Disappointment Included

The absence of empathy is becoming increasingly pervasive in society, or at least, that's my perception of it.  The frequency of encountering the "I have mine, and it's irrelevant if it came at your expense" attitude is alarming to me.  I suppose I used to be part of the problem when I clung to similar beliefs.  While I never had much to begin with (in terms of material possessions), I was raised to be indifferent to the struggles of my peers.  Their struggles were their business, not mine, and their struggles were certainly not the responsibility of society at large.  Rugged American Individualism dictates that those who struggle do so because of their own flaws.  To overcome, one should simply pull harder on their bootstraps and "man-up."  There doesn't seem to be room for much else — not even women.

There is a certain romance associated with Rugged American Individualism.  "I made it on my own and nobody helped me" is the badge of honor believers wear with pride.  Imagine how much more success you could have had, if only someone had lent a helping hand?  That is irrelevant to the champion of this flawed philosophy, because then they would have to thank someone ... and share the accolades.  Share?!

Sharing is a small component of the empathy and altruism qualities we hope to instill in our children.  No, they are not required to share with people they don't know, but unless they have a legitimate reason to exclude someone, they should make reasonable attempts to be inclusive, and if someone is struggling, or needs assistance because of the poor hand life dealt them, help them if you can.  Dismissing their struggles as a character flaw overlooks the reality that many people struggle because of circumstances beyond their control.  It's not like we get to choose parents with financial and emotional stability prior to birth.  That part is chosen for us.

When I was six, my family moved from the city to a rural community populated mostly by farming families and migrant worker families.  There was one school that, despite being kindergarten to eighth grade, barely had more than one hundred students, and many classrooms accommodated more than one grade level.  Needless to say, peers of the same age were at a minimum, so it should come as no surprise that the worst of the worst are easy to recall.

My first conversation with her is vivid.  I introduced myself in my clumsy, six-year-old way, and she looked down her nose at me, responding with condescension and disdain Simon Cowell would be proud of.  Even at six, I knew I would never win her over, and she would never treat me like a peer.  When a boy bullies another boy, we have the option to physically fight back.  When a girl bullies a boy, the options become far more limited, especially in a bootstraps world.

So she bullied me throughout elementary school, culminating at the end of sixth grade.  Our teacher was on maternity leave for the final month, leaving us in the incapable hands of our substitute.  He even created a new seating chart, placing said bully at my side.  She was openly disgusted at having to share such close quarters with me, making loud remarks at my expense that the teacher did not address.  Another enabler.

Shortly after this new seating arrangement had been established, I passed gas at my desk — a normal body function often found humorous in adolescence.  I expected to be laughed at and mocked a bit, but what I did not expect was for her to violently move her desk away from mine, and have the entire class follow suit, leaving me sitting alone at my desk, with the entire class encircling me, humiliating me.  Again, the teacher did not address the matter.  Thankfully, nobody knew about the autoimmune disease that affects my gut, and that I was actually trying desperately not to soil myself (and succeeding), which mercifully prevented any further deepening of my humiliation.  

When her family sent her to the private Catholic high school in another city, I was sure (and grateful) I had seen the last of her.  I did hear about her from time to time, which is the nature of a rural community.  She made the front page of the local paper when she survived a small plane crash.  Her face was badly scarred, but she survived.  The pilot wasn't so lucky. Perhaps now, she would have some empathy, knowing people would have to pretend not to notice her scars; pretend not to be staring.

Unfortunately for me, I found out first hand when she showed up to a house party at my friends' house in college in the city I lived in.  I attempted to be cordial, despite knowing she did not deserve it.  Rather than return my greeting, she made a show of how much contempt she still had for me, doing her best to humiliate me in front of my friends.  My reaction was visceral.  I wanted to point out how the scars on her face would never be concealed, no matter how thickly her makeup was applied, and how the ugliness of those scars were a more accurate reflection of the deplorable human being she is.  

Wrongly, I wanted nothing more than to inflict pain, because she deserved it.  While I wasn't happy at the time, my good friend grabbed me and pulled me to a back room, preventing my retaliation.  I used to believe he had robbed me of retribution, but in reality, he saved me from becoming as ugly as her, and it's a gift I am grateful for to this day.

The responsibility of fatherhood is not a weight that should be carried lightly.  The one who carries it lightly has children I pity.  Knowing first hand that people like my scar-faced tormenter exist, I have sought to ensure my children never become one of them, because I know that I am one of many left in the wake of her misery and unhappiness.

We didn't ignore this when they were young, because that's the best time to start.  For example, when my daughter was three, she was still adjusting to having a little brother.  He was one, and just getting to the point where he could play with her things and with her.  Unfortunately, she was not at all receptive.  It came to a head when she had resorted to snatching things from her brother — not to play with, but to keep him from playing with them.  I pulled her aside and spoke very calmly, but firmly with her.

"Why are you taking those things from your bother?"  I asked.  "You're not playing with them.  In fact, it looks as though you're taking them simply to keep toys out of his hands."  Dejectedly, she looked at the floor, shame etched on her little face.  "Is that what you're doing?"  I asked, prompting her for a response.

She nodded, not taking her eyes from the floor.

"Do you think that's the right way to treat your brother?"

She shook her head, still refusing to look up.

"This is disappointing, mija."  I told her more gently.  "I am very disappointed with how you're behaving, because I know you can do better."

This time she looked up, overcome with grief, tears streaming down her face.  "I don't want you to be dissen-appointed!"  She cried, immediately throwing her arms around my neck, hugging me firmly.

It's a good thing she hugged me when she did, because "dissen-appointed" blindsided me and I nearly broke character.  I did get to share a smile with her mother while my daughter hugged me, because neither of us ever wanted to be "dissen-appointed" with our daughter's lack of altruism ever again ... and we haven't.

Roads Taken

Generational differences are usually defined by birthdates.  Millennials, Gen X, Baby Boomers, and The Greatest Generation are all labels that have been retroactively applied, yet somehow, all of us are supposed to fit into a neat box that disregards the individuality of our experiences.  Gen X are rebellious, Baby Boomers are hippie drug addicts, Millennials are lazy freeloaders with their hands out, and The Greatest Generation are our moral compass.  These labels are accurate on an anecdotal level at best, and perpetuate harmful stereotypes at worst.

While many of my peers were being raised by what George Carlin dubbed "The Human Potential Movement," an approach employed by many late Baby Boomer parents, I was being raised by someone born before the Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor; himself raised by Depression Era parents.  There was no focus on potential with his approach.  There was only work to be done, because that's what Teddy Roosevelt would do.

Our friends and social development were not priorities.  Neither was our emotional well being.  Boys, in particular, needed to be "toughened up," especially if they were "soft."  Macho ruggedness was valued over all else, whatever the cost — even if the price of admission was your mental well-being.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm hardly advocating for the other approach.  George Carlin was calling out "The Human Potential Movement" for a reason.  The result of this approach is a person who is selfish, apathetic, and completely incapable of seeing the world from anyone's point of view but their own.  I should know, because they're my peers: parents of children who attend school with my children ... and they're raising another generation peppered with people incapable of empathy.  The future looks bright.

Comparing the two approaches wasn't hard for me as my lone friend during puberty was a product of said movement.  He had a two-parent home, a swimming pool, nice clothes, and every toy or video game he wanted, and I was openly jealous — especially over him having a loving, caring mother.  The irony is, much like me, he was really unhappy.  

Despite having access to every material possession he ever wanted, he was always focused on what he didn't have, and having me as a friend would never be good enough because I wasn't cool enough.  Having zero friends for multiple school years prior to befriending him, I valued his friendship and remained loyal to a fault for decades.  In reality, he was my part-time friend, with a permanent foot out, ready to depart for greener pastures at the first opportunity.

It wasn't until after becoming a father that I realized the thing we had in common: abusive, emotionally unavailable fathers.  His mother may have hugged him, but his father never did, and neither did mine.  It turns out, that was a deep void that no amount of material possessions could ever adequately fill, and my once-good friend is living proof.

I may have never consciously sought to hug my children, but I certainly never pushed them away or made them feel wrong for seeking comfort in my arms.  The part about fatherhood that was a conscious decision was to provide the emotional foundation I always wanted, but never received from my parents.

My wife and I hug our children when they wake up, and we hug them before bed.  We hug them when they're scared, or hurt, or happy.  We hug them when there's no reason to, other than we want to hug them, and they hug us back.  Somewhere along the line, we started saying "big hug" when hugging them before bed, and though they never repeated the line, there was something extra in their little embrace.

One night, when my son was two, he was emotionally distraught.  His speech was really limited, even for two, but he was beside himself with emotion.  Tears were streaming down his pained expression, and then he exclaimed, "CAN I HAVE A BIG HUG!!"

He spread his arms wide and threw himself into my lap, seeking the comfort he needed.  I held him close, allowing his sobs to subside.  Yes, you may have a big hug, and you may have one whenever you need one.  There is no limit. I am not embarrassed to hug my son, or let him cry on my shoulder, and I never will be.

The Monies

Fatherhood has enlightened me in ways I never expected.  I say this over and over, but it's worth repeating because I value the teaching moments more so now than I ever had prior to becoming a father.  And these teaching moments often come up at the most unexpected of times, like when we recently took our children to see a live production of Mary Poppins.  No, it wasn't the kind of big ticket show that draws national attention on morning talk shows, but it was an excellent version.  According to the program, it drew from the original works of P.L. Travers, as well as borrowing elements from the Disney film version.  Of course, my wife and I enjoyed it, but to our everlasting delight, so did both of our children — including my young son.

Within this production, there was an exchange between Mr. Banks (the children's father and Mary Poppins' employer) and Mr. Northbrook (a businessman seeking a loan) that was not in the Disney film.  Mr. Northbrook addresses the children directly, insisting it is never too soon to teach a child about the value of money.  Handing them each a coin, he asks if they know the value.

Michael responds, "I know the value of this: sixpence."

Mr. Northbrook counters back with, "No, that's its worth.  It's value's in how you spend it.  Do good, and may you have good luck."

We all think we are good with money, but the truth of it is, most of us are not.  If everyone was as good as they claim to be with their money, there would be a lot more millionaires.

The value of a dollar, as I was taught, was to make an assessment of an item you have no clue about, yet somehow automatically know what a fair price would be despite not being able to venture a guess prior to hearing the actual cost.

For example, a plumber who grew up in a family of plumbers looking to buy a ballet dress for his daughter would be hard pressed to assess the true value of said dress if he has zero dance background.  He's probably the man to ask when wanting plumbing-related value assessments, as well as the values of commonly replaced items from his field.  Plumbing labor costs that are outrageous to the general public will seem perfectly reasonable to him.  In fact, he is probably dumbfounded when people react with indignation at his quoted labor costs.  Despite the irony of being able to see both sides of the coin in his own field, and despite having no clue what a ballet dress for his daughter is supposed to cost, somehow, he is supposed to know what market value is without any research or people may think he doesn't know anything about the value of a dollar.  He will need to react in outrage at how “expensive” the actual cost is, because he knows ballet dresses shouldn’t cost so much, much the same way a customer reacts when being charged for plumbing repairs.

So despite having no education on a matter or having anything other than superficial information at best, people somehow fashion themselves an "authority” on what constitutes fair or unfair pricing when in the marketplace.  Like many others who’s parents failed to teach them any money management, I was essentially taught the value of a dollar could be accurately guessed whenever facts were unavailable.  

The scariest aspect of this approach is the sheer number of people who live and die by it, like the man who taught me.  The older he got, the more exponentially expensive everything became from his perspective.  It seemed as though he couldn’t see value in anything.  T-shirts and jeans were so “expensive” that he would wear them with stains and holes for years before breaking down and replacing them.  His jeans were taken off the bottom shelf at The Evil Empire, and only replaced when they developed an issue that required repair.  You can imagine what he looked like the last half of one of these extended cycles, particularly in the final weeks.  I wouldn’t be surprised if someone mistook him for homeless.

Knowing how hard it was for both my wife and I to undo the flawed money management lessons from our youth, we have tried to impress upon our children the very important difference between worth, which is displayed on currency, and value, which is determined by how you spend it.  After one such lesson, my six-year-old son responded in the most matter-of-fact tone:

"That's why Daddy has to go to work ... so he can make the monies."

It's a work-in-progress.