"Don't Get Too Close, It's Dark Inside, It's Where My Demons Hide"

Just as a disclaimer: this post very well may be somewhat provocative!  Read with caution, and read with an open mind and heart.  In no way do I mean ANY disrespect – least of all to my late father.  This post is to share more of the man my father was, the demons he battled, the ugliness yet profound human experience behind his moments of weakness, and the impact it has had on me – his daughter – and how it defined and redefined the relationship I had with my father. 

This photo was taken just a couple weeks before my dad entered hospice.  Santa Barbara, Summer 2013

Having an emotionally available father as a kid is a simple yet profound benefit to a child’s own emotional development.  As a child myself, I always questioned and wondered why my dad was so distant from me; and from my brother and two sisters for that matter.  Often I speculated why more often than not I didn’t feel like I could run to my dad for comfort, consolation or compassion.  It sounds cliché but I wasn’t his little princess.  And even, a handful of times (quite literally) his harbored anger would come out towards me; or displayed itself to me - much to my horror. 

My dad and me.  Not sure how old I am here.  =) 

I can remember, one morning (as my dad was likely on an important phone call) I persistently pulled on his pant leg for some good old fashioned daddy attention (being five the world revolves around you). I was shocked and shaken when he lost his cool, yelled and pushed me to the ground.  Another time at Disneyland my family and I were paddling in the canoes and the skill and art of paddling was lost on me – unfortunately my dad was sitting behind me in the canoe and reaping the benefits of my lack of paddling skills.  What I didn’t expect was when he ripped the paddle away from my grip, somewhat publicly shammed me for my lack of skills, and scolded a line that silenced me for the rest of the time at the Happiest Place on Earth. Yet another time, my parents took us to Sea World in San Diego, and while eating lunch, I blurted something out inappropriately (don’t ask, I don’t remember), and my dad turns to me as he scolds red in the face: “you had to open your fucking mouth!” Again I was silenced for the rest of the day.  Other memories are clear when my dad’s anger would reach a boiling point of throwing a coffee mug at full force to a wall as I listened and watched the shards shatter; or even being horrified when he threw a lawn chair straight through our back yard glass door in a fit of rage and argument with my mom, and hearing the clash, and watching the spikes and daggers of glass fly in an infinite number of directions, as I stood – powerless to stop it or his anger.

My dad and me.  

Admitting, I feared my dad.  Heaven forbid I’d beg or plead with him for any ounce of freedom, or took longer to get ready for school in the morning, or got a bad school report – his temper would seep through his crumbling façade.   

            The temper I recall from him as a young girl had somewhat subsided and was somewhat replaced with this emotionally removed and blasé scene of a father figure.  Maturing into my adolescents (if ya call it maturing) I’d secretly wish for my dad to take more of an interest in my life beyond my grades, household chores and financial future.  My dad majored in economics after all and was an accountant, so perhaps that was his way of “connecting.”  As much as he’d talk to me about the importance of Quicken, I equally wished he’d ask me about my high school social situations or teen crushes - but he didn’t.  As much as he’d give me political talks about his ideology, I wished he’d wait up for me to come home some nights from the Prom or Homecoming – but he didn’t.  He continued to drive me to school in the morning; he continued to educate me on Quicken; he continued to keep tabs on my grades and not much else.  Needless to say his paternal behavior was a far cry from that emotionally available ideal dad I painted in my mind. 

Me, my dad, my brother Joey, and older sister Katie.

              It wasn’t till my later years in high school – college really – that I came to understand my father on a deeper level; on an adult level, and I came to understand why he placed the distance he placed between us - his children.

With no easy or poetic way to say this, so for lack of better words: growing up, my dad was perpetually beaten. Truly he faced unfathomable physical and emotional abuse – and arguably dealt with neglect as well.  Growing up in the middle of 13 kids (literally the 7th out of 13 kids, and having a twin brother on top of that), in Kansas City, Missouri (quite literally the middle of the country) he surly wasn’t alone in the routine beatings.  Without fail, one or multiple of my dad’s siblings will recount (either in a brief tongue and cheek manner, or a long descriptive manner) on any given family gathering a time they got a whipping.   

            To hear of how a spanking gone too far was resorted to bare ass whipping with a marbled stone belt shocked me!  To hear how my grandma Quigley would fly off the handle (on a number of occasions), lock her pack of kids in the basement seller, scream, rant and rave about how she’d burn the house down with the children locked inside, till finally my alcoholic grandpa talked some sense into her and ultimately let the traumatized kids out – hours later – sickened me! To hear so many scenarios of how my grandma habitually would insult and put down my dad for being analytical; her common line was, “oh you’re just so damn slow!”  I was appalled!  And to hear how my passive grandpa would resort to a bottle of liquor every night and black out on conversations he had with my dad the night prior broke my heart!  

My dad's entire family; all 13 kids plus his parents.

            Not only did he face perpetual abuse throughout his childhood and adolescents, but he was deeply wounded (mostly emotionally) in his time serving in the air force at the height of the Vietnam War – a largely unpopular war. Clearly a topic for another post. 

After disclosing to me the traumas of his youth under an alcoholic father, an extremely abusive mother, and the pains of an unpopular Vietnam War, I came to understand the deep, long and wide wounds that he bared.  In simple words my dad was a scared man!  He shared with me at some point in college: “when I became a father for the first time, I vowed I wouldn’t repeat the cycle of abuse; I vowed that I would spare you and your siblings from the horrors I faced as a kid; and there are some things from the child abuse I will never share with you, and I will take it to my grave.”  In the latter of his statement he was indeed successful; for I can only imagine what level of abuse he kept a secret.  And by and large he was indeed successful in breaking the cycle of abuse, and his way – the only way he knew how – was to cut himself off emotionally.  It took me growing up into a young adult to get it; I didn’t and sometimes still don’t understand his means, but I am deeply touched by the ends.  More so though, I came to understand for years he had been conditioned to not be affectionate; not show emotions; not talk about his feelings; much less indulge a daughter or son for that matter in their feelings.  As a father he was in uncharted waters, and was likely terrified of dealing with emotions.  He was emotionally constipated. All jokes aside though.    

            Even after I moved away for college and then to Philadelphia my relationship with my dad was a strain.  Don’t get me wrong, I was grateful for some clarity, but I couldn’t help but think: “well com’on now, shit is out on the table, so let’s try and move forward; I get where you’re coming from, so try and understand where I’m coming from.  I need an emotionally open dad!”  But it was a process, and for my dad a lifelong process – till his dying day.

My folks and I on my graduation day from SFSU. 

I can say with confidence my dad’s role in my life was a large component to my shy and cautious state growing up; something I’ve overcome.  I can say with confidence my dad’s behavior in my life has made me skeptical, guarded and weary when it comes down to anyone I’ve dated; something that’s gotten better yet I'm still working on.  And I can say with confidence my dad’s tendency to retreat from anything that required a touch of emotion was one component to my lack and sense of self-esteem; again something I’ve overcome. Among many remedies for these "issues" I have to give credit to years in therapy and spiritual direction. It's fascinating to think of how my grandparents on my dad's side parented; how that (obviously) affected my dad's parenting style; and ultimately how that has shaped me (for better or worse). Just makes me think - isn't there some Bible verse about inheriting the sins of your ancestors? While it's not meant to be taken literally, it does force me to think about the cycle of dysfunction. But I digress. 

Now because of or in spite of my dad’s cancer battle, it perhaps, and likely made it possible for him and I to finally have some lasting conversations, closure and ultimately forgiveness about his child abuse and how it determined the role he played as a father in my life. In that last year, I heard him tell me how proud he was of me, for going off to and finishing college.  In between chemotherapy and radiation treatments I’d hear his admiration for my, (as he called it) “wanderlust spirit,” going from Rome for a semester in college, off to San Francisco to finish my BA, and moving across the country for two years to teach in West Philly.  I smiled when he'd say I take after his analytical mindset; his perfectionist mindset and his photographic memory - which I can vouch for. More importantly though, I saw him face the reality of his own mortality; something to be grabbled with.  And with that, not only was he able to let years of harbored emotion out, but we were able to let years of harbored emotion out – together. In that year I saw my father cry more than I ever saw him cry - ever. He spoke to me of his deep pain and regret that he wouldn’t get to meet the man that will take me as his wife; how it pained him that he wouldn't get to walk me down the aisle or meet his grandkids - all of which are also deeply painful for me.  These were some of many closure like conversations I had with my dying dad. 

Fall pumpkin festival at the Orange County Great Park; Fall 2012.

Now I don't know if it took me moving away multiple times (having time and space away from my dad perhaps gave me space to have my own bit of clarity) and then returning to Southern California a different and grown woman, or the reality of terminal cancer to provoke these conversations between us. Nevertheless, I can say that there was a genuine humility and great goodness in the way he spoke to me in those last years (not just his cancer battle year, but especially in his cancer battle year), and that there was remarkable forgiveness, lasting peace, and profound confidence in the deep love my dad has for me.  

Sweet Dreams till Sunbeams Find You

It’s no secret people have thought of dreams as a way to your subconscious and a gateway for things outside this physical world to pay visit to ones left behind.  Even in the Bible itself there are plenty of examples of how saints and prophets had some divine intervention through their very own dreamland.  Native Americans have thought of dreams as a way to connect to mother earth and use them and analyze them as a way for guidance towards life altering decisions and actions.  As for myself, I have had some dreams about my dad; one of which was within the week leading up to this past patriarchal day.  Having dreamt about my dad before this recent dream I found it peculiar that it wasn’t surrounded around my dad visiting me in my dreams.  He was more like a commercial break if you will.  Nevertheless I do remember distinctly my dad in the dream.  Please understand as I’ve gotten older, I dream less.  Yet since my dad’s passing I have had a few clear and distinct dreams about him; some of which were haunting and gruesome and two that have been very peaceful and sweet that leave me simmering in his presence.    

While fast asleep some nights ago I found myself in a dream that involved my younger brother and another friend – who will remain nameless.  Now I couldn’t tell you specifics of the dream, why my brother was there or why my friend was in the dream, or how the three of us interacted in the dream, BUT I do distinctly remember my dad briefly in the dream, and before the dream continued, again not remembering specifics of the rest of the dream; just that my brother was there and my friend was there.  In that brief moment of clarity, I was walking into my brother’s bedroom, when out of my peripheral I noticed someone sitting.  Upon glancing to see who it was, I yelled “DAD” in shock as my eyes fell on my father: healthy, peaceful, content and happy.  I instantly fall to my father’s knees, bury my face in his lap and wrap my hands and arms around his sitting waist as he laid his hands on my back in comfort.  What he spoke was simple and short (as most of the time it is); truly a man of few words. 

“Live your life.”

And with that I got up, the clarity of that moment passed, and the hazy dream went on.  The last specific thing I remember was after getting up and walking towards my brother (as I originally intended to do in the dream), I looked back to get another look of my dad, but he had gone; and on I went. 

Now normally, since having dreams about my dad, I’ll wake up and instantly remember I had dreamed   about him, and the bittersweet emotions typically follow.  But this time, he wasn’t my first thought after opening my eyes to morning sunbeams. It wasn’t until I set my coffee maker that his memory in the dream caught up to me, as did the tears.  What got me the most about this particular dream was a couple of things.  One: he wasn’t the main focus of the dream; he wasn’t the majority of the dream; he was simply part of the dream – like that quick commercial break if you will.  Two: the fact that even though most of the time in the dream wasn’t him, he was the only moment of clarity.  Sure, I can name two other people in the dream, but specifics – nope! Three: and most obviously his line to me, “live your life.” It’s a line I’ve both been striving and struggling to do. 

In one sense, I continue to work towards a goal of going back to school beyond my bachelor’s degree.  In fact, I have an entry exam morning set in less than a month’s time.  In another sense I’ve continued with interests and hobbies like salsa dancing, running, writing, and beading to name just a few.  Professionally, I’ve invested myself more in my work place, and taken on several roles at the school I teach at.  Personally, I’ve made some summer travel plans to return to Philadelphia for a week in August and take advantage of some quality time with some quality friends out there; and more so I look towards some international travel plans in the near future.  More personally, I’ve widened my circle of friends up to new people and others I simply looked at as acquaintances I can now call friends; heck I’ve even dated a bit since my dad passed.  So by every appearance, I am indeed living my life.  Then that feeling is contrasted with the unpredictable emotions of sheer grief.  And when those moments come, despite every effort of mine to suppress them, I cannot. 

It gets the better of me when I have a couple of close friends over at my place, and in friendly conversation I have to get up to do the dishes (anything to move and stay busy) before slamming things as the tears follow. Or when I’m feeling particularly sensitive and needy and it comes out through heightened tensions with a friend, and the conversation ends with fingers pointed, tears and frustrations.  This whole grieving process has an annoying way of making me A LOT more sensitive to anything and everything, and A LOT more needy.  Surly, I gotta give it up to some key players – i.e. close friends – who are pulling up their sleeves and getting their hands dirty with me.

It gets the better of me when on a socially packed Memorial Day Weekend – as I was invited to a graduation party, a dual birthday party, and an anniversary party three nights in a row – I decide to bow out by 10 in the evening each time, because I can’t get my energy level even half way to the level of everyone else’s.

It gets the better of me most times I go home and spend time with my mother and as we talk about my dad, emotions are evoked. 

And it gets the better of me when I don’t have my father on Father’s Day – certainly it got the better of me then!         

I suppose the fact that Father’s Day was yesterday has some prompting to this reflection, and perhaps more so to the content of this post.  Like all the “first” holidays and birthdays following my dad’s death on September 3rd they are emotionally taxing.  Yet for some reason, I told myself it would be different for Father’s Day.  Maybe it’s because I’m tired of the heavy emotions associated with my dad’s absence, and perhaps I envy those around me who actually feel happy on special occasions and holidays, and maybe I miss that part of myself.  Whatever the case, I thought to myself, “mind over matter Barb, you can do this; you can get through another holiday and not cry because you miss your dad.  Just focus on the beautiful California almost summer weather, just distract yourself with family, AND distract yourself by telling stories, AND distract yourself by catching up with family, AND wine, don’t forget that wine, AND put up that façade of hair, makeup and choice of attire.  You got this Barb.”  Well my alter ego while ready to take on the day, proved to be no match to the reality and significance of the day, and this first Father’s Day without just that – a Father. 

So even though I still have my moments when grief grabs and grips me, the simple line of my dad in this recent dream resonates with me: “live your life.”  In this encounter with my dad there is twofold.  There is gratitude for one thing; the fact that my dad came to pay me a visit is comforting.  But more importantly there is that permission I suppose I’ve been seeking to indeed live my life without the guilt that sometimes follows that I’m enjoying myself while I “should” be more solemn because my dad isn’t around to enjoy life with me.  This dream, that encounter, has given me some clarity that I’m not without my dad, but that my dad is in fact with me in a different kind of presence.  Thanks Dad!  =)  

Those Morning Routines

Growing up my dad was the one - most of the time - that would get me and my siblings to school in the morning.  From the time I was in elementary school and we had to catch the school bus in our neighborhood with the rest of the neighborhood kids, to middle school and high school with early morning zero period call times, my dad would drive us the five minuets to school.  As anyone might imagine, most mornings were the same and not many truly stick out in my mind.  Yet there are some moments or quirks of my dad I do look back on and can indeed recall.

First, I gotta say no child is ever a natural born "morning person," and was the case for my siblings and I! My dad though - having plenty of years of practice waking up early and brewing his cup of Joe - was well adjusted to the task. Matter of fact, come to think of it, my mom always had a rough time waking up in the morning; which now makes sense that my dad took that role of morning Sargent.

It always started like clock work: 5:30a.m. would roll around and was the time my dad would flick our bedroom lights on and tell us all in bunk-beds to raise and shine.  Always protesting that 5:30a.m was far too early, us kids would say 30 more minuets; 20 more minutes; 5 more minutes.  After each snooze, he'd come back progressively more aggressive; and those aggressive snooze alarms might be flickering of our bedroom lights as he'd make his voice just a little louder as he'd bellow "raise and shine;" or he'd come in banging pots and pans; maybe (if he was feeling mischievous) he'd put ice cubs in our beds, on our necks, down our pajamas; my favorite was when he BLASTED and I really mean blasted the classic William Tell Overture. Lemme tell you: no pillow can muffle the sound of that symphony; so we always resigned to roll outta bed with our groggy faces, and bed head hair.

I'll never forget how he'd walk us the 5 blocks to our bus stop: bare foot, and half dressed for work; the slacks would be on, but a t-shirt would often be substituted for the button down and tie, hair might be combed.  My best memory - now in retrospect - of those morning walking to the bus stop was the morning my dad stood up for my older sister and me.
Just to give a bit of background information: my family and I don't have an ounce of olive skin blood; we are half Irish and the rest is northern European.  So that tells you we burn fairly easily and at best we get freckles.  Living in Orange County where olive and tan skin is considered a desirable trait, we were kind of the black sheep (well conversely actually) when in came down to this feature.  Walking home after school, after the bus would drop us off in the afternoon at the same morning spot we'd have some of the older kids pick on us and call us names like "Casper the Friendly Ghost;" or taunt us to "get a tan." Being 9 and 10 years old and never experiencing any level of bullying I did what most kids did at that age and in those days: I didn't respond and tried to ignore the teasing.  Well, it got to a point where my sister and I vented to my parents about it.
Well...my dad sure had something to say about the teasing and taunting.  One of those morning - barefoot and disheveled hair - my dad walked us to the bus stop, waited for us and all the other kids to get on the bus, and proceeded to ask the bus driver if he could address all of us grade school kiddos.  His little speech made me slouch in my bus seat...
"Can I get your attention please.  It's my understanding that there are some of you kids that are teasing and taunting my children; calling them Casper and such.  I'll have you know that, that is bullying, and if you continue this behavior, I will take it up with the schools principal and have those of you expelled!"  He thanked the bus driver, proceeded off the bus, and I could feel the tension in the bus increase by 10! Literally it was one of the moments I could feel everyone's eyes on the back of my neck.  As the bus door closed shut and before we drove off, my childhood friend Steven, yelled some antagonistic comedic remark to myself and all to hear.  He was good at cracking jokes in the middle of tension - he was our class clown after all.

Other morning memories - not as memorable - surely stick out in my mind.  Like all the times my dad (especially when we'd be running late) would slow down at a green light after driving a motorcycle for years and being conditioned to anticipate cars cutting him off. There was the time, my dad ran a red light, from a full on stop.  Or the time in junior high when I talked to my dad for the first time about a boyish crush, and he told me to be myself, and that the best kind of relationships - and loves for that matter - come from friendships.

It was a simple morning routine, being woken up by my dad, and spending that time with him; be it the morning walk to the bus stop as a shy girl who wore over-sized clothes, or a preteen or teenager who enjoyed the occasional conversation or mishap in the morning with my dad.  It's a routine I took for granted; a routine I would relive in a heartbeat (even if in a fleeting dream); a routine I often think about and rewind in my head on my own - now - morning routines.

Flying the Coop

"If you love someone, set them free.  If they return they are yours." 

~ Unknown

Parents have their own way of dealing with their children growing into adults and ultimately moving out for the first time.  Never having the experience myself, I don't pretend to know what that must be like, but I can recount how my dad reacted to that fact some seven years ago when I moved away for college.

Not having a clue what I wanted to pursue after high school, I decided the best step was to figure it out through community college and not waste time and or money through University level priced tuition.  It was the year 2007 and I was finishing up my associates degree at Fullerton College, when the decision deadline was coming down to the wire.  I had been accepted to the three state schools I applied to: CSUF, CSULB, or SFSU.  The question of the hour though was, do I stay local and stay safe, or do I go out on a limb, take a risk and move up to the metropolis of San Francisco to finish my BA?

Knowing what my folks wanted me to choose, I decided (intentionally) not to talk to them about my decision.  This was going to be my decision; I had to live with the decision; so I sure as hell wasn't going have a skewed conversation pressure me any one way.  Looking back, I think I knew - really all along - what my decision would be; I just waited until the last day to finally put in my intent to register to San Francisco State University!

And I'll never forget my parents' reaction.  I'm sitting at the family computer in a fairly common area in our house, taking care of the task at hand, when my mom chimes in from the other end of the common area:
"Whatcha doing over there.?"
"Umm...taking care of some school business..."  Vague answer, I know.
"What kind of school business?"
"Umm...well I'm putting in my intent to register for the school of my choice."
My mom's interest and attention perks up noticeably.
"Oh yea?!  What school is that?!"
"Umm...(as I hesitate)...San Francisco State University."
"WHAT?!?!"

The conversation from there really is a blur of shock, surprise and a bit of 20 questions on logistics.  The following morning I went about my day as usual: class, work, etc when I recall having a missed call and voice-mail from none other than my dad.  Something to keep in mind: my dad never called me from work, unless it was an emergency, or tax related (as he did my tax return from the time I had a job).  As I listened to my dad's voice, the tone was very stern, very urgent, very shocked, but also very concerned.  The conversation I later had with him and my mother was a lot of...
"I thought you were going to stay local..."
"Why do you wanna move so far away???"
"Why didn't you discuss this decision with us before hand???" 
"Have you thought of the cost of living up there?!" 
"You know your mother and I are only paying for your tuition; which means you have to find a way to pay for books and the cost of living."
"Have you been looking into living arrangements??" 

All this was said with an undertone of...why didn't you choose Long Beach or Fullerton, it would've made more sense.. 

Obviously, I stuck with my initial decision, and that summer of 2007 leading up to my first fall semester living in the city by the bay, was quite a whirl wind of weekend road trips that included new student orientations; checking out the lay of the campus as well as the city, and not to mention meeting some distant family for the first time who are not too far from the cable car streets of SF; scouring craigslist for a place to live followed by some interesting encounters by some eclectic potential housemates and landlords.

Alls well that ended well though.  Two weeks before classes began I was moved into a house living with three other students whom all of us jived well together; I had a student loan to supplement my cost of living; I was on the job hunt; and I was completely and blissfully unaware of how much the next three years ahead were going to challenge, break, shape, and redefine me.  Arguably, those years were some of the best years of my life as I grew into myself, in a city that I truly learned to love.

Through all the tasks of preparation; road trips; and follow ups on paperwork and registration for classes my dad never said much more on the topic of my decision to move away for college.  Although, he did sometimes comment on San Francisco's "backwards politics," which he and I later often bantered back and forth on, as I began to rethink some of my own political opinions.  "San Francisco ruined you," he'd like to say to me with a playful smile.
But I digress.  He was a quite and strong presence though as he would frequently keep me on point to take care of business; even when I was lost in the process or overwhelmed, he was there to kick me in the pants. He had this saying that he'd like to often repeat to me; be it to me, or in reference to someone else...

"You're an adult.  I've done my part to raise you. As an adult, you have decisions to make, and they are your decisions alone; I can't make them for you; and it's you who have to live with the decisions; not me.  So while, I might not always agree or understand some of your choices, it's your life not mine.  And unless these decisions are harmful to you, I'm going to keep my opinion to myself."  

And he did!  I imagine it was a hard realization that his daughter was not just moving out of the house, but moving a distance away (like most things, he kept his emotions close to his chest), nonetheless he was there helping me prepare for that next chapter in my life; he was there helping me prepare for that defining decision.  Regardless if he agreed or understood my need to move away for college; regardless of the fact that it probably broke his heart to see his daughter fly the coop, he was there, supportive of the decision. And that kind of reaction - while sometimes convoluted - was and is love!  He let me go; he set me free; and you know...I came back to him, and for him.

AGAIN!

There's nothing like having a dad that will play with you.  No doubt many of us can recall fleeting memories of our dad's swinging them on their shoulders; playing catch; or racing them down the street.  While its the same for myself I also don't have one particular memory of my dad playing with me that stands out.  All the same here are a few...

I can remember being no older than five, coming home from ballet practice and running to a swing - that my dad constructed himself with a piece of think wood and two strong lines of rope - and having him push me in my tutu as I'd scream with delight, "HIGHER!"

I can remember - vaguely - being a toddler and one of my favorite things to do with my dad was having him do, "one, two, threeeeeee."  More explanation I know.  Whenever I felt a little roughly and playful, and we were in the living room, my dad might indulge me by laying on his back; legs bent and slightly elevated; I'd proceed to use his feet as a toddler roller-coaster chair, and his hands as my handle bars.  He's say "one," swing me up slightly; "two," swing me up slightly again; "THREEEEEEE," and swing me up, over his body, and I'd do a full flip and land on my feet; before saying: "AGAIN!"

I can remember when our family would be out on a family day trip (be it Disneyland, the park, or a family shing dig), and my young fussy self would get tired; he'd hoist me up on his shoulders.  All of a sudden my feet didn't hurt anymore and I had a 6"2' birds eye view of the world.  BLISS!

I can remember other times, my play time with my dad, would be as simple as being in the front or back yard and taking my dad's hands as he's swing me round and round, as he turned round and round.  Dizzy and grassy, I'd still insist in a fumbled saunter: "AGAIN!"

I can remember when he and I were more or less feeling silly, I'd sit on his lap as he'd use his hand as a mock "spider." We both referred to it as the "tickle monster," and the tickle monster would - as you'd expect - tickle me as I'd squeal and squirm, laugh and giggle in his lap and in his arms.

Sometimes it really is the simple things.  

"I Have a Respect For..."

As of lately, I’ve had a couple of conversations with a couple of individuals regarding my grieving of my father’s death.  Not knowing each other, they both suggested I shift my thinking to the memories I have of my dad; instead of focusing on missing him.  While, I know the physical separation of my dad will be something I will likely deal with for some time, I’ve decided to take my friends up on this advice.

    

When I was a young girl, truthfully, my dad wasn’t emotionally available; BUT, looking back I know he did love me and my siblings dearly.  In one sense, my dad projected his fear of heights, and the natural elements on me and my siblings growing up.  This was evident on many a beach day trips with my mom’s extended family.  My older cousins, Matt and Luke, as well as my older sister and I would compete with each other on who can go out further than the others in the waves of the ocean.  Competitions always, without fail, ended quickly and abruptly, as the hollers of my dad’s voice would reach our young ears as soon as we were waist deep in the ocean.  All the while, Matt and Luke, are waiting in the water, far further out than Katie and I, snickering and taunting us that, once again, they beat us! 

Another time, our family took a family road trip (which was customary every summer growing up) to the Grand Canyon! 

 ***Just as some background information: my younger brother Joey, was taking Tae Kwon Do; and for those of you who know Joe, just keep in mind his difficulty in discretion. ***  

Well, after a long drive to the rim of the canyon, we all were eager to stretch our legs, and for us kiddos , we were thrilled to lean over the railing of the mile deep hole in the ground and do our own oohs and aahhs.  Being a protective dad who “had a respect for heights,” he promptly began ushering the four of us back to a safe distance from the railing.  My sisters and I dutifully obeyed, but not with our own grumblings and groanings; but my brother wasn’t as willing or obedient!  After a fair amount of fussing to get my dad off of him, a sudden light flipped on Joey’s face – it was noticeable, and we all saw it.  

“Hiiiyaaaa!!!” 

Joey just numb chucked my dad right in his groin!  Instantly on his knees; on the ground; hands covering and holding his family jewels in a delayed protective action, and moaning (rightfully so), my brother, proudly, takes a few steps away, hands on his hips, states his Tae Kwon Do instructor taught him how to get away from people he didn’t want to be around!  Oie, my poor dad! 

While my dad didn’t always show his love and affection to me the way I wanted it; or thought I should receive it from a father, truly, I know he looked out for me and my siblings – in this case to his detriment. For that, I can reflect in sincere gratitude, and a few reminiscent chuckles.     

Religious Freedom or Legalized Discrimination?

In the words of our Pope Francis: “If a person is gay and seeks God and has good will, who am I to judge?”  These were bold words coming from the leader of the Christian world; a world that historically speaking has marginalized and shamed the gay community. 

It is encouraging to see how far gay rights and even acceptance of the gay community has come.  From just ten years ago, Massachusetts being the first state in the county to legalize same-sex marriages, to just last June when the Supreme Court ruled that DOMA of 1996 is unconstitutional; saying that DOMA violates the rights of gay men and women. 

Though as promising as these victories are, it’s equally disheartening when the recent scare of an Arizona bill was up in the air; a bill that would have given business owners the right to refuse service to any gay man or women.  Truly, this left me stunned and appalled!  With the premise of the proposed bill defending religious freedom caused me to question whether it would rather be religious beliefs being imposed on others, and causing backlash instead.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for religious freedom, but when a proposed law has the potential to cause people with strong held beliefs the license to screen and stereotype and discriminate; it’s just asking for trouble.  On that same train of thought, with a bill so broadly worded and no specifics in place there comes inevitable issues of discrimination.  For example, it is one thing if a church respectfully declines to perform a marriage ceremony for a same sex couple; but when those specifics aren't put in place, the potential for a restaurant owner to refuse service to a gay man or women becomes legal.  That’s ridiculous; shameful even!   

Then the slippery slope of stereotyping and judging comes into play coupled with gender identities.  How can you tell is someone is gay based on outward appearance?  Deem a man who walks into a business gay because he looks a little metro-sexual or his mannerisms are more feminine?  Deem a woman gay because she wears collared button downs, paired with trousers and a blazer, topped off with a “boyish” haircut and seems a little rough around the edges?  Com’on!  

When I first read the news about the bill, I couldn't help but think about racial discrimination:  “Irish Need Not Apply” signs, “Separate but Equal” restrooms, drinking fountains and restaurants.  And while gay rights may not be the exact same comparison as the civil rights history and movement what it boils down to is judgment, condemnation and alienation. 

What leaves me so much beside myself when talking about gay rights and religious freedom is this: people have their deep seeded beliefs about gay men and women being an abomination; well why stop there?  I know there’s morality about divorce; morality about pre-marital sex; morality about gluttony; morality about greed; the list goes on.  So why not just carry (at all times) an identification card of all the litany marks against us.  This way we can take religious freedom full throttle. 

Going too far?! Hope it made a point!

Being a practicing Catholic myself, I couldn't help but think of Jesus sitting at a table and eating with tax collectors and prostitutes.  The Pharisees and Scribes were quick to judge and alienate sinners; while Jesus said: let the person without sin cast the first stone.  How is a bill that discriminates not a modern day stone?!

Again, yes, religious freedom: good; great; I’m all for it.  That gives citizens the right to respectfully voice their opinion; pray and worship how they see fit; abstain from vices they see as harmful; respectfully yet boldly decline to perform procedures and deeds that are innately wrong.  This is free will; we all have it. 

Now as it were, I personally, support gay rights and marriage.  For example, I voted no on proposition 8.  First off, in a country that doesn't have a national religion; it would be showing partiality over certain religious beliefs.  Secondly, from a secular standpoint, giving same sex couples the right to marry and all the legal rights that go with it doesn't make a heterosexual couples’ marriage any less.  Thirdly, passing a secular bill on gay marriage doesn't infringe on any one person’s religious beliefs and held teachings; maybe makes them uncomfortable, but that is something totally different.  People are free to participate or not participate; because of religious freedom and their free will.  Same sex couples are free to marry; and heterosexual couples are free to marry.  If you aren't gay, don’t marry a gay man or woman.  How does a consensual same sex marriage affect any one person’s decision not to marry gay?  And passing laws that infringe on people’s civil freedoms based on religious freedom is, simply put: imposing one groups set of beliefs on the whole.  Again, we do not have a national religion, where this might be binding.   

For myself, it comes down to this: being gay isn't a choice; and it’s been proven time and time again; it’s a predisposition.  Therefore, I have a hard time accepting a predisposition within a committed consensual marriage as wrong. 

Yes, there are plenty of Biblical passages that condemn homosexuality; but name me one passage that Jesus himself said that condemns gay men and women.  It’s no secret that Jesus challenged and changed old traditions and teachings from the Old Testament in his three years of ministry.  Once more in the words of our Pope: “If a person is gay and seeks God and has good will, who am I to judge?”  So, if the Pope isn't judging; who are any of us to?!