What's Wrong With...Dad

Creation

O ften we believe that our lives are going to be wonderful, full of love, and filled with unlimited opportunities, but what every human being fails to realize is the tremendous responsibility that they’re going to be faced with as he or she becomes a person, spouse, or parent of the next generation. They don’t consider for one moment the challenges, turmoils, and disappointments of being an instructor, leader, or guide. It’s amazing to ponder the idea of becoming a parent to another human being; it’s scary at first, but after a while, it seems like the only natural thing to do: create another living creature. It’s really too bad that you don’t get a handbook or manual on how to do it, but who knows? Maybe we weren’t meant to have one. Bringing another life into existence by the sheer act of sexual contact with the opposite sex is just simply amazing, to say the least. However, the results of that amazing act somehow become the beginning of the end for you. You begin to lose the essence of life, become indifferent, and often morph into a person that you never thought possible. Your dreams no longer become realities; you abandon the aspirations of grandeur and accept the status quo. Why? What happened between the moment we’re born and the time we decided to become a parent? Well, it depends on our culture, life’s experiences, and many other factors. Let’s begin with my life. What can I say about myself that would draw you in? Should I begin to tell you about the horrible childhood I had? How about the most memorable moments of my life? Life for me, as I can remember, was a time of great distress and hardship for my family; we were poor, and our parents divorced when I was just three years old. My folks met in the 1960s, and all I can remember is they fought often. Honestly, I don’t remember a time when they weren’t yelling and cursing; my father abused my mother physically, mentally, and every other way I think a man could demean a woman. I could clearly remember him bashing her head on to a car and then on the concrete sidewalk, this scene was so horrific that some family members attempted to shield us from the viciousness and rage of this muscle-bound wife beater. There were several moments like this one described above, but the one that really stands out more than any other is the occasion when my father came home one evening after work as we were eating dinner in the kitchen, and he started complaining about what my mother made for dinner—spaghetti. He picked up the plate and threw it against the wall and starting beating my mother; these memories are painful to discuss but necessary for the purpose of creating a sense of openness and transparency between us. I’m not ashamed of the things that I will reveal in this book. These experiences reveal the truth about marriage and, ultimately, the development of children throughout the world. Surely, we both know that I’m not the first kid to experience this type of family life and am not the last. However, I do believe we need to have a conversation about these types of experiences. I’m not an expert on these matters; neither do I claim to have a solution for the problem. In What’s Wrong with Dad, I want to share my life’s stories with you and give you an inside look into my past, and hopefully, you’ll be able to make some comparisons to your own life and determine how you’ve become the parent you are today or why your father is the way he is. As mentioned earlier, we were poor. My mother, after divorcing the maniac, went into survival mode; we lived in my grandparents’ garage and slept in one bed (one adult and four small children). By the way, Mom was twenty-three years old! I can clearly remember going to food banks, cheese lines, and churches for loaves of bread; it was a brutal life for a little kid and was humiliating. During these difficult times of struggle, my mother cried her eyes out every night; her family was angry with my dad, and I can’t get the sound of my grandmother’s voice out of my head, yelling, I hate that lousy bastard. I wish he would get hit by a car and die like a dog. Often, I would hear people talk about him. No one ever said that they admired him or liked who he was as a person; they just kept talking about how much they hated him. At the age of four or five, I had decided to hate him too; for what reason, I don’t really know. Maybe because everyone else did, so it only made sense. I wasn’t mature enough to form my own opinion, and neither did I know anything different. He never came around; we would only see his car speeding up and down the street. My father loved classic cars; every one of them had to be a hot rod. Mom says that he loved his cars more than us, along with women; she was pretty certain that he only cared for himself, and that’s the reason he left us, she claims. There was a time when my brother and I were around seven and eight years old. We’d just finished a karate lesson and were standing at a bus stop outside the school when suddenly we heard this engine roaring up to the light; guess who? Yep, it was our father in his black Chevrolet Step-side truck; he stopped directly in front of us, turned, and looked us both in our eyes. Light turned green, then he sped off down the street! That was painful; it hurt my brother and me so bad. We still cry when we talk about it. The man didn’t smile or say hello or anything and acted as if he didn’t know us. This didn’t seal the deal for me until perhaps a year later. While attending elementary school in Oakland, California, I occupied myself with activities, such as mathematics, reading, and other academics. I found myself looking for other ways to escape the reality of my problems at home; it was education. I was good at learning. I loved getting those stars and stickers by my name, especially when every homework assignment had an A or 100 percent on it! As a young student in the Oakland school district, I excelled in academics and, eventually, was recognized for my efforts at the San Francisco Holiday Inn Conference room and awarded with the Top Ten student of the Bay Area. It was one of the greatest achievements of my life at the time, outside of meeting my wife at a high school party. My brother on the other hand decided to go the other direction of violence and rebellion, I found that I had seen enough of it already with my parents. The thought of hurting someone made me sick. I’ve never liked to fight or have confrontations with others. I contribute those thoughts to not understanding the purpose behind making someone cry and not enjoying seeing someone hurt. After that achievement (award), I felt renewed, as if I had not a worry in the world. In some strange way, I believe that may have been the turning point in my life. I was set apart not only from the kids at school and the thousands throughout the Bay Area but also now in my own family. Everyone knew how smart I was and began to treat me differently. I was finally special in my own right. Often I wonder what my childhood would have been if I didn’t get that award; would people view me as being special and gifted? Or would I still be the kid from a broken home? Well, Mom felt so excited about my award she decided to share it with my dad. She drove over to his apartment, parked the car on the street, climbed out the car purposefully, and let me out on the passenger’s side. I remember her checking to see if his black truck was in the driveway; it was. It was a great day. I was going to tell my dad all about my ceremony and share with him all the fun I had and how I was number two out of the ten kids that were selected; it was my chance to tell him that I forgave him for leaving me and I didn’t hate him anymore. Mom went to the door, rang the doorbell, waited, knocked on the door, and again waited; still no answer. I was looking around to see if any windows were open and was listening for his voice, but nothing. After five minutes or so, I saw a curtain move, but the window was closed. Maybe Dad just woke up from a nap or couldn’t hear us; that’s a little kid’s reasoning. Suddenly, the door flew open; there’s my dad standing as tall as I remembered, but there was no expression—no emotion, just him standing there and not saying a word.

Kathy, what do you want? Mom, being anxious and yet frustrated began to tell him Pee-Wee just won an award for being the Top Ten Student in the Bay Area and wanted to come over so he could tell you all about it. At that time, I was so nervous I had to pee. I told Mom that I had to go to the restroom, and she asked my father if I could use the bathroom; he refused. He told my mother to send me around to the side of the house; he crushed my soul. He hurt me to the core of my being. I never forgot that day, and I never will. The hurt was so deep that I can’t describe the feeling. I’ve never felt a pain like that since. He lost his son that day; the sadness he caused replaced any possibility of love, respect, and forgiveness. It wasn’t until recently that I forgave my dad for all his indiscretions and inabilities to love me as his son. It took nearly three and a half decades to find a place of reconciliation for the both of us. Today, we talk occasionally and sometimes even visit. I no longer hate him; loving him is what I needed in my life to escape from my prison of un-forgiveness. Let’s be clear: there are no excuses for what this man had done in the past, and there are none for the future; however, I’m bound by the law of God to love my enemies; including my father. Understanding this truth will ultimately set captives free to find peace and self-worth. It’s difficult hating the people while trying to love others. That’s like using one eye to look to the left and the other to the right at the same time—impossible. You’re literally crazy if you go through your life while attempting to cover up hatred. Look at what’s happening in our society today: children are killing their parents, parents are killing their children—this is madness. It’s all rooted in hatred. How can murder be met with capital punishment, but hatred goes unchecked? People have made it easy to hate others: gays, different races, and those who don’t agree with us. We get the thumbs-up from reality TV, cartoons, video games, and even church. Do you see how important it is to bring into existence good things like love and forgiveness? If we miss our opportunity of planting good seed, we will harvest nothing but fruits of hatred and half-heartedness. We are created beings, sure it’s my truth, and that’s fine. Whether you believe or don’t believe this truth, it doesn’t matter. Why? You’ve come into existence, and by what means isn’t really that important. You’re here now, and that’s what really matters. It’s imperative that you and I decide how we’re going to create our experiences and what kind of seeds we are going to plant in the lives of ourselves and others. I strongly recommend removing everything from your garden called life and replacing them with goodness, love, and forgiveness. I promise you will be pleased with the results in the time of harvest; your yields will astound you. I speak from an agricultural perspective. I believe in the laws of reaping and sowing. Even our bodies speak of this principle. For the purpose of discussion, take a look at the human body of a man and a woman. The man holds the seed and plants it into the