On Being a Son:
There is no guide when we are born that tells us what our duties are as children. I am not not sure if we even think about what this means until we are older, or when our parents are old, and we have gained enough maturity and lack of self-centeredness to understand what that role is. I am a son.
When we are young, it is our parents that care for us. If they are good parents, they will provide a roof over our heads, food on the table, clothes on our bodies, safety, access to school, and experiences to learn and grow from. They really do not owe us anything more, except love.
I believe I was a son for my dad. Even with his abusive nature, I never abandoned him, even when I moved away, after my mom left him, or when he was sick. I was there to take him to dialysis and usually a Chinese dinner and a movie afterwards. I was there to talk about the Green Bay Packers and I was there to watch him die. I fulfilled my obligations to him as a son. He fulfilled his obligation to me to a certain extent. He provided a home, food, clothes, and access to school. He even gave me experiences, no matter how detrimental to my mental health, that ultimately has made me more resilient. So in many ways, he offered me experience to grow. I am still unsure about love.
My mother provided everything for me, mostly love and experiences. She allowed me to explore, to wander, and sometimes get lost either physically or mentally. She never has stopped offering me this. As her son, I have tried to be what I consider a good son. Typically, mothers are our first loves. They are the first to hold and hug us. They are the first to tell us they love us. I often wish I could remember when I first saw her. I can remember back to when I was three years old, and I remember how much I wanted to be with her, to never leave her side. She was my world. I often think I hated school because it took me from her. As she has aged and is now battling cancer, I believe I have tried to be a good son. I care for her, make sure her refrigerator is full when I stop by, and take her to “play.” We have a shared love for poetry, books, and art. It captivates us because it allows us to escape a world which often does not make sense.
As her son, there are times I want to go pick her up in my truck and take her to a cabin in the mountains with a view of a lake and sunsets. A cabin that has a large front porch with rocking chairs and a painting easel so she can capture the moments with her brush. We would leave behind chemotherapy and the toxicity of the world. I desperately wish I could sell a million books because I would take the money and have us escape for a while, until she takes her last breaths, looking at that beautiful mountain range before us, and let her die in peace. Her soul would rise high above the peaks and I would wave to her as she left, blowing her a kiss, and yelling to the heavens, “I will see you again someday and remain your son forever!”
On Being a Brother:
I have three sisters and one brother. I am the youngest, the leftover.
I remember my oldest sister, Pat, from when I was a little kid. I loved her like she was a second mother. I remember being little and hugging her and I thought she would be around me forever. Then, she married and left us. As a young boy, I was mad at her when she left. To me, this was a sign of love, getting angry for someone leaving. It hurt. However, she needed to go and live her life. She will always be my big sister. I am uncertain of our relationship at times, but if she called, I’d be there for her.
Charlotte was just behind Pat in age, twelve years older than me, and she too was like a mother to me. I didn’t recognize that she had a disability or mental illness until I was in middle school. It just never occurred to me. I would hear her talking to the voices through my bedroom wall and I would hear her pleading cries. What were those voices saying to her that was so awful to make her bellow in desperation? As a boy, all I knew to do was hug her. It was like when my mom would show with black eyes, I felt powerless, but a hug always seemed like a wonderful, healing idea that an eight year old could offer. I hope I was a good brother to her. After she moved out on her own, I would often stop by and make sure she was okay, bringing her food, and leaving money on her table without telling her, hoping she would see it and not know where it came from. I had hoped to see her grow old but angels are sometimes taken in this life to serve other purposes. I have never seen someone look more beautiful moments after their death than when they were living. Her emotional pain had lifted from her face and she was delivered to God.
Terri is the youngest of my sisters and eight years older than me. We are alike in many ways, sort of wild minded and not taking much shit off of anyone. It’s a blessing and a curse. I am uncertain if she knows it, but Terri taught me how to treat girls. She indirectly or directly told me if I was being an asshole or dumbass when it came to any girlfriends, which are few, that I ever had. A boy needs that. We need strong women to tell us when we are being fools. As an adolescent, Terri kept me on the straight and narrow, making me question if what I was doing with or thinking about girls was okay. I am not sure where we are headed as siblings as we grow older. I do miss her at times.
My brother is two years older than me. We grew up together. Our experience as young boys sometimes took us in different directions, but we always drifted back towards one another. I think our bond has always been strong but as teenagers, egos often get in the way. It never fractured us, only splintered our relationship a little. I believe, as we have grown into men, we have become closer. We share a bond, and that is really enough. When men develop a bond, it is meaningful and strong, and does not stagger with the winds. The bond is true, as is our loyalty. Loyalty can mean everything. In many ways, and this is the highest compliment I could give him, he is the father I needed growing up. He loves his children and has provided them the foundation to go and live the lives that they are meant to have.
I have tried to be a good brother and I am sure that many times I have failed. I am not exactly sure what it means to be “good” at being a brother. I wish we had a family that loved being together often, sharing meals and space. I often say, “We don’t choose our siblings.” However, your siblings, if nurtured properly, could be your greatest allies in life. Afterall, you share the same blood and similar stories.
On Being an Uncle:
I am not sure how I have done with being an uncle. It’s been something I have not talked about much, but I think it’s a great failure of mine. I became an uncle when I was ten. I immediately loved her, my niece Elizabeth. She practically lived with us. I liked taking her sledding, and as she grew, I taught her how to drive my pick-up truck which she almost put into the ditch. I think about her often and worry about her too. I really just want her to be healthy and happy.
When I became an uncle, I often pictured being a mentor, this other man that they could come to for direction. I would have loved to be an uncle in older times, taking them on a pilgrimage to teach them the ways of life, being a warrior, and mentoring them into their adulthood. However, I have not done that for any of them. In many ways, I have been absent. All accept my nephew, Camron, who is the closest that I will ever have to a son. My nephew, Michael, and niece, Heather, who are in their thirties and early forties, I did not really know when they were younger. Heather is someone I now admire and respect. She is an intelligent woman, standing for what she believes in, and I enjoy knowing her as we grow older. She is one of the first to read my books because I value her critique and judgment. That in itself requires trust.
A great regret I have is not being closer to my nieces, my brother’s girls, Carissa and Caitlin. I am not really sure why this happened but I wasn’t a big part of their life while they were growing up. I did not watch them or hang out with them like I did their brother. I sometimes blame my own mental health, but I could do that with many missteps in my life. It cannot be an excuse. I simply wasn’t there and it shows. One of my greatest memories is watching them run cross-country and having Carissa run around the fields with me while I was coaching runners one evening. I am now witnessing them become women, entering their next chapters of life and going to college. I want them to experience life mindfully. I want them to understand that we have this short time on earth to develop our minds and bodies to become resilient. I hope that they will one day experience love and travel and never stop dreaming. Our dreams make life interesting. It gives us purpose and passion, and it keeps us true to ourselves. I guess, when it comes down to it, I hope they both know how much their uncle loves them. I would walk through fire for them. I will be here for them for the remainder of my life, and I hope they forgive me for my lack of presence. It’s a fault I have. I am a drifter in life, scattered in many ways, and fighting demons. I am a writer, a dreamer, and get lost in my own world most times. Yet, I am here, standing with them if they ever need a guide.
On Being a Teacher:
I became a teacher later than most. I was thirty seven. I believe my age was an advantage when I started. I was able to bring my life experiences and use them to teach.
The truth is, through the years, I have often felt like an imposter within the schoolhouse doors. I sometimes feel like I have no place in being there, among the other educators, teaching our youth. I am not one to read volumes of “How to teach” type books. I could care less about recycled professional development days. I am uncertain of all of the fancy, ever changing education jargon. I think that adults are often the problem in schools and not the kids. I am not so crazy about team teaching. I have seen too many messed up models and egos. It seems like another fad in education that is lacking substance, but we all must say it’s useful to sound like we value it. I have seen many unethical practices and situations during my time as an educator, and some of which I have spoken up about only for it to be to my detriment. We like to paint lovely pictures of our world but it’s not always so.
Yes, I am an imposter and uncertain where my place in education is anymore. It’s something I have thought of since I left my position as a dean of students. That experience was both wonderful and traumatic. I ended up back in special education. It is a noble field, one where I have met some amazing young people. Yet, I think I have outstayed my welcome. I am unsure if it is for me anymore or ever was. As I mentioned, I have always, from day one, felt like an imposter. I was never a good student and hated school, so what business do I have teaching in one? I have always taught and interacted with students by instinct. I have done what makes sense and put myself in their shoes, trying to understand them. Relationships, I always knew, were key to my success as an educator. I have always said, they should just place me in a room and let kids come in to talk with me about life, their troubles, and mental health all day. I could have a job titled, “Student Mentor.” Maybe that would be a better fit.
I am not sure where I am headed. Becoming a teacher was one of the best things I ever did for my life. I hope I have had some impact along the way, but I am often doubtful of that. I recently had an administrator tell me that I am “Overqualified” for my position. I believe they are right. That is hard for me to say or even think about. It comes with a certain amount of arrogance, but I believe it is true. I have seen and been through a lot in my sixteen years as an educator. I have stood by good teachers, advocating for them when needed, without them ever knowing, often placing myself in tough positions with unethical leaders. I have loved my students for years and try to be here for them even after they graduate and move on with their lives. I am just not sure if I am the type of person they want in education anymore. I don’t fit the mold.
For now, I will do my best to model and mentor and I will continue to challenge educators to do what we preach about year after year, and that is creating strong relationships with students because I heard somewhere that “Every Kid Needs A Champion.” I believe that to be true and the foundation for all we do.
Still, my imposter syndrome will most likely haunt me until I finally ride off into the sunset, away from the world of education and all of their acronyms that make educators sound like they are good at their jobs.
On Being a Husband:
I have loved one woman with all my heart. She has become my world over the years and I try not to suffocate her with my longing to always be with her because a good relationship also requires space. That space is given so that you can truly tell if you are meant to be together. For when we are apart, we know that something is missing, a part of us, a heart, a limb, which makes it harder to breathe and walk.
I am not sure if I have always been a good husband. I have tried to grow into one. My faults are many and I have reflected recently on how difficult it must be to live with someone who suffers from depression and anxiety. To share space with someone who carries trauma. The burden is placed on my wife’s shoulders because she has to be a witness to my suffering. However, life broke me open long ago and I am trying like hell to mend the pieces back together.
What I do know is that I love to be married. Maybe it’s not that I love being married, but I love being married to Karen. She is easy to love, to be with, and she is my best friend. I know she loves me too. Otherwise, she would have left me long ago. I am not the most handsome man, nor am I the smartest, and I have these moments of darkness that I cannot hide from her. What I do have is an enormous amount of gratitude and respect for the woman she is. I believe we need to have gratitude for the people who love us most. I try to tell her. I show her in words, written, typed, and from my own mouth. I show her by creating experiences for her that I hope she never forgets, and I show her when I touch her.
I have been fortunate in love. It’s one of the only things I am sure of. When I look for meaning in my life, it doesn’t take me long to come back to her, the love that she offers, and I know what my purpose is, which is to love her with all my strength for the remainder of our days.
On Being Alive:
Last April, I attempted to take something that I love, my life. I love living. I cherish my moments with mindful bliss. Yes, I have my demons. I have an illness that comes and visits me from time-to-time and it reminds me it’s still there. The attempt to end it all was not me. It was a drug induced mix of pain medication from something that the doctors just guessed on. I was like a roulette wheel and they were the gamblers. I won! I survived and have been recovering and making sense of it all the best I can. I have learned and grown and built my armor and resilience for the next time. Yes, there will be a next time. That is the hard truth with depression. It doesn’t simply go away. It remains dormant, observing from a dark hole somewhere, until we are most vulnerable, and then it comes for blood. It comes to see if it can take what is precious. It comes for a son, a brother, an uncle, a teacher, and a husband. What it didn’t count on was love. Love for all of those I have mentioned withstands it all. Love prevails and conquers. Love teaches and love is all that matters.
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