My father, a Godlike Iceberg
A story about hiding, crying, and acting out of character
After my dad passed away I started writing stories about our relationship and what it was like to take care of him as his Alzheimer’s got worse. At the time, I thought it could be a future book. 3 drafts later, I decided to put it away for a while. I wasn’t ready yet.
When I sent the 3rd draft to friends, all the feedback said this was their favorite part. It’s crazy to read this again after 4ish years.
I never thought my dad had any secrets. For most of my childhood I never even thought of him as a real person. I mean, I knew he existed. He wasn't like Big Foot or Santa Claus. We lived in the same house and ate dinner together. He was just a flat, one note character. He was Dad. It never occurred to me that he had a past or a favorite movie. He was just Dad.
I still don't know my dad's favorite movie, but I know mine. It's Big Fish. I know you didn’t ask, but I wanted to tell you about it. The plot centers around a man visiting his hometown to say goodbye to his dying father. In one scene the son is trying to tell his dad why he's been so frustrated with their relationship. He's never been good at communicating with him so he tries for a metaphor.
"The thing about icebergs is you only see 10%, the other 90% is bellow the water where you can't see it. That's what it is with you, dad. I'm only seeing this little bit that sticks above the water." My dad was an iceberg, too.
How crazy would it have been to be the first person to discover that there was so much more to icebergs. You’d never suspect there could be so much hidden under the surface. It doesn’t make sense. It looks like something out of a movie. How could it be so big? How does it float? Generation after generation probably assumed there was nothing down there. It would be easy to trick yourself into thinking that what you see is what you get.
The same was true with my dad. I thought the little I saw was all there was. Every time I learned something new about him it was thrilling, if not a little scary. There’s more?! My brain could barely comprehend.
One Christmas my family was swapping funny stories in he car and my dad told me about how he would steal money from his siblings as a kid. He was the oldest of four, and as the big brother he would decide what the kids would get their parents for Christmas. At the beginning of December he’d tell his brothers and sister how much they all needed to pitch in to buy the gift, and every year he’d lie about how much it cost and pocket the rest. Even though the story made me laugh (it’s a crafty movie), there was a part of me that couldn’t get over the fact that this story revealed something new about my dad. That he was dishonest? He pulled pranks on his siblings? No. More basic than that: My dad was a kid once? But I thought he was just dad. He wasn’t born a baby, had a childhood, and grew up. He just showed up on Earth in his 40s with a goatee and glasses.
My mom once met a woman who was in a Sunday school class my dad taught when he was younger (my dad taught Sunday school?!). She told my mom how scared she was to speak up in class. My dad was an iceberg and the parts of himself he allowed to peak out above the water were the parts that made him appear as intimidating as possible. He wanted to present himself as the smarted person in the room. My mom thought this was so funny because she really knew him. There was no room for mystery. Their marriage had drained the water and there was nowhere for the iceberg to hide. The rest of us knew what he wanted us to know, which was very little.
I totally get what that lady meant, though. I was scared of my dad most of my life. He never hit or screamed at me. He wasn’t nasty or abusive. He was just strategic in how he presented himself. He was intelligent and intimidating. He could use his quick wit and sarcasm to put people down and keep them at a distance. He could be a little mean. He was the wizard of Oz: large, imposing, slightly disinterested, and pyrotechnics went off when he was angry. Big green head. The usual.
The wizard of Oz is probably the best example of a human iceberg in film. Before you know he’s just a man hiding behind a curtain, you think he’s this godlike powerful being. He’s a big ol’ floating head and nothing else. You can’t imagine him being happy or sad, or having his feelings hurt. When you think of icebergs you picture something imposing, something you don’t want to mess with. It’s unchanging, sturdy, almost indestructible. That’s how I saw my dad. I didn’t think anything I could say or do would affect him. I would always be the Titanic, and if I messed with him, I was the only one going down.
One time as a kid I called my dad lazy. I had asked for help with my computer several times that Saturday and after the third time he said he’d do it later, I tossed an insult over my shoulder on my way back to my room.
“You’re so lazy,” I let out with a sigh.
It was more for me than it was for him. I wasn’t even sure if he heard it.
That night my parents went out to dinner, and when they got home my mom wanted to talk to me. She told me I hurt my dad’s feelings. What I said stuck with him and he couldn’t stop talking about it the whole meal.
I know for some of you this is going to sound ridiculous but I’m dead serious when I say this blew my mind. My dad has feelings? And I hurt them? That didn’t sound possible. Of course, I knew I had feelings, so did my mom and sister. But my dad too? There was nothing about our interactions that would have hinted at the possibility.
You’ll notice the pivotal role my mom played in that story. It wasn’t my dad who came to my room after dinner to tell me how he felt, it was my mom who passed on the secret. For most of my life, she was my inside man, the spy who would report from behind enemy lines. In our private conversations she’d fill in some of the gaps of understanding who my dad was.
I thought my family dynamic was normal, nothing to complain about. Growing up, I had friends who didn’t even know their dads, so clearly I was fine. In college I started making friends with people who talked about their dads like they were actual friends. What? That’s allowed? People do that? Someone would tell me they were getting lunch their dad and I would be so confused. You’re choosing this? For fun? What do you even talk about? I only knew my dad through my mom. She was like the high priest for the house, the only one who had access to the holy of holies. I wasn’t clamoring for a chance to go in myself. In the Old Testament, before the temple was built, God’s presence rested on the ark of the covenant. There’s a story where the Israelites carrying the ark lose their balance and one of them unintentionally handles the ark wrong and he dies. The presence was to intense and it killed him. I had a moment like that in high school with my dad. The ark opened and I thought my face was going to melt off.
My senior year of high school I was the lead actor in our one act play competition. Picture high school football, now replace all the athletes with dorks. Instead of uniforms, we’re wearing old age make up. Instead of a game, a bunch of schools come together to perform short plays they’ve worked on all semester. Instead of packing the stands with the marching band, cheerleaders, and the whole student body on a Friday night, we’re performing in front of half empty auditoriums of scattered parents and the disinterested students from the other schools who wanted to scope out the competition. Or at least that’s how things were my first three years competing.
It just so happened that not a single sports team from my school was good my senior year. No one else advanced in competition except the theatre kids. We were winning awards left and right. I won best actor at every competition (no big deal). We advanced to state, the highest level, which was something our school hadn’t done in almost a decade. All of the pent-up energy the school normally reserved for sports had nowhere else to go, so they aimed it at us. It was like one day someone said Wait, we have a theatre department? And they’re good this year? I guess we’ll treat this like it’s the most important competition in the world. WE LOVE THEATER AND WE ALWAYS HAVE!
Everyone thought it was a big deal except for me. I didn’t like how much weight people were giving it. I kept myself at a distance, denying the excitement. All I cared about was performing. I know how dumb that sounds. I do it for the love of the art! Shut up. But it wasn’t out of principle or anything. Yes, I only cared about performing, but I didn’t care that much. At every competition I was confident we were going to lose. Every time I won best across (which was every time…oh, did I already mention that?) I threw the medal on the roof of my school. I didn’t want it. I didn’t care. We weren’t that good.
It was weird to suddenly have people paying attention to us. The whole school got out of class to see us off as we took a bus to Austin, Texas to perform at state. They waved goodbye, wished us luck (or broken legs), and the whole time it was obvious that no one really cared. They just didn’t have anything else to root for.
State was held at the University of Texas in a theatre a whole lot bigger and nicer than anything we had been in before. We arrived a day early to check in and unload all of our set. Everyone working the event looked utterly disinterred. The large older man in charge watched us like a hawk, as if he hoped to find a reason to disqualify anyone so the event could be over faster. The volunteer college students working backstage looked ready to dismiss these silly little high school actors as amateur. I don’t blame them. Most schools tried to be dark, artsy, and edgy with their performances. I can’t imagine having to spend the weekend watching play after play of kids in the middle of puberty yelling and kissing and staring off into darkness, hoping they’re doing something profound. We were one of the only comedies that year. There was nothing serious about our show. We just wanted to make people laugh.
Even though I rolled my eyes at so much of the hype that surrounded everything, performing at state was one of the coolest experiences.
By the time we got to state we had performed our show at least two hundred times. You do it over and over in rehearsal, and the further you get in the competition, the longer you have to keep rehearsing. Eventually you stop having to think about what you’re doing. The play becomes muscle memory. Every line, every move, every costume change is in your bones.
Since my body was on auto-pilot, my mind was free to take everything in. I’d be in the middle of a frantic costume change before rushing back out for a sword fight, and while my body was busy going through the motions, I could watch the college students, who looked so bored a day earlier, giving our show their full attention. They were grinning from ear to ear, laughing at our silly jokes. I could feel the intensity of the crowd laughing together. In the moment, I was willing to admit how cool it all was.
We were the last school to perform, and when we finished we changed out of costumes to gather back together for the awards ceremony. The rush I got from the performance was wearing off so I was back to being annoyed by the whole thing. Everyone from our school sat together, cast and crew, parents, teachers, and other students there to show support. I didn’t think we would win and I didn’t care one bit. The show was enough for me.
I want to make it clear that I’m not trying to sound cool by how little I was invested in our success. That’s not what this was. I was annoyed by how much attention we got. I didn’t enjoy the compliments, awards, or spotlight. It made me feel bad. So when they announced I won best actor, I was more focused on how silly everyone looked when they stood and cheered. Then we won first place. The crowd went wild. I look at the people in our section who weren’t even a part of the show. They were screaming like we just won World War 2. Why do you care so much? I wanted to ask. This isn’t that big of a deal.
After the award ceremony, our cast stood outside theater waiting for our families. My parents came to every show. I knew we’d probably talk few a minute before they started the long drive home. Thanks for coming and all that.
I saw my dad emerge from the exit and I could already tell something was wrong. He looked shaken. Were his eyes red? Was he alright?
What is happening?
I’m sure there was a lot of noise.
I’m sure there were a ton of people.
I’m sure we were surrounded by all sorts of commotion and chaos.
I’m sure my mom was there, too, and we probably shared a nice moment.
But I don’t remember any of that.
Before I knew it, my dad was hugging me, squeezing me like he thought the more intense the hug, the more I would know he meant it. Have I ever seen my dad like this? I could hear him fighting back tears. My dad cries?
“I love you. I’m so proud of you.”
I don’t fully remember what happened after we pulled away from our hug. I must have made up some excuse to step away for a minute. All of the other parents were there so my mom and dad probably moved over to talk to them as they waited for me to come back. I quietly made my way to the alley behind the theatre. I sat down on the ground. And I cried. Hard. A lot.
It was the most human I had ever seen my dad. It was a sensory overload. I had to stay hidden in that alleyway for at least a half an hour to pull myself together.
What did he just say? He loves me? He’s proud of me? My brain couldn’t handle it. It was like if you traveled back in time and showed Star Wars to someone from the 1800s. Their brain would explode.
It wasn’t just hearing it, but feeling it from him that felt so new. I felt his body shaking as we hugged. He was vibrating with love.
I had never heard my dad choked up before. I had no clue what he would sound like fighting back tears. He did that thing where you whisper what you’re trying to say, like if you spoke any louder you’d wake up the tears and they’d come rushing. His voice was wavering. It was clear this wasn’t him trying not to start crying, but trying not to start crying again. He wanted to take a timeout from being emotional to tell me he was proud of me and he loved me.
My dad gets emotional?
My dad gets emotional about ME?
If this were a movies this scene would come at the end. It would be the big feel good finale. The hero wins and finally gains the love and approval of his father. The audience would stand up and cheer in the theatre. It’s what he’s always wanted, they’d shout.
But that’s not how this story was playing out in my head. This wasn’t me getting what I always wanted, because I didn’t know I needed this! I thought I didn’t care. All throughout the competition people were telling us how great we were doing, and how proud they were. I blew it off. I didn’t care about the medals. I thought I didn’t care if anyone noticed us. But on the pavement behind that theatre, the truth was leaking out of my eyes. I did care. I just cared about one person.
If you had asked me before that night if I thought my dad loved me, I would have said yes, of course he does. I knew that. The same goes for him being proud of me. But if you had asked me when was the last time I heard him say those things, I wouldn’t have had an answer. I would have told you I was sure he had, I just couldn’t remember an exact moment. Sitting in the dark behind the theatre, trying to process what I had just heard, I started to think maybe that was the first time. He’s proud of me? My dad cries? My dad says ‘I love you?’
In the garden, the serpent tells Eve that the real reason God doesn’t want them to eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil is because it would make them like God. What a temptation! It’s a goal that motivates so many terrible decisions in the Bible. There’s a deep desire to be just like him, but not in a What-would-Jesus-Do sort of way. It’s more about not needing God because you’ve convinced yourself that you’re enough like him to get by on your own.
Think of the attributes of God that we talk about the most. He’s all knowing, all powerful, the same yesterday, today, and forever. He does not change. You can trick yourself and others into thinking the same things are true about you. It’s simple, really. Just avoid vulnerability. Live like an iceberg. That’s ultimately what you’re doing. You want to appear like you are unchanging, like there’s no need for growth, so you keep all that stuff bellow the surface. You only show the strongest and most constant parts of yourself in hopes that people think that’s all that’s there. Hide when you’re confused, when you’re lost, when you feel out of control.
When I saw my dad cry, I saw him vulnerable. I saw that he can be affected by what’s happening around him. I don’t fully know his motivation for living like an iceberg, but if it was to appear godlike, it worked. That’s why it was always such a shock to learn something new about my dad. I thought he was the same all throughout time, completely self-contained, not needing anything from anyone.
As I’ve gotten older, it’s become more and more clear that I am my father’s son. I’ll catch myself sitting like him, or I’ll hear his voice in the way I respond to my mom. I’ll make the same types of jokes, and sometimes they’ll come across meaner than I intended, just like my dad. I can be sarcastic. I can cut people down. I can work really hard to control how people see me.
Even when I don’t want to, I can keep people at a distance. It’s a play I’ve rehearsed a thousand times, the movements are in my bones, and I can go through the motions without thinking. A friend can ask a personal question and before I have time to think of how I want to respond, my muscle memory takes over and I make a joke to dodge the question entirely. I can change the subject without anyone noticing I’m deflecting. Sometimes I feel like I’m having an out of body experience, hovering over myself, screaming down at my body on autopilot. What are you doing? Tell the truth! I wonder if my dad ever felt the same way. Maybe he didn’t want to be an iceberg anymore but he didn’t know how to stop.
You know what’s crazy? I can’t remember a single line from that play we did my senior year. I spent months rehearsing that show. Toward the end, we were probably running it 3 times a day, every day. I could have done it in my sleep. But then one day we stopped doing the show and said goodbye. I graduated and went off to college and did new shows. Learned new lines. Found new muscle memories. Looking back, the show feels like it’s from a completely different life.
There’s hope in that for me.
You can learn a new part to play.
When my dad’s Alzheimer’s intensified, we swapped roles. I was the caretaker and he was the one needing care. We learned to talk to each other differently. I saw sides of him I never did before. I saw sides of myself as a caretaker I didn’t know were there.
The good news is we are more than stuck. We are all full of surprises.
There is more to everyone than what they want us to see. There is more to everyone than what we want to see.
Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. Freedom to act out of character. Out of the old character and into the new.
I treasure the memory of the time my dad acted out of character.
Love you like a neighbor,
Taylor Johnson