An Army Of One- Revised

The man before me was once a rough drill instructor reaching the rank of E8 in the Army. At 5ft. 10in., he was thin, he seemed to be made of iron, and standing so straight you felt you would cut yourself if you touched him. Born in 1929 and raised in the Bayous of Mobile, Alabama he was the oldest of three sons. His raven black hair was always short. He had piercing black eyes that looked right into your soul. His thick Cajun accent was hard to understand.

This man is Emanuel Petite, my Father. Watching him sleeping now, so peaceful and still I find it hard to believe he is the man who raised me. The Army was Daddy's life. He joined up at 16 just missing the Korean conflict by two years. His one-track mind sometimes made me crazy. I remember his strength and find it hard to relate it to this man before me. His temper is still horrible; if he is provoked, he can be truly mean. Not a man of many words, not able to express feelings well. Being his daughter was hard and lonely. I don't go for all that silly mushy crap, he would say. Hugs and kisses or a word of encouragement was missing in our home.

As the oldest of four boys and a sister, I remember the most. Daddy was a hard drinking man, he loved to drive fast and live hard. He loved to scare us half to death, finding our terror and tears funny. Dad and Mom had horrible fights; most of the time we got in the way and one of us would get hurt. Our escape was under beds or behind furniture.

Life as an Army brat was life on the move. We never stayed in one place longer than a year. Daddy was gone during big chunks of my life. Either on maneuvers or during one of his four tours to Vietnam. Each time he went to Nam, he was gone 18 months or more. I remember him as someone to fear, admire and love from a distance. Daddy was a mystery man, I was scared of him not because of the abuse we suffered, it was just that I did not know the man who sired me.

Daddy retired in 1975 when I was 15. His drinking continued to worsen as did the fights between him and Mom. My siblings and I were like shadows moving in a hurricane. If you got to close to the wind you paid the price, so we learned early to keep our distance.

As he lies dying, I find myself drifting back to that scared little girl who only wanted her Daddy's love. Helping Mom care for him has been hard. Watching him go from what he was to this frail injured thing is testing my sanity. I always thought Daddy would remain the strong man I feared. Now seeing what drinking and smoking has done to him, I just can't relate the two men. The night before he passed, he called me to his bed and told me he was proud of me and he loved me. He never said he was sorry but that was OK, knowing he loved me was enough. I told him I loved him to and always had. He got that look he gets when confronted with emotions and looked away, but I did see a hint of a smile and it warmed my heart.

The next morning surrounded by his family, he passed from this life into the unknown. That was seven years ago, my siblings and I are still healing and each of us has our demons to deal with. I have forgiven him the physical abuse I suffered my young life. The emotional abuse I still struggle with. His children are still trying to reach the light at the end of the long tunnel of our youth. I cry for the man he was the man he became but mostly for the man he could have been if he had opened his heart to the children who loved him so.

In the end, the only thing we can do is make the best of whatever situation we find ourselves in. My rise above my raising has been my greatest achievement and my greatest joy.