A Father's Secret Habit and a Son's Shame
As we entered the sliding glass doors of Walgreens, my father avoided my gaze and muttered, "I need to pick up my pills, wait for me in the toy aisle." The doors swooshed shut behind us, and I watched him intently. Before reaching the pharmacy, he grabbed two small boxes from a shelf and discreetly slipped them into the pocket of his shiny Chicago Cubs jacket. My dad, a recovering alcoholic and dedicated Alcoholics Anonymous member, had replaced his addictions to heroin, cocaine, and alcohol with an unlikely substitute: Afrin nasal spray, which he called "nose drops." The more troubling issue was how he obtained them.
The Routine of Theft and Ice Cream Rewards
This scene repeated frequently during my prepubescent years. As he pocketed items, I would scan our surroundings, mortified, hoping no one noticed. I kept my eyes on store employees, watching for any sign of suspicion. I loved my dad's free spirit and generosity, but in those moments, I wanted to be nothing like him. Afterward, we would go to Baskin-Robbins for ice cream, a bittersweet reward.
My father worked as a truck driver in the used auto parts business, a gritty trade. Every Monday, he donned blue coveralls and left in his beat-up Chevy pickup, returning reeking of grease and cigarettes. In our middle-class town, I was acutely aware of our social standing. Yet, once he shed his coveralls, he took pride in his appearance, wearing shiny white sneakers and Levi's. As an insecure, closeted gay boy, I didn't share many interests with my sports-loving dad, but a commitment to looking good was our unspoken bond.
From Observer to Accomplice
I cannot pinpoint when my dad began stealing, but I despised it until I started benefiting from it. He would take me to K-Mart's shoe section, where I selected a pair to try on. Removing the tags, he would say, "I'll pay for these, why don't you meet me by the car." I knew what he was doing, but we were both committed to doing whatever it took to look good. This system worked until one winter day at Kohl's.
"Pleeeeease, can I get K-Swiss shoes?" I pleaded. In 1991, white low-top K-Swiss sneakers were all the rage. At the store, my heart raced as I spotted them on the top shelf. Trying them on, I felt transformed—cool and confident. "OK," he said, "I'll pay for them and meet you at the car." Stealing felt so normal that I wasn't even nervous.
The Day Everything Changed
As I exited the first set of glass doors, the bright winter sun blinded me. Suddenly, a firm grip on my shoulder jolted me. I turned to face a giant security guard. "Come with me." My body stiffened, and shame washed over me. When my dad walked through the doors, I was relieved, but then I saw his cheek muscles bulging and fingers twitching nervously. I looked to him for comfort but received only an ominous nod.
We were escorted to a small room at the back of the store. I sat trembling while my dad hovered near the door. The guard asked, "Did you pay for the shoes you're wearing?" I waited for my dad to speak, expecting a charming explanation like the ones he used for speeding tickets. He remained silent. In that moment, I knew I was abandoned. I shouldered the blame, omitting my dad's role. The guard let us go once I put my old shoes back on, but I left with a shame that lingered for years. Afterward, I avoided shopping with my dad, severing part of our connection, however unhealthy it was.
The Cycle Continues into Adulthood
I cannot say for certain when my dad stopped stealing, but it likely coincided with his cancer diagnosis, which eventually left him physically unable to go out alone. I didn't steal anything for the next 13 years, until his death when I was 25. After he passed, I felt adrift, uncertain of my identity and purpose. I embarked on a quest for self-discovery that led me to law school—another endeavor aimed at projecting success rather than pursuing passion. Despite lacking enthusiasm for the legal profession, I passed the bar exam, only to find myself in a career I despised, mired in student debt.
I felt like I had stolen a life that didn't belong to me. Each day, fear of being exposed as an impostor gripped me. This might explain why I started stealing again. On my way to court, I would sneak into Macy's and slip designer items into my briefcase alongside legal documents. I convinced myself that wearing high-end labels would make me feel legitimate, but this facade failed to fill the void. I had inherited my father's addiction, but underneath the theft was a profound sense that we were not enough.
Breaking the Cycle and Finding Healing
For nearly a decade, I continued this self-destructive cycle, promising after each theft that it would be the last. I enlisted several therapists to help overcome the compulsion, but my shame was so profound that I couldn't even tell them why I had hired them. Eventually, I left the legal profession and moved to Los Angeles to rediscover myself. In a Nordstrom fitting room at an upscale mall, as I intended to pilfer another designer shirt, I glimpsed my reflection and saw my father's vacant eyes and nervous tics looking back at me. More profoundly, I recognized that his shame and fear mirrored my own.
I didn't steal the Theory shirt that day, and I haven't stolen anything since. Instead, I found a fulfilling career and surrounded myself with supportive friends who embrace my flaws. Reflecting on that childhood incident at Kohl's, I don't feel angry at my father. I've come to understand that he lacked the strength to speak up for me or confront his own fears. I am grateful I have found that strength within myself.
It is often said that in healing ourselves, we heal the generations that precede us and those that may follow. Today, as I walk a journey of self-discovery and self-worth, I feel good when I see my reflection. No matter what shoes I'm wearing.
