My Father Dr. Pat

My Father, “Dr. Pat”

By Lindsay Patterson

(A

Louisiana

writer

remembers

a

“madly

brilliant

free

spirit”,

the

unusual

and

unpredictable

man

who

was

his

father.

How

would

you

react

to

Dr.

Pat

if

you

met

him?)

In

American literature,

very little has ever been written about

the black middle

class,

particularly

the

Southern

black

middle

class,

which,

when

I

was

growing

up,

contained some of the most complex and colorful characters in American life.

Among them, I believe, was my father, a madly brilliant free spirit who entered

college at 16 and medical school at 18, and did not quit until he had received three

medical degrees. But when I knew him he was only a dentist (a black medical doctor

had

already

established

a

successful

practice

in

our

town)

and

a

pharmacist

who

concocted exotic but practical remedies, his best-

known remedy being Dr. Pat’s Log

Cabin

Cough Syrup, a dark brown liquid

with

a sweat

taste

and powerful

kick that

was guaranteed to root out the most stubborn colds and that sold like wildfire.

In addition to being a man of medicine, he was a master showman. Every Sunday

afternoon he would fill the family car with cardboard cases of his Log Cabin Cough

Syrup and visit four or five churches, where he was always called upon “to render a

few

remarks”,

which

he

began

by

complimenting

the

“sisters”

on

their

fine

appearance

and

the

“brothers”

for

having

the

foresight

and

wisdom

to

choose

such

bewitching creatures. When the congregation grew still, his face grew serious, and he

proclaimed in ringing tomes

that “Negroes should always scratch each other’s backs,

so we can all live on Easy Street!”

The

churches

were

mainly

wood-gray

structures

on

the

edge

of

cotton

fields

beside

small

bleak

cemeteries,

and

during

my

father’s

“remarks”,

white

-uniformed

ushers passed out pink and green circulars that contained his photograph, a list of his

medical

degrees,

and

an

aphorism

or

two

(“A

bird

in

the

hand

is

worth

two

in

the

bush”). Another circular was white and also contained his photograph and the poem

“Lift Every V

oice and Sing”, but no mention of James Weldon Johnson as the author.

In

is

“remarks”

he

recited

his

own

poetry,

as

well

as

that

of

Shakespeare

and

Milton, to

make the point that black should love and support

each other, especially

their professional men. To illustrate this point he would always command me and my

brother

to

stand.

“Here

are

my

two

boys”,

he

would

boom,

“One

is

going

to

be

a

doctor and the other a lawyer. But I need your help. They’re as much mine as yours,

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and with the Lord’s help we’re goi

ng to raise them right. If you ever see them doing

anything wrong, you have my permission to whip their butts, and when they get home

I’ll whip them some more!”

The applause, the foot stomping and

amends were always

deafening, while my

brother

and

I

wept,

for

we

knew

that

my

father,

who

had

a

vile,

sometimes

uncontrollable temper, was as good as his word.

His purpose on this earth, I was convinced, was to corrupt life. While other kids

were plied with fairy tales and ghost stories, he burdened our minds with Tolstoy and

Shakespeare

and

the

Bible.

He

screened

our

playmates,

burned

our

comic

books,

forbade Sunday move-going and looked upon dancing as a mortal sin, yet when my

brother

turned

seven

he

decided

that

it

was

time

for

his

firstborn

to

learn

the

“scientific

birds”

and

“the

real

bees”,

he

blabbed

it

to

everyone,

including

his

first-grade teacher, who was so horrified that at the end of the school term she flunked

him.

My father was a very restless man, and it was only after his death that I learned

that

he

had

established

thriving

dental

or

medical

practices

in

three

other

places

before settling in

our small Louisiana hometown during the late 1930’s, and that in

each town he had married and divorced before moving on to the next. His third wife,

though, had flatly refused to dissolve their union until he had threatened to have her

“put away” and declared insane.

Marriage to my mother produced perhaps the happiest period in his life, but after

she died he became strangely obsessed with finding a wife who he

ld a master’s degree.

He eventually discovered this educational marvel in a six-foot-two haughty amazons

from St. Louis, who after one month of marriage found his “two brats” a nuisance and

small-town life a bore.

My

father,

however,

expressed

no

remorse

or

disappointment

at

her

sudden

departure, for he too had begun to tire of life in our town, even though he had done

extremely well financially, and had built what many claimed was “the best house in

town”. He was also the only black man who was never called “boy”, and who was

invited (as a professional courtesy) to sit in White Only waiting rooms. Yet, he never

was an Uncle Tom, which was perhaps why the “brothers” and “sisters” tried vainly to

persuade him to “stay put” for the good of them all.

But

the

promise

of

a

new

world

to

conquer

proved,

even

at

the

age

of

60,

irresistible,

and

he

set

out

once

again

to

create

his

won

extraordinary

universe.

Six

months late, however, he was dead. Time was his only unbiased enemy.

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