Dad Defines Organic

My father doesn't like anything organic on principle. I'm not quite sure he fully understands why, or what organic really means. It has the word “organ” with the suffix of “ic” so I wonder if he is under the assumption that organic beef refers to 'ic'-y cow organs, i.e. sloppily carved aortas dangling like wilted tomato vines from a drippy, bloodied heart.
Maybe I should say, “Dad, 'organic' does not refer to mashed up body parts,” and maybe he would say, “Really? Then let's ship out to Whole Foods! I hear they got a special on organic free-range chicken breasts!”
But free-range is another word that seems to get his panties all in a twist. I think he envisions giving chickens civil rights, or loaded shot guns and bullseyes they are encouraged to pin on any available farm hand. “You wanna let those damn chickens take over the White House?! What are you, on drugs?!”
His scorn even extends to milder food forms, such as produce. My mom bought dried cinnamon apple slices from Traverse City today and when he stumbled upon them in the pantry he called them banana poops.
I'm not sure why he is so allergic to the idea of agricultural fair play. This is a property developer (i.e. landlord) who has cut down the rent for his commercial properties just to keep his tenants afloat in this choppy economy, a man who refuses to let any Starbucks, Subway or McDonalds sneak its way onto Main Street. A man who buys all his Christmas gifts for his wife from Alex Gulko, the local jeweler, and 16 Hands, a novelty items store that has sold weirdly painted felt dolls for generations to confused Ann Arborites. A man who earned $120,000 at Ford Motor Company fresh out of his MBA program, eager to pave his way up the highway of the automotive industry, but took a detour and came back home after 2 years because he “just couldn't stand working for greedy, immoral men.”
You can't reject something until you completely understand it. My dad found out more than he wanted to about his bosses indiscretions with Detroit hookers and the misanthropic lay-offs of blue collar workers with oil grease and the imprint of car parts still etched across their strong, poor palms. My dad didn't see too much-- he saw just enough to make the educated, and morally right, choice to leave a place that was doing such wrong.
He left and started working with his hands. Started getting dirty in the basement, busting old PVC pipe and laying new foundations. He'd never held a hammer before, much less swung it, but he learned fast and once he saw something done, he never forgot it. He never forgot the hands of those blue collar men and when he heaved up a side of dry wall or hung onto the top rung of a tippy ladder to re-shingle a roof I wonder if he thought about those men, sweating and grunting and hurling and hurting through a days work so their bosses, whom they never saw, could take business lunches at five star restaurants and get drunk off of $500 bottles of wine.
My father is a self-made man and he believes our country is better off for encouraging men and women like him to make it. He believes in putting in an honest days work, taking care of his community, and fighting for small business.
Which is why now I'm the one confused over phonetics. Banana poops?
I guess I just want him to understand why I've fully rejected something. He doesn't realize how much of my childhood was spent marveling over the super-hero figure he embodied-- hurtling through the world in his rust-bucket truck, at the quick with his tool belt and measuring tape. This super-hero idolatry has eased into a milder, more profound sense of awe and respect at the fair, just and optimistic man whom I am lucky enough to call my father. I learned many a hard lesson from him, and we've had our share of battles (it's hard to demand an extended curfew, let alone permission to date, from a man who looks like a Greek Arnold Schwarzenegger and can wield power tools with surprising dexterity), but I have always taken to heart his credo to understand first, and judge second.
And so I did. I may have a pierced nose and a more lenient shower-taking policy than those who were raised in the uber-conservative 50s, but my progressive beliefs are not un-founded. I've read everything from Upton Sinclair to Fast Food Nation to all those “touchy-feely” (to borrow Dad's words) homeopathic magazines and while I know enough now to realize there is much more to learn, I feel it is safe to say that my decision to eat organically is morally (not to mention gastronomically) right. Perhaps us “liberals” need to re-frame the organic image, because we aren't all wishy-washy hippies who smoke pot and play in the dirt. Perhaps, to reach those staunchly fair and American men and women such as my dad, we need to re-frame this as a battle between the old guard versus the new, the common men against the Man, right versus wrong. Because, well, I like my banana poops, dammit, and I hope one day my father and I can enjoy mashed-up “organ-ic” mush that came from a healthy, happy, chemical-free animal together.