DAY 54 - He Could Whip My Dad’s Ass

You might call it his favorite story, because he told it so many times, but it would be more accurate to say that it was a story that was burned into his heart. What was confusing was that he always told it with such pride.

As far as I remember, I was 7 or 8 years-old the first time I heard my Dad tell how his own father could have gotten up off his death bed and whipped my Dad’s ass. From the first telling, there was no doubt about the seriousness and importance of the story. Maybe he figured that it was obvious, or maybe he had never really stopped to clarify for himself the meanings, but he never let us know what it meant to him, nor what he hoped we would learn.

I know that on at least one occasion, my grampa Harvey, whom I never met, took my Dad out the wood shed and “taught him a lesson” with his fists, for being “smart” with his mother.

From other stories over the years, I learned from my Dad that Grampa Harvey had been strong and brave and handsome and smart and honorable and respected.

As a kid, I took the story of the projected, ass-whipping capacity to mean that my Dad knew that Grampa was a better man than he; in every way.

By the age of 14 I was 6 feet tall; tall as my Dad, but not quite as big. My brothers and I were staying with him for the summer as part of the dance of divorce, and as we had done on so many occasions over many years, we engaged in all manner of competitions; card games, board games, physical agility, and arm wrestling.

 I wasn’t just taller since the previous summer, I was stronger. My Dad and I arm wrestled for the last time in our lives. As I strained and struggled, giving it everything I had, the question flashed through my mind, “How will he take it if I win?” In another instant I was considering throwing the match, but unsure if I could I let him win without it being obvious.

I pushed ahead. His arm went down. Just as quickly, he was on his feet and putting me on angry notice that if I ever thought that I could take him on, we could go outside and he would set me straight. I have vague memory of saying something to show that I knew my place. Other than knowing that we didn’t go outside, I have no idea what happened next, or how things settled down.

When he wasn’t sober, my Dad drank a lot. It was no different when my wife, Joanne, and I, on one occasion while in college, visited and spent the night. By the early afternoon he had begun to drink. By dinner he was beginning to be a bit uncomfortable to be around. Later, as we sat talking in the living room, I with a full-length cast on my right leg, a few disagreements surfaced and began to flare. Next thing I knew, my father was threatening to throw me, cast and all, through the second-story, 8’x12’, plate-glass window which offered an expansive view of the San Francisco Bay. As I had at age 14, I pushed ahead. Unlike 14, I called him out; I invited him to see if he could put me through the window. I also remember what happened. He backed down.

My Dad ultimately and literally drank himself to death. I don’t believe that it was ever clear to him why his father’s ability to whip his ass was so important. And I don’t believe that it was ever clear to him why he was drinking himself to death.

....... This story would be incomplete if I didn’t tell you that my Dad was a good man. On his death bed, he could never have whipped my ass..... But then, that was never... what he really wanted.

DAY 33 – Marriage: So Romantic, but Such Poor Odds

Most folks really want to be married; happily married. Even of those who divorce, many continue to try again and again. The draw to be half of a couple is potent.

At age five, marriage was not on my mind, I know because I remember asking my Mom if I could stay with her forever. She assured me that I could. Somewhere between there and my first girlfriend at age 14, something changed. I don’t think that it was a thought process; cuz I don’t remember thinking about it. Whatever happened, it was powerful, because 5 years later I was married at 19. (photo above)

Surely, there are many factors that, like the Sirens sweetly singing, draw us to marriage,  but what I am interested in here is not what calls us to marriage, but why, with such potent forces moving us, we fail so consistently to stay married.

It is commonly said that 50% of marriages end in divorce. Data from the Centers for Disease Control show that in 2009 there were 2,077,000 marriages in the US, and 1, 038,500 divorces. If that trend were to hold, then the 50% figure is bang on.

Years ago, finding marriage and failed marriage fascinating, I began asking young engaged couples a single question: “Given that your desire is to remain married until death do you part, and given that 50% of marriages end in divorce, what is your plan for being in the staying-together 50%?”

Most couples I interviewed had no answer; apparently having given it no thought.

Of those that did have an answer, a common one was that the partners would remain married because they really loved one another. I don’t know how convincing that is for you, but I would call that answer romantic at best.

Some couples had clearly given it some thought, and believed that their commitment to maintain open communication would carry them through. While an important and undoubtedly critical part of a successful marriage, I have seen a lot of marriages with the same spoken commitment, go up in flames.

My advice for those considering, or embarking on what they hope will be a satisfying, lifelong relationship, is as follows:

1)     Understand that creating and maintaining a healthy marriage is not easy; it is not like falling off a log,

2)     Consider routine maintenance counseling throughout your marriage; even when it seems like nothing is wrong,

3)     Learn about, and dedicate some time and energy to practicing Nonviolent Communication (NVC). It could be the difference between getting what you want, and wishing you had.

4)     Romance is beautiful and powerful, but on its own, gives poor odds.

DAY 25 -I Come From a Divorced Family

For me, a very important part of writing this book, is the opportunity to tell the world things I believe are true, that have great importance, and that are largely unknown. So, here is one of those bits of wisdom.

Ever since I can remember, I have heard, and heard of, parents expressing their fear that their children had been, or would be damaged,... wounded by divorce. I have talked with divorced parents living with guilt, and apprehensively watching their children for the outward expression of the emotional scarring that had to have occurred when the family was severed. Many of those parents were certain that a child could not grow up whole and well-adjusted without both a mother and a father in the home.

I was eight when I found out that my parents were divorcing. I remember my Dad being angry at my Mom for choosing to leave. I don’t remember experiencing any worry or distress about separating from my Dad. I actually felt relieved.

My Dad tried to guilt me into living with him. It was so painful as an eight year-old trying to figure out how to answer him. I remember him asking me, but remember nothing of how I got out of it.

Through my teens, I never once wished that my parents were still together. On countless occasions, I felt nervous and uncomfortable as a result of my father’s ongoing anger toward my Mom and the divorce; my brothers and I were often caught in the middle of his feelings.

My comfort through the divorce and my youth, though I was not conscious of it at the time, came directly from feeling and knowing that my Mom adored us and would care for us no matter what.

I am not saying that some children aren’t harmed by divorce. I am saying that NOT ALL children are harmed; and I can’t be the only one.

If a culture like ours, talks and acts as though a child must be harmed by divorce, will that prophecy tend to be fulfilled? If it is common knowledge that a child with only one parent is not just disadvantaged, but incomplete, how might that affect a child’s view of himself?

There are many people in the world who have no one. Not just one parent; no one.

I would wish for every child, for every person in the world, one person, just one someone who cares about them deeply, who shares their joys and sorrows, and whom they know will stand by them to the end. That person could be a parent, but it could be a grandparent, an aunt, an uncle, a sister, a brother, or a dear friend; just let there be someone.

I hope someday we will not assume that divorce must wound all children.

DAY 22 – My Brother

My relationship with my older brother, Kap, wasn’t always a happy one.

Who knows what all the challenges were. Our parents didn’t get along well from the get go, and divorced when we were eight and nine. Our dad drank a lot. After we were grown our dad acknowledged his alcoholism. Regardless, my brother and I were not the best of friends during our first 50 years. At times, we didn’t talk. At times, it was probably better that we didn’t.I don’t really know how we got back together. Conventional wisdom would have us estranged to the end. But, some magical mix of what each of us offers, reconnected us. Surely, there was some luck.

Today Kap took me to lunch for my 59th birthday. Over the last few years we have developed a simple ritual for my birthday. We meet at Plaza Park at Chestnut and Santa Clara, and Kap performs a simple version of the Japanese tea ceremony for me out of the sliding door of his work van. After savoring the moment, the meditation and the tea, we walk a block to Sushi Marina. More tea, sushi, lots of talk and lots of listening. The ritual ends with a bow, an unhurried hug, and a return to our afternoon responsibilities.

I am grateful for moments when feelings and thoughts blend inside of me as they did on April 19, 2007 when I wrote this poem for my brother.

Blood Brother

raised together

our paths

and our pain

diverged

as years passed

our paths would cross

we often slammed into

one another

in distant universes

we shared a dream

“do no harm”

again our paths cross

this time our arms

and hearts embrace

so good

to be home

with you again

my loving brother, Kap