CoEternity

I lost one friend and one cousin to suicide this year. Another casual acquaintance died in a car wreck. Any death of a near one takes away the physical presence we enjoy, and, in its place, introduces an added spiritual presence for our living consideration. When a long life is at last surrendered, we mix smiles and wistful recollection with mourning; when the end comes early, we mix in anger with our sadness. Fond remembrance eludes us as we are numbed with the injury inflicted by unfair loss.

The two suicides were quite different from each other. Each man arrived at his end with a unique life profile, though mental illness was, obviously, the overriding power in both. The young cousin was under treatment for depression for years before he hanged himself. This loss to physical and mental desperation was unbearably sad, yet vaguely understandable and clearly worthy of our compassion. 

By contrast, the old friend (age 60) was, in my view, exercising ultimate control over his friends and family by taking selfish action to make them permanently sad about him. Knowing his general outlook when alive, I can imagine his thinking his suicide put on a good show of how tough he really was. The opposite reaction is mine; his was a weak decision born of a strong mind whose power turned to a narcissistic introspection that would not surrender to caring. He refused to show love by seeking help from the love available to him for the asking. Though I make it a personal policy never to place blame for death, either on people or on God almighty, I do blame him. He had children and grandchildren; he had made mistakes for which there was time to atone; he had known prosperity and deprivation across a mercurial life but had a network who could have been a resource for him had he simply said how it was going for him. Rather than taking the lumps of discouragement and temporary failure, he made the unilateral decision that his life was beyond saving, then told the world to screw itself while he overdosed. (Lamely, I might add. He managed to put himself in a vegetative state, meaning his family had to sit for a week and suffer in the presence of his shoddy, vindictive handiwork.) His disdain for his world of family and friends led him to risk their own quality and understanding of life for his fatal caprice. His descendants will now have to be ready for their own bouts of depression and need for therapies in appropriate doses and, God forbid, otherwise.

The young accident victim was also somewhat troubled, having lost his mother at a young age, wending his way through multiple temptations and bad habits, quite poorly by all accounts. Our conversations, few though they were, came back to mind when I learned of his death. He struck me as being two good choices away from okay--perhaps choosing a new career path for himself and letting some bad friends go. Anyway, he was a mixed up individual with a reasonable chance at happiness who had a wreck and died, leaving friends to wonder just why he had to go. At his funeral, many young people who had worked and hung out with him showed up to remember and grieve the passing of his chance to get it right. Undoubtedly, a comparison to themselves arose in each one's mind: I could have been the one in the casket; I should be careful with my life; I should celebrate what I have, both in my people and in this larger world.

And so I vow, again, to do just that: look for the good, endure my own failures, see my value in the eyes and actions of others so that I may gain all that to which breathing entitles me, regardless of whether I am good enough, big enough or selfless enough. Because, of course, what is here will be gone soon enough, maybe through events beyond our control and outside God's attention. Because of existence of those who care for me, I am not entitled to hurry the process.

North Korea's fake city across the DMZ from South Korea has no connection to this entry. Unless you make one up.

(Here is another bit from the personal archives, word for word from the year 1994 when it washed over me.)     

There have been three weddings and a graduation in my extended family this year.  The weddings were as dependable and normal as I expect from the dreaming of the brides of the South.  They were full of soulful Baptist sentiment and genuine faith that the best way to celebrate beginnings in life is to rest in the bosom of your loved ones and swear in the sight of God. 

            The graduation, however, meant the most to me since it was that of my own daughter from high school.  The graduation ceremony itself was unlike anything ceremonial I have ever witnessed before.  The strange new custom of shouting out at the slightest provocation-both by students and by their parents-stripped all semblance of pomp from the entire circumstance.  The unorthodox placement upon young bodies of seemingly uniform caps, gowns and tassels expressed varieties of taste which ranged outside my poor ability to appreciate the intended artistry.  I was dumbfounded, but not surprised, when I considered the context of their sometimes pampered, sometimes neglected upbringing.  I looked out over the triumphant and benignly defiant class of ‘94 and saw the kindergartners of 1981.  The strains of J. Giles Band’s  “Centerfold” came into my mind.  What a weird time to have been a kid.

            We parents had greater ability than any previous generation to give these kids the works.  We dragged them from ballet recital to ballgame to gymnastics (the next Mary Lou Retton) to the school play and to Six Flags.  We had the time because most of us only had a couple of kids.  We listened to some pretty strange music and made greater use of daycare than our mothers.  Every little squeak emanating from our precious ones was praised as though the future could find our child in absolutely any role she wanted to play.  There was a certificate for every completion, from age 3 up, and a corresponding ceremony was contrived so that we could gather around our little savages, who were certain of their sovereignty in their world, and gaze with pride upon them.  Every little change was a really big deal, and the kids usually squirmed extra hard when the parents showed up.

             As graduating seniors, these folks were still the centers of their own little universes, and their shouting parents were there to emphasize the primacy of youth.  The chaos of the group informed the adults of nothing they did not already know.  Their whole lives with this child had been spent focusing only upon him, and he felt in no danger of offending those who helped him become the friendly, harmless oaf he is.

            Of course, my daughter comported herself as a young woman of grace.  She knows she is good at what she does because more people than I have told her.  She is disinclined toward any sort of negative attention, anyway, by disposition.  Could have been a lot worse.  Katy could have been a bride at age 18.

            I also have a son.  I can’t wait.  He will be in the class of 2001. 

            What a weird time to be a kid!

(This opinion from 2006 still holds true for me. I wrote it the December before my son, seen here that Christmas, began his first tour in Afghanistan as a soldier.)

Our nation’s great failures in the name of democracy have resulted from ignorance and from hubris. We habitually tempt failure by assuming that the first wish of good people everywhere is for a voice in their government; we vainly assume that we have a reserve of unassailable goodness that will ultimately overcome all obstacles. The first wish of those who are suffering is often to be left alone with something to eat, and they don’t know us well enough to buy into our societal dreams for them.

Americans should have withheld their support for Iraq invasion, but a wicked confluence of events caused us––even the cautious among us––to go along with the radical plan. The main events were: recent, assumed toppling of the Taliban, the memory of effective expulsion of Saddam from Kuwait, the memory of our near zero-casualty Bosnia involvement, and our continued rage over 9/11.

Though we were abused by disinformation during run-up, we were wrong to go along. We could be excused, nonetheless, for wishing to be active in our own defense. Our leaders had been wrong and naive about the dangers of the Taliban’s 1990s haven for terrorists in Afghanistan. In hindsight, we should have been marshalling international indignation and planning strategic military intervention more comprehensive than lobbing the odd cruise missile. But we felt safe then, protected by vast oceans and by our self-image as beacon of liberty.

It is a hard to picture, then, how we will do better next time. We choose our course in crisis with much emphasis on our current prejudice, current political judgment and eternal fantasies about our moral and military superiority. It is likely, therefore, that the wrong lessons will be drawn by Americans and by our future leaders––whether or not goodness eventually prevails in Iraq and Afghanistan.

We can only hope that, as in key moments of some of our history, inspired national leadership will show itself, in spite of our often-undeserving ways. It makes a good Christmas wish, anyway, for this year and many to come.

Maimonides, Still Serene But Now Silent in Cordoba

Where is the wisdom of the ages, or the aged wise man, when we are in such desperate need of practical encouragement in the face of cataclysmic nonsense? Perhaps we should use the method Maimonides taught --about defining God--to describe the world we now occupy: it's more right to say what the world is not, than to attempt to say what it is. What we are not is anything monolithic, inspirational, aspirational, improving, healthy or fair.

We have always taken care of our own, turned ourselves inside out to please our own, always at the expense of those who have no physical or sentimental power over our being. People in need rise to our caring threshold only when we are directly affected by their presence. Even when a few of us take up a life of sacrifice for others, we still lay down conditions for our service and surrender, all the while building a world of supportive believers around us to feed our need for identification.

 So, when bank money--in any of its financing manifestations--evaporates, we protect our friends who lent and lost the money and blame the borrowers and their false sense of ambition, unless the banker is a smaller player than we, wherein we blame his ineptitude; when we consumers borrow money we can't pay back, we blame the money-changers and minimize our own culpability. We all, therefore, protect our own while holding and passing on to our descendants a vitriolic grudge. 

 It is the universal will of humans to cling to homogeneity; all of the rewards for this loyalty involve safety and fair recognition. Mixing of cultures, races and ages is a daunting exercise. When we are called upon to reach across boundaries of familiarity, therefore, we may swell with idealism in the planning, but shrink with indifference or fear when we actually sit next to the "different" ones. At these times, the invented sameness offered by nationalism, idealism or spirituality can serve us well, giving cover for our best intentions. Yet we still retreat to group, family or cultural duty when we wish to be safe.

 But we are not safe in any evolutionary sense; we are stuck in what we are not: not selfless, not improving, not healthier, not hopeful.

 That is why a Martini, a joint, a Ritalin, a gambling or decorating hobby of masturbatory dimension overtakes all our attempts to be and to know "wise," maybe even engulfing some of the self-important blogger types like....

(Isabella and Ferdinand taking a parental, some say preternatural interest in the Italian kid.)

This is written following the second week of the five we have planned for my far away visit with my two grandsons (and, oh yeah, their mom, my daughter, and her husband.) The youngest is 9 weeks old and needs to stay home now that Mom's maternity leave is over and she must return to the classroom. I get to be the "manny" for a lot of days.

Watching the parents, I am happy to report, is an informative pleasure for me. Their practiced give and take assures me that no move is casual and no decision is arbitrary: they have their own new, researched, unique shared plan going for them and their boys.

And why not? Parenting is a subjective endeavor; countless books on the topic invite new parents perpetually to eschew the ways of old. (Twenty-five years ago? Really?) The culture of seeking parental perfection while becoming independent of historic method is sometimes amusing and labored in its pretense to getting the job just right.  I am convinced, nonetheless, that making a plan that belongs to and reflects the dedication of the two parents is laudible, and in the end, essential for the fair rearing of one's own precious offspring. I don't mind that cloth diapers are no longer preferred (the diaper service used to be considered a luxury); now that baby powder is passe, I'll adapt to the throw-aways that apparently contain drying characteristics hitherto unavailable for the baby butt.

Once a safe, clean, peaceful environment has been arranged, the most important obligation shared by parents is thoughtful, educated agreement about how to make kids flourish under their care. Having two parents is a blessing, and it initiates for the child an innate understanding of human relations. In the extremeity, of course, grandparents or other constant ones can offer the counterpoint that brings balance to a child's understanding.

Here, with my two grandsons, I am rewarded by every act of caring by their parents that I am privileged to witness. 

As I expected and hoped, actually, I am reliving the early days of my own parenting, what it was like to be a dad to this same daughter when I was twenty-five years old and pretty sure of my suitability for the task. I began by trying to discern how my child was somehow the average, mean or sum of her mother and me. Within months, I was disabused of this notion; Katherine was a young lady who was a pleasure to meet and to enjoy, but she was new, singular and yet to become her own person, let alone mine.  In short, she was certainly mine to meet, but she was not a composite of all her ancestry.

Watching her piece together her ways of raising the two young men, all the time shoulder-to-shoulder with a good husband, I see the same wonder in her eyes and demeanor that I experienced as her young father. And that identification amplifies, extends my own pleasure of being allowed to be her dad. Hard, sad, triumphant, meaningful, transitory, timeless and glorious days will follow. And the happy cycle continues.

Loved making your mom's acquaintance, and it's nice to meet you, too, you brand new young men.