The Man Who Raised Me: Silence and Provision

By Cliff Potts
Bay Bay City, Leyte, Philippines — July 2, 2026

This is a serialized installment from the autobiography of Cliff Potts.

Silence

My father did not tell stories.

Once, at the dinner table, I asked him what he could tell me about the Great Depression.

He became serious and said, “You never want to go through one of those ever.”

That was the entire answer.

No detail. No memory offered. No elaboration.

Years later, when he was dying of leukemia, I tried to have a direct conversation with him. A counselor had suggested I speak plainly. I told him that when he was away for work, it hurt. I missed him.

He considered that and said, “I was trying to make a living for you guys and Mom.”

Provision was his language of care.

Labor was affection.

Presence was secondary.

Alcohol and Control

He drank. A six-pack of beer most nights. Scotch when the occasion called for it, usually Johnny Walker Red. He smoked Winston cigarettes until the price rose above thirty-five cents a pack. Then he quit without tapering.

He was not ruled by addiction. He allowed himself habits until they interfered with control.

One night in Los Baños, he came home drunk, parked partly on the grass, stumbled inside, and cut his nose on a windowsill. The next day he told people at work that his wife had done it, presented as humor.

Deflection was a form of recovery.

Control mattered more than embarrassment.

The Language He Trusted

He did not offer emotional instruction.

He offered warning.

He did not narrate his past.

He summarized it.

He did not describe hardship.

He advised avoidance.

That was how he communicated.