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I've boycotted Father's Day for longer than I can remember.
 
In content rebellion, I'd refuse to telephone my father and would avoid his call when he pined for my gratitude. I'd reject any urges to select and purchase hideous neckties or other unnecessary gifts. I'd dismiss images of sitting around a bountiful dinner table honoring the man who got my mother pregnant. And in spite that only I reveled in, I'd sometimes call my mother, the superwoman who took over when my dad indefinitely dropped out, and wish her a happy Father's Day. Not acknowledging the paternal day of celebration was my way of punishing my father for choosing his life over caring for my own. For several years, my resistance made me feel powerful while simultaneously draining me.

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