the bag out the window and make sure it goes over the railing into the river.”
I hesitated, as I heard the soft meows, and felt them wiggling in the bag.
“What are you waiting for?” he barked. “Throw the damn bag out the window!” He drove slower on our second pass over the bridge.
I balanced on my knees on the shot gun seat, and leaned out the window holding the bag in both hands. I swung it with all my might and let go. The kittens hit nothing but water.
On the way home, I stared out the car window. I didn’t feel especially tougher or manlier. I was just confused over what happened, and sensing I had done something wrong.
That was the first time I did something I knew was wrong, but I continued throughout life to do the wrong things, mostly to appear like someone I wasn’t – or to get what I wanted.
This attempt to make me a man was one of many times I turned away from him. I knew I would never be like him, and made a promise to myself that I would forever try to correct his sins, so compassion became part of my character.
I was raised with his paradigm for being a man: Don’t cry or show emotion, suck it up, and stuff your feelings.
At times, I wondered if he resented me or wanted to make me feel the emotional pain he had lived with as a kid. He rarely hit me. Instead, he yelled and belittled me when he felt I failed him.
Mom’s brother was a drunk who poked along the town’s back streets in his old car traveling from one bar to another. When I asked why he lived like that, Mom explained that he had personal issues and warned me “Alcoholism runs in our family.”
At the time, I didn’t listen to her speculation, and guessed there was no scientific proof of her genetics theory. But later in life, I learned that both family trees were loaded with generations of alcoholics. I was doomed.
I made a conscience effort to protect my kids from the shame and embarrassment that are the companions of the disease, but I was powerless over the alcohol and drugs.
Although my behavior was a vast improvement over Dad’s dry drunk life, I still felt guilt when I caused the kids any emotional pain. I was only a generation better than Dad, and couldn’t stop all the symptoms that impacted relationships.
~ ~ ~
Dad loved sports and introduced me to Little League.
“Try being a catcher,” he suggested, “it will give you a better chance of being in the starting line-up and playing in more games.”
I crouched behind home plate while batters swung wildly at fast balls thrown by some kid with little control. Bats swished by my mask with only inches to spare. The bats were often thrown at my body when kids let loose after a hit.
Dad was right. No kid wanted to be a catcher. You’d have to be crazy to willingly crouch behind a kid with a bat swinging for the fence with every pitch
In my last year of Little League, Dad coached a team – but, it wasn’t mine. I was old enough to understand he drafted the best players, but it seemed a son would automatically be on his father’s team. It hurt my feelings and pissed me off whenever our teams would play each other. Striking out in those games went beyond humiliating. My father would watch me bat, and I felt as though he was glad when I failed because it meant an advantage for his team.
Dad’s insensitivity continued to alienate me at times when I felt I deserved his attention and compassion. Our relationship drifted from conditional to non-existent.
~ ~ ~
Although football was my favorite sport, I had no idea a collision sport would teach me about love, pride, and relationships, nor did I expect to interpret the acute pain inflicted upon me as feelings of rejection and betrayal. In my mind, hitting the opponent as hard as possible was the fun part, so blocking and tackling felt good.
Football was not always about the game; it was a tutorial on how hard work is not always rewarded and how pride can develop without any specific accomplishment.
One afternoon, at a two-a-day practice in the August heat, Coach Kaizer motioned for me to join him. “We’ll find a place for you on the varsity,” he said, “Pick up a game jersey before you leave.”
Work hard, do the right thing, don’t be afraid, and be rewarded became my work ethic before I even knew what that meant
I was feeling pretty pleased with myself and anxious to tell Dad about practice.
“Hey Dad,” I said, “I played linebacker against the upperclassmen in a scrimmage today and did well enough to get a varsity jersey.”
“No freshmen play on the varsity team,” he said, “Someone is fooling you. Don’t be so naïve!”
My rejection from Dad kind of staggered me with a blow that knocked the wind out of my self-esteem, and his hard, cold disregard was like a dagger to my self-confidence. I was confused, as I believed he should always be on my side, regardless of what I did. I felt betrayed and just walked away without a word.
He never apologized, and I never forgot.
~ ~ ~
It was sunny on the afternoon of Nov. 22, 1963 and, as the last leaves fluttered to the ground, I gazed out the window during my American History class.
I couldn’t have imagined that thousands of miles away, a sniper’s bullets had just killed President Kennedy. In that one second, the world stood still before it was changed forever.
Every American can remember when they heard the first rumor of the assassination. Everyone knows where they were, and what they were doing.
Our school principal walked into the classroom without knocking, and motioned to our teacher to join him. Then, the principal turned to us.
“President Kennedy has been assassinated,” he said. He swallowed deeply and went on to say, “He is in a hospital in Dallas, Texas, and I have not heard, yet, whether he is alive or dead. All classes will be dismissed within the hour.”
Nothing prepared me for the bombshell that our charismatic leader had been murdered. It seemed as though I was lost for the few seconds it took me to comprehend what had happened.
Using new technology, the assassination and related events became the first live TV broadcast, so Mom was glued to the little screen when I got home.
She was crying as the television news correspondent said three rifle shots were fired from a fifth floor window of the Texas Book Depository. I stared at the reruns of the killing.
“Oh no!” cried Mrs. Kennedy, as she tried to hold up President Kennedy’s head, half of which had been blown away.
As John’s coffin passed before them, Jackie held hands with her children as they said goodbye to life as they knew it. Likewise, the life we all knew was over.
Our age of innocence was lost forever.
~ ~ ~
Being raised as a strict Catholic, I was a God-fearing youngster. At the age of 12, I became an altar boy to prove my purity and devotion to the congregation.
The truth was I wanted to be like older guys who wore the cassock and surplus to serve on the altar. I followed them for the goodness they portrayed and, besides, it made me look like a good kid.
My family belonged to a Catholic church just down the street from where we lived, which was a convenience when carrying out our religious beliefs, as well as my altar boy responsibilities.
Not going to church for Sunday Mass was a mortal sin that kept everyone fearful.In general, it seemed that going to mass on Sundays washed away the sins of the past and validated the sins of the present. They believed missing mass was a one-way ticket on the road to hell.
I memorized Latin scriptures and literally learned how to go through the motions; I didn’t understand Mass, but neither did anyone in the parish, so I accepted it as