What My Father Doesn't Say

Tonight I finally got to watch Father Steinbecker onstage and in his element. He was playing a blind and very drunk Irishman. I've seen this particular play four times now, the first three times being four years ago when he played the same role. This is a revival. And good lord, is it great. I'm going to gush about him now.

The stage is his tool, and he is an expert craftsman. Sorry, that last sentence sounds a bit stuffy and pompous, but it is the honest-to-goodness truth. He is the best. I am in awe every time I see him onstage. His acting actually makes me emotional. I don't cry or anything-I rarely cry in the theatre-but when I watch my father act I get an overwhelming feeling of "oh wow, that is beautiful." Yes, he's my dad and I love him, but I also respect him as an actor.

What I find the most interesting about going to the theatre to watch my father perform is his biography in the program. I have learned more about his educational and professional backgrounds by piecing together information from various playbills than I have from actually talking to him. This isn't because he is inclined to keep his past a secret, it's just because we never talk about that. Mostly we exchange cynical comments about the state of the nation. Honestly, I think we need to host our own talk show.

I'm going to have my father as a teacher next year. I will be in his American Literature Honors class. The curriculum is going to be tough, but that is not what I am concerned about at this point. I am worried as to what he will say (or refrain from saying) when I am in his classroom. The juniors taking his class right now tell me that he says the most profound things and gives the greatest life advice. They've provided examples that shake me.

"At one point or another in your life, you will fall in love with someone who cannot love you back."
"We continually return to the places, the people, that hurt us the most. I suppose you could say we haunt them."

I worry that I am not ready to hear these words come out of my father's mouth. They are words of pain that I am sure have a story to them. But whatever the story is, I will never know it.

After all, that is not the kind of thing you publish in a playbill.

My father is a good man. He is a talented, literary, educated, well-dressed man. He is a man who understands. He is a man who does not say everything, but he is a man who does not lie.

My father is an actor.