As a role model, my dad was decidedly lacking. My friend Lisa once observed that I use him as a negative role model, that I've defined my adult self—or at least my ideal adult self—by consciously not being him. I do not have a substance abuse problem. I am not violent. I do not hit children or women. I do not lob the n-word and c-words and their ilk at strangers whose mere existence annoys me. I have a temper, a fine one actually, but it's not out of control.
This is by choice. I don't know that I am actually any mellower than my dad; I just refuse to indulge his temper. When provoked, I can feel a volcanic amount of rage that I do not allow an outlet. I contain the rage for two half-lives. My stomach-lining is made of strong stuff. Not surprisingly, such provocations usually come from family, each of whom was blessed with my dad's rage. Like nitro sitting next to C-4, I used to explode sympathetically. Then I learned to just walk away. Hell, I moved away.
I credit Bugs Bunny cartoons with this change in "stragety." My only male role model growing up, Bugs didn't look for fights like my family did. He tried to avoid fights. But he wasn't a victim, either. He just sits in his palatial rabbit hole watchin' TV and munchin' on a truly staggering pile of carrots, and he gets angry only when some asshat with a gun or rocket or ACME folding door picks a fight. This ethic appealed to me enormously as a kid. Bugs' maxim seemed to be "live peaceably, bother no one, and if they bother you, retaliate decisively." Man, did that make sense to me. Man, does it still make sense to me now.
But to accomplish this, I had to chain up my Inner Dad. This took years of work. Inner Dad used to get a hand free and take the wheel once in a while, but he does no longer. He's manacled and gagged in the darkest recesses of my soul.
But every once in a while, when all reasonable measures fail, Outer Bugs will sigh resignedly, slump, and stare at that manacle key.