“Smurfs,” by Seth Fischer

Sometime in 1983, a rogue photographer caught me covering my father with tiny plastic Smurfs. This transgression was so incredible to me when I made the photo album—by the looks of the tortured D’Nealian cursive, probably eight years later—that I wrote “I can’t believe dad let me” right below the photo.

It’s no surprise I couldn’t believe it. Dad is no fan of being the butt of shenanigans. Sure, he’ll put napkins on his head and call it a hat with the best of them, and when I was little, he was always down for a tickle war (as long as he won), but you should see the fight he puts up when my younger sister tries to boop his nose.

Really, though, what’s important is that this was not a good time in any of our lives: my parents were separating, my mom was mid-job search, my dad was up for tenure. I still hear the fights in that house sometimes, all these years later; because of the heating vents, I heard every word. Soon, I’d be bouncing back and forth between their houses, moving more than an Army brat, never feeling like I had a real home until, at the age of 15, I told my Dad I wouldn’t be moving anymore, the same year his parents died, his best friend committed suicide, and he had twins.

I broke his heart that year. Continue reading →