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I Never Wanted to Visit My Parents’ Work Prison
How to redefine the concept and value of work
As a kid, I saw grown-up jobs as a cluster of hideous monsters waiting to gobble me up. I thought “careers” equaled drone-like masses who finally gave up on their dreams. I could only comprehend that work took my affable Dad away for far too long, and it returned him home dusted with dull anger.
My stay-at-home Mom often threatened me with the ubiquitous “Just wait until your father gets home from work.” My cheeks would burn, and my tummy knot — my Dad, in his first hour home, resembled the “Job monsters” I feared.
My siblings and I knew we needed to leave my Dad alone until he “unwound.” If I dared bother my Dad before, I knew his anger and stress would seep like vapor into my pores. Once Dad had sat back, comfortable in his Lazy-Boy recliner and lit a Merit Menthol, I knew my “real” Dad had returned. I could approach him with anything.
In my Dad’s defense, he spent the first thirteen years of my life working a high-security level clearance position for the Federal Government. He refused to expand on details about his day, but his constant disheveled hair and scowl when he returned home belied the misery and stress he experienced. My mellow Dad — who made strangers laugh and friends shine in the glow of his…
