Cooked Goose

“Nothing moves you so much as beauty and pain.”

I wish I could remember who said this. It’s a great quote; it’ll have to go anonymous for now.

I’ve stated my belief that early on we all take a look inward. I don’t understand the mechanics of what I’ve been calling a look inward. No, I haven’t exactly witnessed it. So, yes, I admit that my case is largely circumstantial. What I have seen in young children is a pretty sophisticated level of what we call a conscience. I’ve seen shame. Hiding.

With this look inward, we all see we’re human. We see limitations – a wanting. Being human, we do not always do what we know to be right. Being human, we cannot physically do all we want or need. At our best, we’re left with “I’m doing the best I can. I’m not perfect.” In an uncertain world, a broken world full of pain, that’s just not good enough. Our limitations swing the door wide open to fear.

Pay close attention, and you’ll see your kid begin to interact with this fear. Some dumb kid will say something to your daughter. The ridiculous judgment is embarrassing; it’s painful – never mind that it’s not true. She’ll figure without much conscious deliberation that she never wants to experience the sting of another’s judgment. The pain plants the fear in the fertile soil of her human heart, and move her toward one of two well worn paths: “Run and Hide Avenue” and “Work, Work, Work Blvd”.

On “Run and Hide Avenue”, there are lots of darting eyes. We walk about safely, quietly. People pleasers are always saying the right thing. On “Work, Work, Work Blvd” everyone is busily heading somewhere. You see, we’ve found a strength, and we intend to work it to greatness. By greatness, we’ll rise above. We either hide from pain or we rise above it. They’re both dead end roads. At best the most successful only defer the inevitable. At the end of the road, when we discover it has not led us away from fear we’re left with hatred, anger, and hopelessness.

This is the fear you chase out with love. You say to her, “I love you. Not because you’re beautiful. You are that, but that’s not why I love you. I love you, not because you’re smart. You are that, but that’s not why I love you. I love you, not because you’re funny, or because you’re really good soccer player. No, I love you because you are my daughter. I love you because of who you are. And I will never stop loving you.”

You chase fear with this love. She won’t believe you at first. But don’t ever stop telling her, showing her. Even as she heads toward those other paths. Follow her onto them. Hold her hand and keep telling her. Keep telling her until she believes you, and you see the fear wash away.

The older I get, the things about which I am certain become fewer and fewer. There used to be so much “black and white” – clear, bold, behind hard lines with a sliver of gray between them. Now, the lines are ruptured – the gray overflowing. I don’t relish it. “Black and white” is simpler, clearer. It’s a easier world to live in. And besides, I like being right; I like knowing. I don’t like uncertainty – the disquieting affects of the fog. Yet, I get the sense that I’m in a better place. So much of life happens in the gray. I can stand on a box and pontificate about how life ought to be, but I’d rather live. More importantly, I want my kids to live. And if it means, I need to wade through the gray to help them identify a few markers, well then “Small price to pay.” Don’t you think? So, come on. Let us wade through the gray together.

Let’s start with those mushrooms … I mean fear. I think a good place to start with fear is to look at the self. In other posts I’ve written my belief that very early in a person’s life, there is a look inward (My guess is that it begins about the time a child becomes aware of the shame of nakedness). The soul is brutally honest with what it sees. And although we do not have the cognitive sophistication to clearly interpret and articulate what we see, I think every person arrives in his or her own way to the same assessment: There is a wanting. A lack. Weakness. Limited. Broken.

By these words I’m not suggesting everyone sees themselves as some terrible mistake. I think it begins with the natural limitations we all have. We cannot see into the future. We hunger and thirst. We need sleep. We die. A child is more acutely aware of this because they are dependent.

An honest look gives rise to fear. It is at this place that this very basic fear gets fueled by lies, and spins into some toxic stuff. The environment and our fragile self make us acutely vulnerable to this bad fear – dread, loathing. It is at this very same place that the basic fear can also be seasoned with truth. In an environment of love and trust, a parent can collect the honest pieces gathered by a child and erect a coherent picture. “You are a person. Frail and imperfect. And I love you. Because I do, I need to teach you that you are not the center of the universe. Forget ruling the world, as great as you are, you don’t even rule this house.”

Even fear is not a matter “black and white”. It’s easier to say it’s all bad, and try to rid ourselves of it. The trouble is I don’t think that’s true. In the gray there is some good, healthy fear – a fear based on truth. We need to find it and guide our children to it.

The statement was so striking. The context? Not so much. I can’t remember where we were or even if I heard him say it. As my Father was formulating his parenting philosophy, he reckoned that he had to make a choice. As a father he could either be feared or loved, not both. Believing his two boys were in greater need of discipline than warm fuzzies, he chose to be feared. As far as I know, it was a conscious choice. And as one of two subjects upon whom this parenting philosophy was tried, I’d like the record to show, he did fine job adhering to his philosophy. He was feared alright. If the idea was to make me feel uneasy around him so as I don’t act the fool, then mission accomplished.

The execution was flawless. Where I think he got it wrong was in the formulating. The philosophy was and remains whack. I contend that fear and love are not always mutually exclusive; a choice does not have to be made. Now, if you’ve been reading this blog for awhile, … yeah, you, back there … you might be saying, “Wait a minute. Didn’t you write that fear is the enemy of love?” (Group Hug 4/30/2012) Yes I did. In almost every case, it is.

It’d be like if all mushrooms were poisonous except one. I’m making this up … indulge me a minute. So, let’s say only one variety is not poisonous. Why bother then with the one? What if that one was so good, and good for you? It prolonged your life – guaranteed. Magic mushrooms! (Alright, alright, that shroom joke funny. Haha) It’d be worth figuring out how to distinguish that one from the poisonous ones, that magic mushroom. But you’d have to be careful ’cause, like I said the rest are poisonous.

I think it’s the same with fear. All fear is toxic, save one. That one is tied in with love. It’s like awe, like admiration and respect. Instead of running and hiding, this fear draws you in. I might go as far as to say that love is incomplete without this one type of fear.

My Dad got it wrong. You don’t have to choose between love and fear. In fact, I say you mustn’t.

“I’ve got to discipline my child. If I don’t, someone else will. And that someone will not love my child the way I do.”          My wife

So, I thought, “A small step I can take toward laughing into the darkness is to smile a little.” Smile at my kids. You know, a child should grow up with their father smiling on them. Don’t you think? I decided when I see my kids, I’m going to smile. Really. When I see them in the morning, I smile when I say, “Good morning.” When I peak into their room to ask what they’re up to, I smile. At night, I send them off to bed with a smile. Don’t worry; it’s not that fake, forced smile – the frightening, conflicted face in which the eyes resist what the mouth is trying a little too hard to do. No, it’s a real smile. And if you try this I recommend you try to be genuine too.

If you do, I suspect you’ll experience an unexpected gift. Interestingly, as I told myself to smile at my kids, I was reminded that I am happy with them. Sure, it’s complicated. They worry me and often drive me crazy. These things – the worries, the challenges – they’re the darkness. A small part, yes. But a part none-the-less. And the darkness that tries and mostly succeeds in crushing us, it makes us forget all the good. And maybe that is when we begin to crumple, when we forget, when all we see is painted over by fear.

So, smile a little. Take a small step to demonstrate to your kids that you are happy with them. Abandoning yourself to tell them that they make you happy might end up reminding you, you’re happy after all.

I got my Dad to laugh once. It was the one and only time I got him to laugh. It was thrilling. So thrilling, that that moment is etched in my mind. We were driving somewhere close to my Uncle’s shop near Alvarado and 8th. A warm, sunny afternoon. It had to have been summer. We were headed west with the late afternoon sun flooding the car with that dreamy glow. My parents were talking about my Uncle’s new home which came with a built in sauna room. Both my Dad and his younger brother were slight of build. I commented from the backseat that if my Uncle spent any time in his sauna, he’d pass out. My Dad busted up – his face in a wrinkled scrunch. Bearing all his teeth, he did this rapid hissing laugh. The whole car: my Mom, my Bro, me, we all broke into laughter – the rest of us, I think more in wonder at my Father’s laugh than at my comment.

My Father seldom laughed. He rarely smiled. What’s so funny anyway? Like I mentioned in an earlier post Old Photo, by the time I came around, my Father had seen a few things. Life has a way of crushing a man. It doesn’t have to be particularly tragic. We all see loss, experience uncertainty, unmet expectations. It seems nothing of worth is gained without a fight. A struggle. And right when you’re trying to concentrate on the fight, there’s that background drone of meaninglessness. “Is this it?” Then there’s death. A couple years after that fleeting moment of sunlight, my Father went into surgery for kidney stones and came out with cancer. After beating him up for two years, that cancer killed him.

A couple years ago, one of my kids mimicked my expression. “This is Dad.” And did a serious scowl.
“Really, that’s how I look?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t smile much, huh?”
“No.” (All three of them in unison)

You know what I’ve wondered since? I have to overcome. It is a father’s job to laugh into the darkness. “Hah! That ain’t nothing. Let’s go kids. It’s going to be okay. And with a little work, it can really be beautiful.”

I pray for my kids. Just about everyday. That might get you thinking, “But I don’t believe in God.” Do you suppose that prayers are said only by those who “believe” in God? Think about it. Even at this very moment, how many people are saying, “Oh, please …” In how many places? How many languages? In many cases the one to whom the petition is directed is not even identified. A soldier looking out into a battlefield, a parent in an ICU waiting room, the starving, the homeless, they utter the call of the desperate. It raises for me some interesting questions about the nature of faith.

I have a vision for my son, for my daughters. I didn’t have to try formulate one. Just held ’em in my hands, and Wham! There it was. Can’t shake it, this beautiful picture of the lives they will lead. Part and parcel with the vision are the fears. Holding the most precious things I’d ever held, I could sense them gathering at the door – real and imagined, all that would oppose the realization of my hopes.

You know what I’ve learned? Forget about bringing my children through all that oppose them; forget about me making it happen. As much as I’ve tried, I’ve learned that I get in the way. It’s rough. The countless times I’ve caught myself not able to get out of my own way. I know what I ought to do, but for the life of me, can’t get myself to consistently do it. And yet I love my kids. I can’t shake the vision. So, I pray. I do. And it’s not so much evidence of my “belief” in God as it is a confession that I do not believe in myself.

Just about every day I utter the call of the desperate, the call of a father, “Please help …”

Every Korean American kid growing up had one of these – an Ivy League cousin. Damn you, Ivy League cousin! Mine was not Ivy League, but that’s “splitting hairs”. He finished his undergrad in a little over two years, and went on to MIT for his Masters and Doctorate. Crushed all of this before turning 30. Pssh. The funny thing is I don’t even know this guy. I’ve seen him once, maybe. Oh, but my folks made sure I knew of him … well, of his academic exploits, anyway. What does an eleven year old kid with a C average do with that kind of info? What is Massachusetts Institute of Technology? If the idea was to motivate me into the Oak paneled halls of some dusty Ivy League Institution, it didn’t work. What it did accomplish was it told me: “In things that matter most, you don’t measure up kid.”

Not good. So, what now? The answer isn’t to blow up MIT. Or stop handing out grades. Nor do we solve anything by disparaging the accomplishments of Ivy League cousin. I think it’s an adjustment in the “What matters most” category. And as I’ve said before, I think children are often closer to “What matters most” than we adults. Your child may not get into MIT. He may not play in the NBA. She may not be a concert pianist. Not everyone is a doctor or an Olympic athlete. But they can all take a step toward Courage, Humility, Compassion …

He just missed qualifying for Championships by a second. It was the last meet of the season, so the last chance to get a qualifying time. All week, he had worked hard, putting in extra time outside of practice. As he walked briskly away from the timers, shoulders shrugged and head down as boys often do when trying to hold back tears, I saw he had missed it. When I caught him, he told me what I already knew – his face trying without much success to hide the disappointment. If at that moment, being the fastest was the most important thing, I would have been useless to my Son in his time of need. I haven’t always gotten it right, but on that day, I grabbed him by his little shoulders. I told him it was okay to be disappointed. I was disappointed for him. I told him I was sorry. Then I told him how proud I was of him. He had the courage to believe he could do it. And he worked hard and raced hard. “You gave it everything. I saw it. There will be other races. You are great.”

I don’t want to do away with races. It was a precious time for us to remember what matters most. On a stage of competition, in his time of failure, we were given an opportunity to affirm his greatness. Hey, he’s no wimp.

I’ve gotten wind of something called the Wimpification of America. Have you heard this? Not sure who coined the term, but sounds like a reaction to the smothering of kids with too much care. Coddling. I guess there are people out there who advocate things like not keeping score in soccer games and not handing out grades in school. Their reasoning being we need to shelter our children from the trauma of loss, of failure. I suppose if you let them, they’d get rid of all forms of measurements. No child would be overweight. None slow. Every kid would be smart. Everyone, musical. Not true. And you don’t have to tell a kid that. They already know.

“Make up your mind, dude! Which is it? Do we tell them they’re great? Or do we tell them the truth?” Fair question. It’s complicated. As parents, I’m suggesting we have to wade through the complexities to be able to tell them both – the truth that they are great.

By All babies are beautiful I’m not saying, “Everyone wins.” What I am saying is that though things like winning, being pretty, or getting an “A” are meaningful, they are not close to as important to the measure of greatness as are other things. Dr. King put it well when he said, “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” I don’t think he meant that the color of their skin was irrelevant. It was just not as important as the content of their character. Had we ordered those properly, we would have seen that they were every bit as great as any other child. Love, Trust, Humility, Honesty, Mercy. These being foundations upon which we build Courage, Perseverance, Generosity, Kindness.

I find that very young children are closer to this truth than us who’ve grown to forget it. We’ve lived too long in a world in which the most, the best, the strongest is everything. To be able to tell our kids the truth that they are great, we need to adjust more than they. And the littlest ones can help us with that adjustment. In a world that incessantly says otherwise, they can help us order our values aright.

And by trying to rid ourselves of them, aren’t we really saying these measurements are everything? Our kids don’t believe that. Neither should we. Hey, no wimps here.

Ed – “He’s beautiful.”
HI – “Yeah, he’s awful damn good. I think I got the best one.”
“I bet they were all beautiful. All babies are beautiful.”
“This one’s awful damn good.”
“Don’t you cuss around him.”
“He’s fine, he is. I think it’s Nathan Jr.”

A small sampling from one of many memorable scenes from Raising Arizona. Love Raising Arizona. I’ve probably seen it a dozen times. It still kills me. Granted, it’s not for everyone – definitely strange. You either love it or hate it. If you haven’t, give it a watch. See on which side you fall.

In the scene, Ed (Short for Edweena. Turn to the right!) declares, “All babies are beautiful.” Well, you and I know not all babies are beautiful; I’ve seen my share of less than attractive babies. So, is Ed wrong? Is she being overly exuberant? I wonder. Maybe, Ed here’s got a point. Maybe the beauty she speaks of is a different kind of beauty.

H.I. her parolee husband is confused. He’s fixed on the more traditional beauty. Outward beauty. The kind that goes straight to comparison. “I think I got the best one” or the most beautiful. Measures and judgments are required. “This one’s awful damn good.”

I want to see as Ed sees. Think with me for a minute. Think about very little children. Let’s take for instance how trusting they are. Even though they hardly know you, they’ll give you their hand and expect you to help them. They will without hesitation ask. And tell you without the fear of judgment their weaknesses: “I’m scared”, “I can’t do that.” They will believe what you tell them. Santa? Sure. Tooth Fairy? Yeah, why not? If Dad says so. Isn’t trust a beautiful thing. And consider, these are but a few examples from the one category of trust. What about their honesty? Or how quick they are to forgive? And have you noticed how free they are of judgment? And on, and on.

In my last post I suggested that we as fathers need to search and discover our children’s greatness. We need to do this so that we can call them in truth into who they are. I think the search begins with little children. With them we get a clue as to who they were meant to be. And it is these little ones who inform us where true greatness lies – what real beauty is.

I agree with Ed. All babies are indeed beautiful.