that defined him: “I’m tired of playing football with niggers and pussies. I’m joining the military.” It was a brutal statement, a glimpse of the darkness in him, but it was how he operated, direct, without a trace of hesitation or regret. Football was a game; the military was real.
The Marines shaped him further, hardening what was already rigid. He became a drill instructor. He was the kind of man who didn’t ask for respect, he demanded it, and he got it. But beneath that rough exterior, there were flickers of something deeper, something more complex.
When my grandfather got the contract to work on the construction of Disney World in Florida around 1967, my father joined him. They did the pipeline work, laying the groundwork, literally, for what would become one of the world’s most famous landmarks. I’d hear stories of how they worked through the heat, the mosquitoes, and the swampy muck of central Florida. They were proud of that job, proud of the sweat and labor it took to help build something so grand. And when the work was done, they packed up and moved west, taking the business to California. I was four years old then, just starting to understand that my world was built on my father’s willpower and sheer stubbornness.
California was a different world from Kansas, but my father brought his discipline with him. He saw the move as an opportunity for us to “toughen up.” To him, everything was a lesson, and pain was often the teacher. He pushed me into sports, football, baseball, anything that would make me stronger. But my heart wasn’t in it. I preferred the thrill of surfing, skateboarding, the freedom of BMX bikes, and the rush of riding motorcycles.
He called them toys, sneering whenever he saw me practicing tricks in the driveway or racing down the street on my bike. “Real men don’t waste their time on toys,” he’d say, shaking his head in disapproval. But I wasn’t looking for approval. I was looking for escape, for the freedom that sports never gave me but wheels always did. I wanted to ride away from the pressure, away from the constant expectation to be something I wasn’t sure I could ever be.
But for every moment of rebellion, there were also moments of bonding, however brief. We’d go hunting together, spending hours in the woods, waiting quietly for deer that sometimes never came. Those moments were strange to me, quiet, tense, yet somehow peaceful. He’d teach me how to handle a rifle, how to track, how to be patient. He was different out there, not softer, but maybe more at peace. It was as if the wilderness brought out a side of him I rarely saw at home, a man who wasn’t shouting or demanding but just being.
When I was seven, there was a business trip to New York City that stands out in my memory. It was one of those rare times when my mother and I accompanied him. For a few days, we were tourists in the Big Apple, visiting the World Trade Center, taking a ferry to the Statue of Liberty, and staring up at the dizzying height of the Empire State Building. For a young kid from California, it felt like a trip to another planet, faster, louder, and much bigger.
One evening, after my father’s meeting, we went to a fancy restaurant. It was one of those elegant places with individual, circular booths separated by thin curtains for privacy. I remember feeling small in that big, plush booth, the soft lighting casting a warm glow over our table. The steak was thick, the service crisp, and for a moment, it felt like we were a normal family just enjoying a night out.
But the peace didn’t last long. In the booth next to us, two men and a woman were getting louder by the minute. Their voices were slurred with drunkenness, peppered with loud curses and rough laughter. My mother’s expression grew tight, and even at that age, I could sense her discomfort. My father’s face, on the other hand, was a mask of calm, unreadable, as always.
Without a word, he stood up and walked over to the adjoining booth. I remember craning my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening. My father’s voice was low and steady as he spoke to the men.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m here with my wife and young son. I’d appreciate it if you could lower your voices and watch the language.”
One of the men, his voice dripping with mockery, told my father to “go fuck himself.” The words barely had time to settle before two sharp, heavy thuds echoed through the restaurant. It was the sound of fists meeting flesh. Quick, brutal, and final. The two men slumped in their seats, knocked out cold. My father turned, and returned to our booth as if nothing had happened. He picked up his knife and fork, cutting into his steak with precise, deliberate motions.
He didn’t say a word about it, and neither did my mother. She simply sighed, and I sat there, wide-eyed and silent, unsure whether to be impressed or terrified. There was no lecture, no explanation, just my father’s unflinching demeanor, a mix of strength and ruthless resolve.
Looking back, that moment encapsulated everything about him. He was a man who demanded respect, a man who acted swiftly and decisively, and a man who made it clear that he was not to be crossed. It was both awe-inspiring and unsettling. It taught me that he was capable of defending his family with an iron fist, but it also reinforced the unpredictable volatility that defined him.
As I got older, the gulf between us widened. I became more rebellious, more determined to carve out a life that wasn’t dictated by his rules or expectations. But even as I tried to break free, I carried pieces of him with me, the toughness, the resilience, the stubborn refusal to give up, no matter how many times I got knocked down.
My father’s house always felt more like a proving ground than a home. By the summer before my senior year, that tension had reached its breaking point. I was 17, angry, and finally old enough to realize that I wasn’t going to win any battles by staying under his roof. The constant drills, the gruff orders, the suffocating expectations. I couldn’t take it anymore.
The fight that changed everything happened one hot, dry afternoon in July. I was in the garage, working on my motorcycle, a machine that symbolized everything my father despised and everything I craved. He saw me crouched over the bike, greasy hands working the carburetor, and his expression darkened immediately. He couldn’t hide his disdain.
"Why don’t you ever do something useful?" he barked, his voice carrying that familiar edge of authority. "All you ever do is mess around with these toys."
I stood up, wiping my hands on a rag, my jaw tight. I’d heard this lecture a thousand times, but that day something in me snapped.
"It’s not a toy," I shot back, my voice sharp. "It’s mine. And it’s not any less useful than whatever you think is important."
It wasn’t just the words, it was the defiance, the open challenge in my tone. He wasn’t used to it, and I could see the flash of anger in his eyes.
"Don’t you get smart with me," he growled, taking a step closer. "You’re under my roof. You do what I say."
I felt the familiar mix of fear and fury rising up, but this time I didn’t back down.
"Then maybe I won’t be under your roof anymore," I said, the words tumbling out before I could think them through. "I’m done living like this."
There was a moment of stunned silence, a pause where I could see the shock settle in his eyes. Then, without warning, he lunged forward, grabbing me by the collar of my shirt. He yanked me closer, his face inches from mine. I could feel the heat of his breath, see the veins pulsing at his temples.
"You think you can just walk out? You think you’re man enough to survive out there without me?" he snarled.
I didn’t flinch. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid of him.
"Yes," I said simply, my voice steady. "I do."
He shoved me back, the force sending me stumbling against the motorcycle. For a moment, I thought he might swing at me, that this confrontation would end the way so many others had, with his fists doing the talking. But something in my eyes must have convinced him that I wasn’t going to break this time.
"Fine," he spat, turning his back to me. "Get out, then. See how far you get on your own."
That night, I packed a duffel bag with whatever clothes I could fit and some of the money I’d saved. I didn’t take much else. There wasn’t anything in that house I felt was truly mine, except maybe the scars. As I slung the bag over my shoulder and stepped out the front door, I felt a strange mix of fear and exhilaration.
I didn’t look back.
The night I left home, I felt a mix of defiance, fear, and the overwhelming rush of freedom. The weight of my father’s shadow was behind me, and the road ahead felt open, uncertain, and dangerous. I didn’t know exactly where I was headed or how far I’d have to go to escape the past, but I knew one thing for sure: I was never going back.
I used to think the fights with my father, the abuse, were my fault. That I was just a bad kid. But as I got older, I saw it for what it really was. It wasn’t my rebellion, or restlessness, or whatever excuse I fed myself at the time. The truth was simpler, uglier: my father and I saw the world through entirely different eyes.
He was a racist. He believed in fear, in fists, in brute force over reason. He never hit my mother, sure, but he didn’t have to. He was a textbook misogynist, part of that proud, pathetic crowd that thinks women belong barefoot in a kitchen and silent at the dinner table.
Years later, I saw him for the last time. He outlived his expiration date by years. He should’ve died long before, but the stubborn old drill instructor kept his promise, he’d protect my mother until the end. When she passed, he followed five days later.
And maybe, just maybe, that's the one part of him I hope made it into me.