Object Lesson

Once again, Stephanie Klein touches me, this time with her post on rejection. I’d dealt with the subject, here, in a passing way, and I won’t revisit it.

No, what moved me about Stephanie’s post was how a careless remark from or action by someone we love can shape our view of the world.

Such things are unavoidable, of course, because none of us has any way of knowing what another person holds dear and how they’ll react to what we say and do. And if we stop to consider everything we say and do, we’ll never say or do anything, out of fear that we’ll hurt someone.

The trick is to find some balance between compassion and inaction.

My father is one of the most compassionate men I’ve ever met. He is thoughtful, considerate, kind, gentle, honorable, and wise. He is my hero, my friend, my biggest fan…he’s my dad, after all.

He and I were featured in a PBS special on the Navy’s Tiger Cruise program, which at the time was for fathers and sons: Dad or Son would fly out to the last port a ship visits before returning home, and ride the ship back. On this trip, Dad flew to Hawaii to meet my ship. During the trip, the PBS crew took my dad aside and interviewed him about the experience. I don’t remember the question that prompted my dad to say this, but at one point, my dad said, “It’s indescribable, when you see your son has become a man…” He hesitated a moment, his chin quivering and his eyes misty. Later that day, he took this picture of me receiving an award…

You can see the cameraman in the background. The photo is a tad out of focus, because my dad was misty-eyed again…a moment later, he bowed his head and wiped his eyes, and the TV camera caught him at it.

I could go on about the things my dad has done…no son as ever been prouder, or loved his father more.

I have a memory, from when I was perhaps six or seven, of going to the airport to watch the airplanes take off and land. It wasn’t an airshow…it was just a normal day in Windsor Locks. But even then, I was fascinated with airplanes, and I couldn’t get enough.

Then, as now, I was supremely strong-willed, and hated to do what was expected of me for its own sake.

When it was time for us to go, I flatly refused to get into the car. I was determined that we’d stay longer. I threw a temper tantrum. My dad, as calm as ever, did and said everything he could think of to get me to get into the car on my own. He didn’t raise his hand to me…he simply tried to reason with this unreasonable boy, while airplanes roared overhead.

I don’t remember how long we…discussed…it before my dad got into the car, looked at me standing there and said, “Get in the car, or I’m leaving without you.”

I still refused. I don’t remember how many times he made that offer, but I know it was more than once.

And then, he did it. He drove off.

I stood there in the middle of that dirt parking lot, breath coming in hitches, my fists clenching and unclenching, as the shock of being left behind washed over me. I felt abandoned.

Of course, he drove to the end of the dirt lane that led to the lookout spot where we’d been…where I still was…turned around and came back. He was out of my sight for perhaps thirty seconds, but the relief I felt when he came back was indescribable.

I expressed my relief in the form of anger, and I remember that he had a hard time not laughing at me and my impotent, little boy rage. “Don’t be mad at me,” he said. “You’re the one who wanted to stay.”

I haven’t thought of that afternoon in years, but I can tell you how that incident shaped my world: my greatest fear is of being abandoned. It most often manifests itself in romantic relationships. When I was at sea, I was secretly terrified of falling overboard, because I knew exactly what it would feel like to watch the ship steaming away from me.

Is it my father’s fault that I am terrified of being abandoned? Nope. It’s mine. He offered me the opportunity to go with him, more than once, and there does come a time when an object lesson is required. I would not be the man I have become without that lesson. I needed to be shown that it’s possible to push too far.

I watch myself with my daughters, to see if I’ve done any harm. They are astonishing young women, though I really can’t take more than partial credit, and though I’m confident that they’d grow up healthy and normal and strong, I’m just as confident that they’ll one day have to deal with a weakness of some kind that I imparted to them.

If I do, perhaps they’ll forgive me for it.