The last time I wrote about the Emperor, I speculated that my aversion to the card stemmed from my own issues with authority figures. Fair enough! This time around I have decided to tackle the matter head on, and write about a person who encapsulates everything Emperor-esque and and has been nearly as active an engineer of my own psychology as I have. Ladies and gentleman, meet my father.
The Emperor is sort of the Ur-father. The great cosmic paternal figure who is both wise and ferocious, the one we're desperate to earn the respect of but whom we also wish to behead and supplant. In many families this primal instinct is kept hidden from sight, in the interest of maintaining the established order -- it's not considered socially acceptable to bare one's fangs and swipe at the dominant male, even though that's a natural and important rite of passage.
My dad is also sort of the Ur-father, and that's what makes him such an apt choice for this card (instead of just a really self-indulgent one). We're about as different as two men can be. Dad grew up on a farm and has made a living from guns, knives and meat for as long as I've been alive. These days he's a semi-retired motorbiking kind of dude with a handlebar mustache; the picture above was taken when he was about the age I am now, when we were all on a summer vacation visit to his parents' ranch in Montana. It was a three day drive from Arizona, punctuated with the very best that America's roadside inns and rustic pancake cabins had to offer, and for my sisters and I, this glimpse of wilder world was the highlight of our year. I realize now that it was a chance for my dad to see his childhood home through a whole new set of eyes -- not those of a embattled and frustrated son, but of a proud husband and father.
I keep this photo framed in my house, and whenever anyone comments on it, I say "That's my dad!" and then revel in their astonishment. In truth, Dad is just playing in front of the camera like we all do, throwing out an self-aware Marlboro Man sneer to show us how well he can assume the tough-guy-with-a-beer pose. This isn't National Geographic, and he is not a brooding gorilla captured in his natural habitat; this is a family cookout and he's clowning around with his similarly "all grown up" siblings while their collective children wear themselves out racing around and pushing each other on the frisbee swing. To my delight, my fellow effete and clean-shaven New Yorkers drink in this photo unquestioningly, regarding it as an artifact from the vast, mysterious world West of New Jersey where all men look like this.
I was not an easy son for a person like my father to raise. He's the product of a lifestyle that's designed to mill out dutiful, capable young people like freshly stamped coins, and I seemed to resist the imprint no matter how many times I was struck. I was a late bloomer, shy and creative and bookish and not always particularly boyish. As I grew older and found my voice, I wanted to argue and debate everything; I felt our household should more of a democracy. My father's upbringing wouldn't permit him to accept anything less than a monarchy. There was uprising, terrorism, defection, the imposing of sanctions. By acting the oppressed revolutionary, I forced Dad to assume the same Emperor role that his own father had bitterly shouldered many years before. What must that have felt like when he realized that? Eventually I moved out, under ugly circumstances that guaranteed it would be years before we could have a conversation that wasn't predicated on warfare.
This is the cycle of life for most men, and it sucks, and being aware of it somehow doesn't keep us from repeating and perpetuating it. My father and I each seem to have adjusted to these hard facts over time, and this combined with healthy geographic distance (same continent, different worlds) have allowed us to build a new respectful and caring relationship -- the fact that I now catch myself taking it for granted shows you just how far we've come. We try not to touch the past, and when we do, it's with special ceremonial gloves, the kind you only wear in front of visiting dignitaries.
As children do, I secretly absorbed everything I was ever exposed to, learning all the plays even if I failed to execute the correct maneuvers at the time. There are times -- socially, but especially at work -- when I have had to become my father. It's like casting a spell, donning a magical cloak that changes my voice and stature, and it seems to unlock abilities that I never knew I inherited. If anything, that's what this card has come to mean to me -- a power that's written into our brains and bones which can be summoned (and abused) at will, no matter how seldom we rely on it.
Summary only...
