Melodies of the Past

He strums his guitar, hums softly, and taps his foot against the soft beat of the Beatles song he is playing me while I sit, eyes closed, listening to him play my favorite song. With his salt and pepper hair, aged hands, and blue eyes, my dad picks the silver strings of his favorite acoustic guitar. It is an early Sunday morning- and just like all early mornings- I sit on our couch still in my pajamas, listening to the soft strum and hum of my dad as he plays me a song he has mastered on his guitar, smiling softly between chords.

My dad is not a man of many words or feelings. He is often cut off, reminiscing past events that haunt him to the present day. Only when he is tapping his foot to the melody he so smoothly plays, only when he is moving his fingers along those strings, and only when he has that guitar in his hands, do I ever see the side of my dad that is free and at peace.

I've always wondered about the gravity of passion. How can a man so far emotionally cut off have such a deep admiration for something inanimate? Unlocking the past he keeps so hidden within him has not been easy. Naturally, I have collected pieces and fragments over the seventeen years of being his daughter- but it hasn't come easy. I've cried hearing my mom tell me the vague stories of his twisted childhood, laughed at stories of him told to me by my grandma on our monthly visits, and listened with admiration to his musician stories his friends will so graciously share. Only rarely, do I ever hear him casually slip out a piece of his life before my mom and his kids.

The time in the car we were driving down the road, blasting Bob Dylan's "Knocking on Heaven's Door" at max, him tapping the wheel to the beat and moving his head with the melody, that he slipped out how this was his dads "serenity song", the song my dad would play when he was a boy to calm down his dad so he wouldn't hit his wife or his kids. According to my uncles who shared my dad's home life, this was a weekly occurrence. No one knows what caused his anger or why he would explode moments after being calm.

My grandpa, a man with mental health issues and serious anger problems, would come home regularly in a fit; complaining about some guy on the road whom he flipped off before exiting the highway. Music was the one way to get to him, to calm him down and have him breathe without attacking the other people around him.

I always imagined this was how my dad's admiration for music began: a comfort to him even as a kid, the only thing he knew that could make things better. Whenever my dad comes home from a stressful day, he heads inside and goes straight to his guitar room, often blasting his amps so loud we can hear it upstairs. We used to complain about the noise, but at some point in our lives, we realized it was his way of coping with the traumas of his past. I would be lying ifl said that he has always been able to control his rage. The truth is, there are clays when l am reminded of who his dad was and what he did to him.

I was twelve years old when I learned of my grandpa's "other" family. My sister was doing a project for her sociology class and was asked to make a family tree. It was this in which she discovered my grandpa's forbidden secret. It was the holidays, and like all Frank-Christmases, we were at my grandma's gathered in the living room, guitars in hand, playing holiday tunes, arguing over politics, and eating my mom's infamous cherry tarts. This was our first Christmas without Grandpa. He passed away in early September. Although he had passed, Christmas wasn't much different. My grandpa never went to holidays, birthdays, or any sort of family events. We all knew it was because he couldn't stand to be in the same room as my grandma- or maybe he wasn't allowed to be. They had divorced the year after my dad had moved out and had never spoken since. My grandpa, in the words of my dad, was a "ladies' man".The memories I have of him are limited and often contain him hitting on the nurses at his senior living home. At times, even when married, he entertained multiple women and even had a separate secret family he kept hidden until they divorced.

The year my grandpa had married my grandma, he had gotten another woman pregnant; her name was Elaine, a very sweet, kind woman who ended up with rotten luck and had six kids with my grandpa, blindingly unaware that he was endowed with another woman and family the whole time they were together.

Hearing of his other family at twelve years old made Grandpa sound like a secret spy. I imagined him working for the government and going on top-secret missions. I never fully learned the details of his other family until about one year ago. I was sixteen, attending my grandma's funeral. By this time, we were very close with this so-called "other family".

During the reception, I sat down at a table with my dad and my uncle Stewart. My uncle Stewart was one of my grandpa's kids from his "other" family. He was a very sweet and gentle man, and my dad and he, in particular, had a very special bond. They were both the youngest of my grandpa's two families and often shared experiences of growing up with my grandpa.

Sadly, Stewart's stories of my grandpa were worse than anyone would have imagined. According to Stewart, Grandpa was inherently ashamed of his second family, and when visiting, he would often abuse his wife and kids verbally, physically, and sexually. Although we know the abuse was common in his second family, the details are often very blurry and lack clarity as it's a sore subject for abuse victims to relive. Although my dad and the brothers he grew up with will entirely avoid any question surrounding abuse, I am sure of one thing; they all used music as a way to cope.

It is no coincidence that all of my dad's side of the family are musicians. From what I've collected, on both sides of my grandpa's complicated family, music was the one way to calm down grandpa. To see him for who he was, rather than what he had become.

Everyone in my family who knew my grandpa knows the look. The look my grandpa would get in his eyes before he was about to bounce off of the wall with anger. On the rare occasions that my clad would talk about him, he described it as seeing a completely different person. The kind and loving dad who taught him how to play guitar and hunt with a bow would vanish instantly. I've asked family members about this; about what could've gone wrong in my grandpa's life to turn him into the mentally ill person we knew him to be.

Often, in families where abuse is apparent, it turns into a generational cycle and usually spirals into ongoing traumas. I've always wondered if music was the bridge between breaking that cycle.

After all of this, I would love to say that my dad is a perfect man when it comes to angerbut that hasn't always been the case. He's had his days where he comes home screaming endlessly, he's left the house without returning for nights on end, and at times, has strnggled to maintain his "cool" composure around the company. I've noticed the switch in him. When he goes from cool and collected to looking at you like an enemy. I often wonder if it's the same look his dad used to get with him; a mirror reflecting a past he tries too hard to hide.

Although my dad has had moments of anger, he and the rest of my uncles have done their best to recognize and escape the cycle of abuse. If anything, I think music is my dad's attempt to break the cycle of abuse that surrounded him as a kid. Whether I'm right or wrong doesn't matter, the importance is in all the songs he has strummed, the endless hours he spends in his guitar room, and the role that music plays in his life.

As for me, I know that kids often express their emotions in the same way their parents do. I've caught myself yelling without reason. I've caught myself lashing out at people who did nothing wrong. And I've most certainly had days where I shut down without explanation. My goal from what I've learned about my very complicated family is to continue breaking that cycle of abuse. To be an example of change, rather than repetition. I, just like the rest of my family, have found comfort in music. Through this, I aim not only to heal myself but to inspire others that change is always possible.

Acknowledgements

I would like to express my utmost gratitude to my father for inspiring my paper and being such an impactful role model within my life. His experiences not only fueled my paper but taught me valuable life lessons. Through his unwavering support, I was able to write about something that withheld meaning to both me and possibly other readers. Hopefully this piece can encourage and inspire. Thank you, Dad, for always inspiring the best version of myself.