In My Father’s Name
Recently, while reading Andrew C. Sparkes’s chapter Poetic Representations, Not-Quite Poetry and Poemish, I encountered three poems exploring the relationships between fathers and sons across generations.
The first, Watching a Script Unfold, describes a father watching his young son play football, only to recognise something of his own father in himself. To follow is an excerpt from that poem—the ending—that particularly touched my soul.
Embodied memories connect my flesh to him.
In shared movement, in sinews, masculinities crystallize.
Him-I-he-me-we-touching trajectories in time and space.
Standing back from the other parents, not shouting, I watch.
A ghost brushes against me.
My skin shivers.
This script has been lived before.
My father
Standing back from the other parents,
not shouting.
Watching me.
Andrew C. Sparkes (2020, p. 47)
There was something about the merging of generations, the repetition, and the sudden recognition of his father in his own actions that I found incredibly moving.
But it was the final poem, Only Touch, written following his father’s death, that brought tears to my eyes. Although the circumstances were vastly different, the words capture my own experience with breathtaking accuracy.
Only Touch
In the end
At the end
There is only touch
The holding of hands
The gentle kissing of faces
The hugging of bodies
All beyond words
Speaking through flesh
Of love, life and letting go
Andrew C. Sparkes (2020, p. 48)
I found myself thinking about the last time I saw Apuci before he died. I remember holding his hand that one last time. Due to having aphantasia, I do not recall what his hands looked like. However, when I close my eyes, I recall what they felt like. Mercifully, what they felt like when he was healthy and strong—and not those final months as he slowly succumbed to the ravages of cancer.
I hadn’t intended to explore this particular part of my life in Threads of Exile. Yet here I was, reading another researcher’s poetry and suddenly revisiting memories and relationships that I hadn’t anticipated would become part of this research.
It made me wonder about the relationships between the women whose stories I am exploring and their own parents. I wonder whether Ünnepi spoke about her parents in any of the recordings (which I am yet to listen to). I don’t believe she was particularly close to either of them, but how did their deaths affect her? Did she grieve? Was there sadness, regret, relief, or perhaps something altogether different?
I carry stories about my grandparents’ deaths, along with my own recollections of events. But I wonder what stories Anyuci will share (or choose not to share) about her own relationships with her parents. Sure, we have talked about their respective deaths, but we have never really spoken about the emotional impact their loss had on her (if any).
It’s interesting, isn’t it, how differently we can experience the loss of people who occupy such significant positions in our lives? Perhaps grief is shaped not simply by the relationship itself, but by what that relationship meant to us, what it gave us, what it denied us, and what remained unresolved.
And then there is my own experience.
Apuci’s death profoundly changed my understanding of the world and my sense of self. It was the catalyst for reclaiming my maiden name, long before my marriage ended. I wanted to stay connected to him. But I also felt lost, like I didn’t belong.
Although I was married, I didn’t always feel anchored in the family identity that came with my married name. Reclaiming my maiden name cemented a sense of belonging. It was a way of holding on to my connection with Apuci, but also of reclaiming something of myself at a time when I felt profoundly unanchored.
In hindsight, I wonder whether my decision was understood in the way I intended. Perhaps what felt like an affirmation of connection and belonging to me was perceived by others as a rejection of something else. I cannot know how others interpreted that decision, but I do know what it meant to me. I wasn’t trying to distance myself from anyone. I was trying to find my way back to myself.
A surname is more than a collection of letters. It carries connections to people, places, histories, and identities. Sometimes, reclaiming a name is also a way of reclaiming ourselves.
And now, years later, I find myself wondering how the women before me navigated their own experiences of parental loss. Did their understanding of themselves change when their parents died? Did those deaths bring grief, freedom, regret, or a complicated mixture of emotions? Were there things left unsaid, relationships left unresolved, or connections they sought to preserve?
Perhaps these questions will find their way into Threads of Exile. Perhaps they won’t.
What interests me most, at this moment, is how unexpectedly they emerged. I was reading about poetic inquiry, exploring how poetry might become part of my research methodology. Yet somewhere between Sparkes’s words and my own memories, the research became something else.
A poem about a father’s death brought me back to my own. From there, I found myself reconsidering a decision I made years ago, recognising meanings and possible consequences that I hadn’t fully articulated before.
Perhaps this is what it means to engage in autoethnographic research. To follow the unexpected threads, even when they lead somewhere you hadn’t intended to go.
And perhaps this is what poetry can do.
It can bring us back to moments we thought we understood, only to discover that there is still more meaning to be made.
Reference
Sparkes, A. C. (2020). Poetic representations, not-quite poetry and poemish: Some methodological reflections. In E. Fitzpatrick & K. Fitzpatrick (Eds.), Poetry, method and education research: Doing critical, decolonising and political inquiry (pp. 41–50). Routledge.
