If, like me, you grew up in a certain time, surrounded by a certain kind of people, you knew who the ABC’s of science fiction were. You knew that B stood for Ray Bradbury. You knew that C was for Arthur C. Clarke.
And by God, you knew that A was for Asimov. Isaac Asimov.
These weren’t the only writers we idolized in our teens; Stephen R. Donaldson’s Thomas Covenant books, for example, were big among my friends. We had Frank Herbert. We had R.A. Lafferty. These people opened our eyes to the untold riches of words and worlds, and we wanted to be writers, like them.
But Mr. Isaac Asimov held a special place in my heart, because every month a magazine came out that bore his name, and contained his thoughtful essays, along with the most wonderful fiction I’d ever read. In terms of teen idols, Asimov was mine.
And so he became a weakness that my father could exploit.
“Did you get your Asinov?” he would ask. “Are you still reading Isaac Asinov?”
Every time he said “Asinov”, I had to correct him. I desperately needed him to say Asimov’s name correctly.
He wouldn’t. It wasn’t that he couldn’t. But he wouldn’t. The rise he got from me was too good for him not to keep pressing that button.
I would correct him. He would laugh. I would correct him more insistently, and he would laugh harder, and say “Asinov” again. I would yell at him, and he would laugh so hard he could barely keep the steering wheel straight. Eventually, I would start to cry, while he continued to chuckle.
I don’t know what life lesson I was supposed to learn from this. I know that just about everything he did was about teaching me a lesson. (Remind me to tell you about the Lectures someday.)
I did learn though… that I need to be right, that you must acknowledge that I’m right, that you’d better not question my rightness without a damn good reason. That the second you contradict me I will turn on you like the dog you have kicked too many times. I will fight you until my jaws are locked around your throat, or yours around mine. I will hold a grudge until you admit I’m right, or until I can see for myself why you are.
It’s not pretty when this happens. It’s not healthy. Even knowing where this impulse comes from, I still have to fight the feeling that you will take away a piece of myself if I let you in.
My father has been dead for more than eleven years. I still hate him for these little barbs and insults, the way they have twisted me into a person I don’t want to be. The way they have twisted my teen hero’s name into a trigger that reduces me to an angry, powerless child.
I am at least halfway through my life, and I still have so much to unlearn. Is there still enough time for me to become me?
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