Saving Mr. Hebert

      One of my favorite movies is "Mary Poppins," and I've watched Julie Andrews glide over the houses on Cherry Tree Lane at least a dozen times.

        I'm also a huge Tom Hanks fan, and I own more of his movies than any other actor. So when the movie "Saving Mr. Banks" came out, I was one of the first ones in line.

        I was looking forward to seeing how movie producers coaxed Pamela Travers, the prim author of "Mary Poppins," into allowing Walt Disney to make a singing-and-dancing movie about her beloved nanny.

        As the story unfolded, I became more and more uncomfortable because the movie wasn't what I expected.

        The film wasn't about a nanny; "Saving Mr. Banks" was about Ms. Travers' life and that life was eerily similar to my childhood, a time I usually visit only on the outskirts.

        I've seen movies about alcoholic fathers and their daughters, but none resonated as deeply and as painfully as this movie because my father was so much like Travers' father and I was like Pamela.

        Just like the father in the movie, my dad spun tales of magic that delighted everyone.

        He danced on air like Fred Astaire, told jokes like the best comedian on television and, to me, was as handsome as any movie star. I loved him with all my heart and soul.

        Over time, the booze alienated most people and I realized this bigger-than-life person was the most damaged person in my life and his as well.

 

Acceptance

        My siblings and I have accepted that our father did the best he could. He stumbled a lot, hurt his children deeply, but he finally put away the booze and promised to stay sober.

        For the first few years of his sobriety, I didn't believe that he'd stopped for good. But as he stayed clean for almost 25 years, I came to understand how difficult that decision was to make and how much harder it was to keep that promise to himself and to us.

        When my dad was dying, I felt I'd forgiven him for not being the magical prince I thought him to be.

        But I never lost the anger and I didn't realize that until the closing credits of "Saving Mr. Banks" when I couldn't stop sobbing on my brother's shoulder.

        Over the next few weeks, I accepted the wounds are still there, but more importantly, I realized I was wrong.

        For so many years, I thought I'd risen above the harsh reality I had to face about my Dad and I thought I needed to forgive him.

        What I really needed was for him to forgive me for not being more accepting of his weaknesses, more supportive of his recovery and happier in his redemption.

        I cannot forget the stumbling man who came in smelling like beer nor can I forget the man who built up so many dreams for himself and then, one by one, watched them crumble to dust.

        But I can forgive, and it's about time.

        So if my father was here, I'd ask him to come with me on an adventure. Not as magical as the tales he spun for me when I was a child, but something a little more practical.  

        Let's go fly a kite, Dad, up where the air is clear and there are no recriminations, anger or blame.

        Just unconditional love and acceptance for the flawed yet unforgettable man who made me believe in the importance of two intangibles – magic and make believe.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.