A SILENT KILLER

     Growing up in East Los Angeles and El Monte in Southern California, the sound of sirens certainly wasn’t unfamiliar.  Sometimes they were preceded by gunshots; sometimes they were in response to the scene of an accident, but regardless of the reason, after awhile the sound became so commonplace that it ceased to be a matter worth my attention.

     But this time, the sound of the siren was closer than ever and it definitely had my attention.   I was in the back of an ambulance on the way to the emergency room with a paramedic pumping medicine into me while my daughter, who was very upset, was in the passenger seat of her mother’s car as they were following the ambulance.

     The sound of a siren is attention getting, designed to alert, to warn, to call to attention.  I really shouldn’t have waited for things to get to this point, for I had plenty of warning, plenty of signs to alert me to the fact that something was very wrong with me.

 

     “Umm…Do you realize that your hand is in your soup?!”  That sounded like an odd question for her to ask me.  I mean you’d think I’d know a thing like that and I couldn’t think of a valid reason why my hand would be there.  But sure enough, I looked to my left and there my hand was in a bowl of Japanese soup and noodles.  I pulled it out, shook it a little and replied to my girlfriend in a somewhat detached voice, “Damn!  That soup is pretty hot…”

     It was May 30^th, 2011 and after spending some time in Griffith Park, we had decided to drive to the Little Tokyo section of Los Angeles to get something to eat.  I hadn’t had much to eat for breakfast and while at the park my girlfriend had remarked that I looked very tired.  I figured that my blood sugar was very low, as I was accustomed to eating several times a day but hadn’t eaten much that particular day.  Plus, about a year and a half before, I had been diagnosed as a borderline diabetic.  My energy levels had been fluctuating quite a bit in the previous few months and I was beginning to wonder if I had indeed become diabetic by that point, but had yet to see a doctor to determine whether or not that was the case.

     I was usually very excited anytime I went to Little Tokyo and why not?  With attractive exotic looking women, good food, rice candy, and plenty of Godzilla merchandise, what was there not to like? Yet instead of being infused with my usual childlike enthusiasm I felt like I was in a little bit of a daze.  My left arm almost seemed like it had a mind of its own and after knocking over my drink a couple of times in the restaurant and bumping my left shoulder into a couple of poles, my girlfriend thought that I might be in need of a rest and suggested that I try to catch a nap in the car.  I replied that it wasn’t necessary and instead suggested that we head over to Olvera Street, as she had never been there.  She asked if I wanted her to drive, which I also said was unnecessary. 

     While my girlfriend could certainly be assertive in some ways, I’m sure that in hindsight she wished she had been more assertive regarding her suggestion to drive.  For while on the way to Olvera Street my driving prompted her to ask in what was simultaneously a nervous and annoyed voice, “Do you not feel the need to stop at “Stop signs”?

     After a brief stop at Olvera Street where apparently where my left arm decided on its own to randomly slap away at lady’s purses and men’s stomachs, I preceded to act like I was a member of the car acrobatic team from the old Speed Racer cartoon series.  Strangely enough a little voice in my head that sounded oddly like my own was saying, “You know, I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but this is some pretty dangerous stuff you’re pulling here…Whoa!  Check out the Brunette in the convertible!  Oh, excuse me!  Well, as I was saying, this is some pretty dangerous stuff that you’re pulling here and I’m not sure that if you keep this up you’re going to come out of this unhurt.”  And that voice would return over the course of the next two weeks as I would do and experience things that required it to do so.

     While we made it safely back to Griffith Park where my girlfriend had left her car parked, it was very obvious that we had only barely made it there in one piece.  My girlfriend had always had an unreasonable fear that she would one day die in a car accident and my actions that day convinced her that I was hell bent on making that come true.  After slamming my car door shut she jumped in her vehicle and skidded out of the parking lot, leaving me on my own to admire the greenery of the park and to enjoy the cool gentle breeze on my face.  In an environment like that, I thought, “What could be wrong?”

     But I knew something was, because all through my drive home a thought kept creeping up in my mind that it would be quite a relief if I made it home in one piece.  And I hadn’t had thoughts like that since my younger and crazier days of sometimes driving somewhat under the influence.  Because if I did, why would I ever get behind the wheel of a car in the first place?  But I tried to focus on what I was doing all the while knowing somewhere in a part of my mind far, far away, that if I had to focus like that, something just wasn’t right.

     But I managed to get home safe and sound, with only running a single red light, although I had decided to get off of the freeway a little sooner than I normally did.  For some reason I felt that the faster speeds on the freeway were beginning to be a little too much for me.

     And during the course of the next two weeks, I would experience odd little things.  I couldn’t seem to go a day without bumping my left shoulder into a doorframe or something, and it would make me laugh.  It just seemed like such an odd thing to keep happening!  And it was only later that I would realize that it was always with my left shoulder that I would bump into things.  When typing a message to a friend I would often make mistakes, sometime spelling the words backwards, and while watching reruns of TV shows I had already seen previously, I would hear background music that I hadn’t noticed before.  Was it always there and I just hadn’t picked up on it before, or did someone do a soundtrack remix?  As bizarre as that seemed, I also found it a little fascinating, as if I had my own little special version of the show that was airing just for me.  I also couldn’t seem to hold onto things with my left hand and I was always dropping something.  And I always seemed to just barely make it to the bathroom, at times nearly urinating on myself.  I came so close to that happening one time that it really upset me.  I suddenly had a feeling of being out of control of things, of helplessness, and I was so emotional about it I nearly broke down in tears in the bathroom.

     Two days before the ambulance ride my daughter and I were exiting the parking lot of the local Fresh n’ Easy where we had just finished our grocery shopping.  I love that there’s lots of trees in the City of Chino Hills where I live, and across the street from where we were there’s a park, and I was just caught up in the beauty and serenity of all the greenery within my eyesight.  I then tried to convey the awe with which I was filled to my daughter who was sitting in the back seat.

     And for some reason, I just couldn’t seem to get the words out.  Now anyone who’s every had a conversation with me can tell you that being able to express myself verbally and articulating my thoughts has never been an issue for me.  If anything, in earlier years there have been times when they wish I wasn’t so articulate and would just keep my thoughts to myself.  However, no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t seem to get any words out.  I stammered and uttered a few sounds, but nothing would come out of my mouth.  And I suddenly had an urge to spit, and to spit quite a bit.  My daughter asked, with a little bit of concern in her voice, “Dad, is everything alright?”

     Finally I was able to get some words out.  “Yeah…I’m fine.”  She didn’t seem convinced though and neither did a man who pulled up beside me in his car.  “Hey Buddy, are you ok?”  “Why would he ask that?” I thought.  “What a strange thing for him to do” a voice in my head said.

     “Are you sure?” he asked.  I just nodded, smiled, and muttered “Yeah…fine.”  I still wondered why he asked that.  It was only later that I began to reflect on the situation and wondered what kind of body language was I exhibiting that made it obvious to him that something might not be right, and had his car been idling behind mine for some time before he made his inquiries, wondering why I was idling in the driveway and not moving my car forward?

     To this day I still don’t know what I did or what kind of physical gestures I may have made to make that such a scary ride home for my daughter, but I do know that she asked me a few time if I was okay and felt the need to direct me home.  I was puzzled by that because why would I not know the way to get home, and wasn’t I making all of the right turns?

     In any case, the next day, which was a Monday, I told my daughter that we were going to stay in for the day but that the next day we would go on some kind of outing.  As it turned out, the next day on Tuesday around 11:00 in the morning, I would be the only one going on an outing and it wasn’t like anything I would ever plan on.  My daughter, frightened by the thought that I would be getting behind the wheel of a car and driving us somewhere had unbeknownst to me, called her mother to tell her that she was scared and that something wasn’t right with me.  So I was quite surprised when her mother knocked on my door asking to speak with me.  She told me about our daughter calling her and telling her that was afraid to ride in the car with me.  She then asked me if there was something wrong with me.

     All at once my mind seemed to break somewhat free of the fog that I had been walking around in for the previous two weeks.  The memories of the little weird things that had been going on came flooding back to me as did the capacity to be completely honest with myself.  Something was terribly wrong me. 

     With all that I had gone through and experienced in life, with every struggle and trial that I had overcome and successfully seen myself through, I had become a person who was confident and could remain composed under fire.  This time however, I began to experience thoughts and feelings of panic.  I began to worry that I would no longer be able to care for my daughter and that I would lose her.  During my attempt to show and articulate that I would be alright, the stress, combined with whatever physical complications I was experiencing, overwhelmed my system and things became critical.

     I was able to utter some words but even I could tell that I was largely incoherent, and the realization of this caused me to become more frustrated as I struggled to compose myself and overcome whatever it was I was experiencing.  My jaw then began to tic, and drool came pouring out of my mouth.  My daughter’s mother then said that she was calling 911 and I was pleading with her not to, that a hospital stay was too expensive, and that my insurance had run out.  “This country doesn’t care about people like me!” I uttered in frustration.

     Within minutes the ambulance arrived and the paramedics inquired about my situation.  I was still drooling although I was a little more coherent, and one of the paramedics asked me if I was on drugs.  Although my daughter was in the house I had no doubt that she could probably hear the conversation we were having outside and my first thought was to punch the paramedic for asking me such a question within earshot of my daughter.  From somewhere in the fog a voice of reason reminded me that he was only doing his job and that it was a logical question to ask given my physical behavior.

     He then informed me that I might be having a stroke and they said that they’d strap me into a gurney and take me to the hospital.  I insisted that I was alright to walk on my own into the ambulance but they insisted I get on the gurney.  When I said wait until I get my wallet and keys and lock up the house, they insisted I shouldn’t walk.  They seemed rather adamant about it and I was ready to force my way past them if I needed to, but I remembered my daughter.  They suggested that she get my wallet and keys and after locking up, she and her mom could follow the ambulance in the car.

     In the ambulance the paramedics informed me that I may be having either a stroke or a T.I.A. which is much like a stroke but not as severe.  They said that both my blood sugar and my blood pressure were through the roof.  They began to intravenously pump medication into me and informed me that the hospital they were taking me to had a unit that specialized in treating those who had sustained a stroke.

     I was already becoming more coherent during the ambulance ride and most of my drooling had stooped.  When we arrived at the hospital I was admitted quickly and taken to the emergency room.  My daughter and her mom arrived shortly and while my daughter couldn’t enter the emergency room because she was only 11, I spoke to her mother.

     “She was really scared on the way over here and I felt bad for her” she said.  “I know that you’re not one to ask help from anyone, but you need to let them give you treatment.”

     I informed her that the emergency room personnel were very surprised at how much better I was already doing all things considered, and that my blood pressure and blood sugar levels had dropped quite a bit.  I then asked her to relay the message to our daughter that I was doing much better and that everything was going to be alright.  “Tell her that there’s nothing that her Dad can’t get through and I’m going to let them help me while I’m here.  I’ll give her a call tomorrow.”

     With that she left and I resumed my friendly chats with the nurses.  After meeting with a neurologist and a surgeon, I underwent my initial wave of testing and was informed that I did indeed have a full blown stroke.  “You have bleeding on the brain and it seems to have been going on for a little while” the Neurologist informed me.  “How long have you been experiencing your symptoms?”  “Two weeks” I replied. 

     “We’re going to have to keep you in intensive care for at least two days and do more testing.  Then we’ll be able to determine if your condition requires surgery” he told me.  “Great” I thought, I hated hospitals and previously I never had to stay more than a few hours in one with the exception of when I broke my leg when I was a baby. I began to ask myself, “Am I going to be able to get any sleep in this place, and how the hell am I going to pay for my stay?  And am I really going to require surgery?”

 

UP NEXT: "A SILENT KILLER PART II: MY KRYPTONITE"

    

 

A LETTER TO MY DAUGHTER

     Today, we're celebrating your 13th Birthday, and I'll go ahead and use the cliche' "It seems like yesterday", because it really does seem like just yesterday, that I held you in my arms for the first time, and all it took that first time was you grasping and clutching my finger with your little hand, to soothe and comfort you and to stop you from crying.  And it wasn't long afterward, that I would come home from work, take you into my arms, and marvel at the look of wonder in your eyes as you were transfixed with my daily ritual of singing Bob Marley's "Two little birds": "Don't worry...about a thing...Because every little thing...is going to be alright."

     And it's true.  Every little thing is going to be alright.  I began to really believe that then, and I've only become more convinced of that every day since that day.  And that's one of the truths of life that I hope to pass on to you.  It's a big responsibility, but one I've gladly undertaken, and it's also one of the many promises that I made when I first held you in my arms that day in the hospital.  I was both excited by your arrival, to the point of being in awe, and also scared by it.  I was in awe, because I held a miracle in my arms, and I had never thought up to that point that I would actually become a father.  And it was like being born all over, with an opportunity to create and nurture a better version of myself.  And not in the sense of trying to live vicariously through you in any way, or planning a detailed future for you.  But in the sense that I could guide, teach, inspire, and love you, and nurture you in ways that I hadn't experienced, so that you would have the opportunity to realize a world of possibilities, and be best prepared to create life and happiness as you wish.  And yet, for all the same reasons that I was in awe and excited, I was also scared.  Because all of that was not only a tremendous privilege for me, but a tremendous responsibility as well.  I really wasn't sure if I was up to the task.  For it would require me to think outside of myself in a way that I never really quite had before.  It meant I could be nearly as self-centered as I had been up to that point.  It meant that I couldn't be nearly as self-centered as I had been up to that point.

     But then, that's the way life works.  It presents us with challenges that require us to become more than we are at the present time.  Challenges that force us to become more in order to do more.  Challenges that require us to become the kind of person it takes to successfully meet those challenges.  And fear often comes along with the territory.  Because we are venturing into an unknown realm, into unfamiliar territory.  But every new journey begins with a first, unfamiliar step.  A step that we hadn't taken previously.  And yet, every new race that is won, every journey that is successfully fulfilled, is always accomplished with a first step that hadn't previously been taken.

     And in my quest to give you the opportunities to develop into the best quality person you can be, I in turn, became a much better person.  Because I had to in order to become the kind of person who could carry out the privilege and responsibility of being a good parent.  And I had always wanted to become better than I was, for reaching my full potential was something I had always aspired to.  But your arrival definitely gave the matter a great sense of urgency and importance.  Because I would no longer be doing it for myself alone.  And I am grateful for that.

     I've been blessed with the acquired understanding that everything that I've ever experienced, both good and bad, was for a purpose.  And I've been blessed with many opportunities to share my lessons and acquired perspective with others, so that all the trials, tests, and experiences have not been for naught.  And I've been blessed in many instances to positively impact, guide, teach, encourage, influence, and in some cases, inspire others.  But no greater opportunity or privilege has existed like the opportunity I have to do those things for you.  And no opportunity means more to me.

     And yet, as big a task as I had before me, and still have before me, you've certainly made it easier in some ways.  You possess a sensitivity and compassion for the feelings of others, that comes much more naturally for you than it did for me.  And you also often display a work ethic as well as respect for your fellow human beings that I didn't develop until I was several years older than you.  While I've been very proud of your accomplishments in school, of which there have been plenty, I think I was even more proud of how you recovered so incredibly well when you were struggling a bit with your academics earlier this year.  That recovery, that ability to bounce back said even more about your developing character.  And the way I've seen you interact with others, like when you were around 6 years old, and I'd see you aiding smaller children you had just encountered, either with tying their shoe so that they wouldn't fall, or helping them climb into a bounce house, all the while other children your age and older were too pre-occupied with their own activity to help these small children...You made my heart smile so much.  And it's still smiling even as I remember it and write it down, and the beaming smile on my face is keeping it company.

     It's funny, because while I very much miss those days of playing hide and seek with you, playing the "Big Bad Wolf and the 3 Little pigs" in the playhouses that they used to have outside of "Toys r' us", playing "Spiderman" in the park every weekend, and you holding my hand while we walked in public...I understand that I can't both have that and watch you grow into the woman that I also hoped and knew you could become.  I can't have my cake and eat it too.  But I can wish...

     And that's one of the other ways that I've grown, both as a person and as a parent.  I've come to understand and accept that I can't both protect you and prepare you for the world.  I can't shield you from the world.  But I can prepare you to successfully deal with it on your own terms.  I can't make you happy or ensure that you will have a happy life.  But I can give you the tools, knowledge, lessons, encouragement, love, and support, so that you can better create those things for yourself and have the confidence and faith that you can.  And I wouldn't be doing you justice by providing a safety net for you when you fall.  Yet I know that as a parent that inclination is always there.  But I can point out some of the potholes along the path of life.  And if you should trip and fall, and there will be times that you will, I'll always be there to help you pick yourself up and encourage you to keep on traveling, to keep moving forward.

     It's a new chapter in you life, and it won't be the only one.  And as with most new journeys, it will involve both a mixture of excitement and fear.  But will get through it together.   Like the song say, "...Every little thing...is going to be alright." 

Love,

Dad

It's never too early too learn

     When I was 5 years old, I lived across the street from the elementary school that I attended.  You'd think that kind of close proximity would've spelled murder for me, because theoretically, it'd be easier for my teachers to arrange conferences with my parents regarding my behavior.  Luckily, that happened far less than I gave them reason to.  Anyway, when I was in kindergarten, one of my best friends, if not THE best friend I had at the time, was a little blonde girl named Anna.  We used to enjoy talking to each other at recess time, and since she lived only a few houses down from me, I visited her a few times at her home after the school day was over.  My mother and stepfather used to tease me, saying that Anna was my girlfriend.  I really didn't like hearing that, for what 5 year old boy wants to have a girlfriend?  Of course, it's always possible that this was just the first step in what would become my openness to interracial dating.  And I'm most certain that it was the first example for me of a pure friendship, one that was innocent, purely based on mutual regard and mutual enjoyment of each other's company.  The kind that are still very much possible to have as one gets older, yet seemingly get harder to find.  And it was on one of the these occasions while I was playing with Anna in her living room, that I looked up to see her father standing there.  He was always there during the day time, and looking back on it now, I wonder if he worked at night, or if he wasn't working at all at that particular time.

     Anyhow, on this particular occasion, when I happened to look up and find him staring at me, he jut had this look of utter contempt on his face.  I couldn't understand why, because I had done nothing wrong, and I felt that Anna and I were playing quietly, but what I did know was that it made me feel very uncomfortable.  And unfortunately, that would be the last time that I would get to visit Anna at her home.  She told me the next day at school that her Dad said that I wasn't allowed to go over there anymore.  I didn't know why, and its possible Anna didn't either.  I thought that kind of sucked, but I still got to talk to Anna at school, although it seemed a little less frequent. 

     Later on in life, I was able to look back on that incident at Anna's house with a little more perspective.  As I continued through life, I would come to recognize that same look that her father had on his face, on the faces of others.  There was always the possibility that her father just didn't like the thought of his daughter having a boy around the house.  After all, what father is ever ready for his daughter to take an interest in boys, at any age much less the age of 5?  But no, it was more than that.  I firmly believe that it was my skin tone.  Sure, I'm a little on the lighter side for a Chicano, but I'm still Latino nontheless, and for some people, regardless of race or creed, differences are intolerable.  It was unfortunate that I had to have my first taste of the  racist brand of narrowmindedness at such a young age, but it was bound to happen.  I didn't see Anna over that next summer, or even during the next school year, and I missed my friend very much.  Then one day in the second grade, I was walking back to my classroom during recess, and I heard someone call my name.  It was Anna, and she was sitting on the concrete walkway outside of her classroom, with her back against the wall. I was both excited and surprised to see my friend whom I had missed so much.

     She looked very sad, and I asked her where she'd been, because I hadn't seen her around.  She said that her family had moved to a different house.  It was weird, because it seemed that we both wanted to talk to eache other, and I wanted to comfort my friend because she was sad, but things seemed different between us.  They had changed somehow, as if there was a barrier between us other than time lost.  I remembered how in kindergarten there were a couple of times that I had tried to comfort her while she was crying.  She had said at those times that she was crying because her Dad was meant to her.  I wanted to comfort her now as well, but it felt as if there was an unbridgeable gap between us.  It was an uncomfortable moment for both of us, and being young, and not knowing what else to say, I said goodbye and continued to walk to class.

   For a long time, on the rare occasions when I'd be reminded of that incident, I wondered if I was less of a friend than I should've been.  As if there were more that I could've done, but hadn't.  And I felt bad about that.  But eventually, I came to the realization that there could've been several possibilities, including personal problems on her part, (most likely having to do with her home life) that might've caused the distance between us.  And if that was the case, I had no control over that.  While we can contribute to the happiness of others, and they can contribute to ours, we are not responsible for anyone else's happiness, nor are they responsible for ours.  And as we go through life, we are all bound to pick up a little baggage.  Now some people may be quick to protest, "No, not me!" But I think my statement about baggage is fair and accurate.  Baggage doesn't always have to have a negative connotation or impact, although it often does.  Sometimes baggage is just something that we have as a result of having lived and experiencing life.  Sometimes in can be the result of mistakes, and sometimes in can be the result of negative experiences, but often, it's simply the result of living.  The difference is in how much of it is negative vs. how much of it is just the result of experience?  And how much do we have, and how heavy is it to carry?  If it weighs us down, and impedes us from being able to move forward on our path, or if we end up dumping it on other people because it's too much for us to handle, then it becomes problem. 

   And perhaps that experience with Anna was also my first lesson that things change, that people sometimes drift apart for whatever reason, and that we need to be prepared to move on in life.  Again, a hard lesson at an early age, but a necessary one.  People, and sets of situations that we encounter in life's journey, are like a single puzzle piece in a thousand peice puzzle.  Some pieces are bigger than others, but all are necessary for us to complete the final picture.  Where we sometimes get into trouble is when we try to force a peice into a place that it doesn't belong, in an effort to quickly complete the puzzle.  When that happens, not only do we risk distorting the final picture, but breaking that particular puzzle piece in the process.  It's every piece in its own place and its own time.

     And so I've also learned to appreciate, reflect on, and treasure the good memories from every situation and relationship, and I've learned that those are things that time can never destroy or tarnish.  And that like money in the bank, they can collect interest over time.  When we're feeling a little shipwrecked in life, lost at sea, suitcases of good memories are the kind of baggage that can make great floatation devices, keeping our head above water, rather than weighing us down, causing us to sink. Sometimes, it's all in how we look at things. 

"Men are disturbed, not by things that happen, but by their opinion of the things that happen." - Epictetus

    

Daddy's little girl

     Like most adults, I have several roles that I play in life, but since the day that my daughter was born, the most pivotal, challenging, and most of all rewarding one, has been that of Daddy.  I've been called many names before, some unfit to print here (thanks, mom), but the one that I've enjoyed hearing most is "Daddy".  And at times, it seems as if my daughter is determined to be the only one that will ever call me that.  There have been a few exceptions, but I'm determined to keep this post rated "PG", so I'll just gloss over those.

   But then, it hasn't always been that way.  I can recall when my daughter was 5, and we were in the local supermarket, looking for the shortest checkout line while I pushed our cart full of groceries, and my daughter reached up and grabbed my arm, shaking it to get my attention, and was excitedly yelling "Dad! Dad!"  I was hoping that she had spotted a very short line, but thought that with my luck she simply wanted to point out that I had toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe.  And that it was used.  But as it turned out, I was wrong on all counts.  I then asked my daughter "What?  What is it?"  She then pointed towards an attractive female checker and excitedly shouted, "Look! Look!" (Now when you picture my daughter speaking as a five year old, you have to keep in mind that at the time, she had a speech delay, which made her sound like a 3 year old.  It sometimes bothered her, but I thought she sounded adorable.)  "Look at what?"  I asked.  "Look at that girl Dad!" "Well, what about her?"  "She's PRETTY Dad!"  I laughed and responded, "Well, yes, she is.  But why are you telling me this?"  She turned to me and said with a smile on her face and a tone in her voice that indicated that she was merely stating the obvious, and answered, "Because...You LIKE pretty girls, Dad!"

     I was both shocked and relieved.  Had I been that obvious in my attraction to women?  For a brief moment, a slight paranoia struck me and I began to pat down my shirt to see if it was wet from drool, and to look around me to see if some supermarket worker had placed any of those yellow cones around me that said "wet floor/mojado", either indicating excessive drool on my part or questioning my right to be in this country.  I had always considered myself discreet when casting an admiring eye on a woman, so I just figured that my daughter was quite perceptive.  She probably figured that there must be some reason we were always getting extra tokens from the female workers at Chuck E. Cheese.  And I was encouraged that she seemed to be accepting that her single Dad would be attracted to women, and what's more, seemed to be more than willing to point them out to me.  Not only was that a relief for me, but it seemed to have nice possibilities.

     Years before I had become a father, I had been somewhat of a father figure to my youngest sister, who is 16 years my junior.  I bought her first bikes, taught her to ride them (and file the serial numbers off of the frames), took her to parks, the zoo, and to amusement parks, and taught her some of the things that kids need to learn in their first few years.  And unfortunately for me on one occasion, one of those things was self-defense.  One of the unexpected benefits of being such a good big brother and taking my kid sister almost everywhere with me, was that many women find it appealing when they see a man interacting well with a child and being an active participant in their life.  And like some perceptive young men, I sometimes used it as an opportunity to strike up chats with attractive women that I encountered in public.  One of those occasions was when my then-5 year old sister and I were waiting in a check out line at the local Sam's Club.  I wasn't 20 seconds into a conversation with an attractive woman in the next line, when my kid sister decided to demonstrate on me the effectiveness of a straight right punch to the crotch of an unsuspecting male. As it turned out...it was quite effective.  Effective in causing me to lose my air, buckle my knees, change color a couple of times, and in causing the attractive young woman to cringe in sympathy before proceeding through her check out line.  And of course my sister stood there with a smile on her face, as if expecting to hear a "Thatta girl" from me and encouragement to pick the candy of her choice from near the checkout stand.  As if I would be capable of any kind of speech for the next 20 minutes.  I think the only voice she should've expected to hear was the one over the PA system requesting a "Clean up on check stand 4."

     So, flashing back several years ahead, and with my hands instinctively shielding my crotch area, my daughter and I proceeded through our supermarket check out line, and I pondered the thought that my luck may have changed, and that I just might now have an effective wingman.

    That excitement was very short lived however, because not too long after, while taking her back to her mom's house after one of our weekend visits, I had to make an urgent stop at a bathroom, because I had made the mistake of drinking way too much liquid before the nearly 2 hour drive.  Just before I burst into the men's room at the local Wendy's Restaurant and my bladder burst on me, I made eye contact with a very attractive woman who was standing in line to place her food order, and we exchanged smiles.   Being that I had my daughter with me, I don't think that I would've asked her for her number or anything, but the thought of another quick exchange of looks and flirtatious smiles would've been a nice way to stroke my ego, so I was hoping that I'd see her again after my quick visit to the bathroom.  I did, and slightly sooner than expected.  Although I was in the bathroom less than 2 minutes, to a 5 year old who's waiting in the hallway and has no concept of time, that seems like an eternity.  So when I exited the bathroom, and Lo and behold, made eye contact with the attractive woman from earlier, who was now on her way to her own bathroom break, my daughter promptly blurted out, "Man, Dad!  You took a long time!!!"  As if in very painfully slow motion, the attractive woman's smile transitioned to a look of embarrassment (for me), and she then averted her eyes away from me and down toward the floor.  Of course, my smile quickly left my own face as well, and the only one in the vicinity who seemed to manage to hold onto theirs, was of course, my daughter.  In fact, I could've sworn her smile got wider...like a Cheshire Cat.  But then again, that was probably just my paranoia kicking in.  Probably.

     But being the kind of person that tries to remain positive, and who gives people the benefit of the doubt, I chalked up the experience to mere coincidence and figured it might've been a fluke.  But then a couple of months afterward, while innocently joking and chatting with the young lady working at the Burger King drive-thru, I turned toward the backseat to hand my daughter her kids' meal, and was met with a look that was both quite suspicious and cynical for a 5 year old.  A look and a smirk that said, "Why don't you just quit your job so you could flirt full-time?"  Sigh...I was beginning to think that the days of my daughter being my wingman were over before they even got started.

     And I became positive that this was the case when after watching a Shakira music video, I turned and asked my daughter, who up until that moment was orchestrating a lively discussion between 2 Barbie dolls as to who would get to go with Ken and Scooby Doo to the movies, "How would you feel if your Dad decided to get married?'  The way that my daughter dropped her Barbies (and her jaw dropped too) indicated that they were now probably headed to the Mattel Emergency room instead of the theater, and that she really didn't like the idea of her father having a female companion.  I was joking of course, but she obviously didn't find anything funny in what I had said.  And I was a little surprised at such a reaction.  I then half expected to later find her cutting letters out of a magazine to paste them on a piece of paper, spelling out subtle threats to be mailed to Shakira.  Of course, she probably receives plenty of letters warning, "Stay away from my Dad!"  And probably mailed by their mothers...

     And on another occasion, while my daughter was again playing with her Barbies on the floor of my bedroom, and Shakira was again letting people know that her "Hips don't lie", I jokingly made the remark to my daughter, "Look at your future step-mom, dancing on tv."  My daughter then turned towards the tv, and stared for a while before turning back towards me.  I don't know what she was thinking while she was staring at the Colombian beauty dancing, although something to the effect of "That tramp?!"  probably wouldn't have been out of the question.  My daughter then turned her look towards me and sat there without a word before turning her attention back to her Barbies.  I realized that "Daddy's Girl" in her mind, meant that there really wasn't any room for others.  At least not any time soon.  So I sat down with her and assured her that I was only joking with my remark, and that she would always be Daddy's number one girl, no matter what.  And we both then decided together that it would be a good idea for Barbie to put on her Mariachi hat and sunglasses before jumping into her jeep to drive herself and her friends to the beach.

    And it's always been that way, with my daughter being my number one girl, and everything in my life, whether it be work, dating, or whatever, being secondary to, and revolving around my time with her.  And that's how it should be.  A few years later, when my daughter was 10, and we were sitting on top of the Ferris wheel at Knott's Scary farm, admiring the night lights, I mentioned to her that this might be the last time we do this together.  She laughed, as if I were joking, and asked, "Why?"  To which I responded, "Because even though you don't understand this right now, there's going to be a time soon, when you're not going to think it's so cool to hang around your Dad, and you're going to prefer to visit places like this with your friends or cousins.  Instead, you're going to be asking me to drop you off, and telling me that you'll call me when you're ready to be picked up.  You might even ask me to duck down and drop you off around the corner."  My daughter giggled in amusement and gave me a look of "Ok, Dad...Senility is hitting you early..."

    My daughter is going to be 13 soon, and as predicted, Dad isn't quite as cool to be around as he used to be.  She still hasn't handed me a Chauffeur's hat yet while I drive her around, but she definitely enjoys her alone time and she opts out of some of the things that I suggest we do together.  She still laughs at my stories though and listens attentively when I teach her life lessons, and I am still convinced that she probably respects me more than any one else in the world.  And while I loved and miss my role as her oldest playmate, I take most seriously my roles as perhaps her most influential teacher, and the primary male figure in her life.  And hopefully, the many by whom all future men in her life will be measured, because they sure don't seem to make them like they used to.  I'm sure that by now, she'd be better accustomed to the idea of there being a special woman in her Dad's life, although still, my daughter would be the priority.

     Life is a cycle, and our roles, and sometimes the nature of our relationships, have to change somewhat.  We hold our children tight when they are young, only to let loose our grip when they grow older.  We look forward to the the day that they can walk, only to see them eventually walk away.  But hopefully, the ties that we have with them, the connections that we've made and strengthened, are like a bungee cord, allowing them freedom to roam, but the with the prospect that when they reach their limits, they can always return.

Song of Gratitude

     Thank you...for another day of life, something that thousands who were here yesterday are no longer here to appreciate.  For I know that this day represents more time.  More time to become the person that I am capable of being, to take another step towards fulfilling my purpose, to come closer to reaching my goals, to express love and appreciation to those who are important in my life, and to perhaps invite new ones to enter it.  And it means more time to experience, learn, understand, and grow.

     Thank you...for those that I have loved, and have been loved by, both in the past and in the present.  Thank you for my child, who represents the love I have to offer, and a version of me that the world has yet to see, while making her own unique and special mark on this world. 

     Thank you, for those who have come before me.  The ones who thought out of the box, who dared to risk, who dared to be great, who dared to be the first, who dared to question what could and couldn't be done, who dared to say "Why not?"  The ones who lived the life they loved and loved the life they lived.  For it is as Isaac Newton once wrote, "If I have seen a little further, it is by standing on the shoulders of Giants."  And thank you, for instilling in me that inherent desire to always walk my own path, regardless of the opinions of others.  And thank you for granting me the perspective to see, that with mistakes and accomplishments alike, that was really the only way for me to go.  And thank you, for the understanding, that the voice that speaks loudest in my head, and is the most critical to listen to, is my own.

     Thank you...for the privilege of being born in this country.  For while it is far from perfect, it still offers opportunities and freedoms which have thus far, escaped some of the other areas of the globe.  Opportunities and freedoms which many of us here take for granted, sometimes feeling that we are "owed' something, and forgetting that with freedom comes responsibility.  I will not make those mistakes.  Thank you... because unlike some, I didn't have to work my way here, win a lottery for the opportunity to be here, or risk my life to get here.  I was simply born...And who I was born to, and where they were living at the time of my birth, was not an accomplishment on my part, or anything that I had any control over.  I will not forget to appreciate that fact.

     Thank you...for my health, for the clothes on my back, for the roof over my head, and for the food in my belly.  Having these things gives me less to worry about, so that I may further concentrate on my goals and purpose.  I will not forget the fact that not everybody can say that.  Even if these things are not in the perfect condition that I would like, I will not forget that things can always be worse.  I will not forget the Persian proverb that say, "I cried because I had not shoes, until I saw the man that had no feet."  And I will not forget that while in this country, we often fret about the decision as to what we shall choose to eat for our next meal, while in some other places, some people fret as to whether they will have a next meal at all.  And for some, even when they can expect a next meal, a "choice" as to what it might be is something that they cannot comprehend.

   And while I am grateful for what I have, I am also thankful for the knowledge, that it's perfectly alright for me to want more, providing that those things are in harmony with my purpose, and that the the pursuit of those things will not inhibit me from increasing the quality of person that I am.  We are all goal-striving beings, and we are made to stretch the limits of our potential, and it is in harmony with our purpose to do so.  Jim Rohn recognized this, and wrote in his book "The Five major life pieces of the life puzzle", "The ultimate reason for setting goals is to entice you to become the person it takes to achieve them." And I am grateful that I have come to understand this fact of life.

     And I am grateful that I've learned, that the more that I appreciate what I already have, the more likely that I am to gain those other things which I desire.  For when we feel good, we're more likely to attract good things.  Feeling good increases our enthusiasm, and when we approach life with enthusiasm, we create a vibe that affects the things and people around us in a positive way.  We have all encountered a person with a magnetic personality, and we get the impression that life denies this person of nothing.  That's because it doesn't.  "Magnetic" is a very accurate way to describe this kind of person, because he (or she) truly does attract to himself the things he desires in life. For life is bargaining.  We all want things in life, and we must all exchange something in return for the things that we want.  We don't get something for nothing in this life.  Nothing worth having comes easy, and few things that come easy are worth having.  The loftier our goal, the higher the price we must pay to attain it.  And just as we all, when bargaining for something we want, are more likely to turn our money over to a person with a smile on his face, someone who is enthusiastic and magnetic, so life, is more likely to turn over it's rewards to those who are enthusiastic in their efforts, and show appreciation in their life, and for all it has to offer.  I am grateful for having learned this critical lesson.

     And I will never cease to discover and reflect on all that I have to be thankful and grateful for.  I will be thankful for the Sun that smiles down on me, for I know that rich or poor, big or small, young or old, meek or bold, the Sun smiles on us all.  And likewise, I will give thanks for the rain that cleans and refreshes me, and the earth as well. I will give thanks for the birds that sing, and my ability to hear their song.  I will give thanks for the people that add to my life, and the ability and opportunity to add to theirs, for the sounds of the ocean waves, the laughter of a child, the dog that greets me with a wag of its tail, the trees that bring serenity to my soul, the wind that brushes my face, the immense variety of both people and experiences that exist in this world, random acts of kindness, the smiles that others share with me, and the inspiration of the human spirit.  And I will be thankful for the endless possibilities of things to be grateful for.  I have so much to be thankful for, it's just a matter of whether or not I will recognize these things today.  And my gratitude and appreciation for the things of today, will provide more for which to be grateful for tomorrow.

The Scent of a Woman

     Men and Women...Boys and Girls...The battle of the sexes...The birds and the bees.  Sometimes it's very hard to imagine, how men spend so much of their time and energy, in doing things to attract women.  I mean practically everything that we do either obviously, or unconsciously, done with the aim of attracting women.  How we dress (well, some of us), what we drive, the words that we say, when we exercise to build our bodies, how much money we strive to earn, are done either solely, primarily, or partly with the aim of impressing and attracting women.  I'm sure that some women would contend that the behavior of many men seems as if they're determined to repel women, but the fact of the matter is, they still find a way of making their way around to each other, regardless of how exasperated some women seem to be with men.  "You can't live with them, and you can't live without them" seems to work both ways.

     And when I say that it's hard to imagine why men do so much to attract women, I don't mean that women aren't worth it.  I'd venture to say that there's some that are worth all that you can think of doing for them, and then some.  A few in fact, are worth you getting the greatest minds on the planet together in the same room, plus George Clooney and Sean Connery, and pulling an all-nighter brainstorming, to come up with more ideas on how to treat them as they deserve to be treated, and what we can do to win their attention and hearts.

     What I mean is, if we look back at how males interact with girls during their early youth, it's no wonder that accusing an 8 year old boy of having a girlfriend is likely to have you wind up with a bag of flaming crap on your doorstep.  And yet that same reaction would seem rather odd coming from a 30 year old straight male.  I mean, who could imagine that the 8 year old boy who puts lizards on the backs of girls, or place gum in her hair, and who pushes her down after belittling her, would grow up to pursue them with such fervor?  Unfortunately, there are the Chris Browns of the world, and unfortunately, even worse, who still engage in such behavior as adults, but for the most part, guys try to give up such behavior before reaching adulthood.

     As a young boy, I certainly had my share of "crushes" on the fairer sex.  Well, to be more accurate, I was a bit of a "serial admirer", seemingly having a crush on a different girl or teacher every few weeks.  For the most part, I just admired from afar, being too shy at the time to do anything about it, or else I probably would've had to live down the reputation of being a 7 year old male whore.  Of course, being a comic book fan, I probably would've excused the Scarlet "A" on my forehead as my personal tribute to Captain America, but as it turned out, I had no "game", so it was quite unnecessary.  If by some miracle, graffitti had appeared on the walls of the girls' bathroom saying "For a good time, call Freddie", it undoubtedly would've been followed by, "He has Legos! :) " So while I didn't engage in any misguided rude treatment of girls as an inept way of expressing affection for them, I still had my share of incidents that would cast doubts on a future as a schoolyard Romeo.

     One of these incidents occurred when I was in the first grade, and it was during recess time on the playground.  Now normally, my recess time consisted of either seeing how far I could kick the ball over the fend during a game of "kickball", or getting into a fight and seeing if I could kick someone's testicles over that same fence.  But on this particular day, my thoughts were more concerned with being a lover rather than a fighter.  I was standing on top of a metal platform that was about 10 feet off of the ground, and you would access it by climbing a ladder.  Once on the platform, you could either hang around up there, or go down a slide, or slide down a metal pole, much like a fireman or a girl trying to work her way through college at the local Spearmint Rhino club.  Being a spirited child, I think that I had been helping a couple of my peers disembark from the platform via the express route, without the use of the slide or the pole, and with their voices trailing off with the words, "I'll get you for thisssssss..."  But suddenly, my focus shifted.  Walking onto the sandy area where the platform was located was this cute little Cuban-American girl, named Arlene.
     Arlene was adorable, with these cute little earrings, and her mother would always dress her in these cute little dresses.  To me, she just stood out from all of the other girls, enough to make me just "freeze" where I was, forgetting all else.  I was transfixed.  She appeared as is she was walking in slow motion, although not in the "Baywatch" kind of slow motion, because she was only 6 for Pete's sake, but in a living dream sort of way.  It seemed as if the world around me ceased to exist, and I wondered if that feeling would last forever, when...it hit me.  No, it wasn't an errant playground ball that hit me, or a peer exacting his revenge on me...It was the horrible, rank stench of very strong, cheap perfume.  Apparently, Arlene's mother doused her in it.  If before that moment I had been hearing the sound of Angels singing, the stench of that strong perfume hitting my nose was like someone kicking the record player and causing the needle to slide across the album playing that heavenly music.  That stench seemed as if it were everywhere, both around me, and seemingly inside me. It was as if it took form, and was an entity trying to cause me physical harm.  It was very reminiscent of that scene from the movie "Ghost", where those Demons carry off that bad guy at the end, or worse, the scene where Demi Moore had to kiss Whoopi Goldberg.

     I became extremely nauseated, and my whole body seemed to lock up.  And what was worse, Arlene kept walking closer.  I started retching, and at the same time, Arlene looked up at me, and we made eye contact.  And just as she flashed a very cute smile at me, I shot out a stream of vomit, a little of which managed to splatter on her shoes.  I think after that incident, I was the only 6 year old that Vegas was already taking odds on the he'd never father any children. After all, that wasn't exactly a Rico Suave move on my part.  Yet, it didn't discourage my fascination with the opposite sex.  Sometimes this would involve crushes on girls in my class, or sometimes my thoughts ran along the lines of how I could get rid of my 3rd grade teacher's husband, taking his place at the breakfast table, sitting in my tightie whities while my teacher served me scrambled eggs while looking ravishing in her nightgown.

    A few years down the road, when I wasn't being isolated from the rest of the classroom due to my delinquent behavior, I'd find myself more often than not, sitting where the girls sat during class. Some of my male friends would look at me curiously, wondering why I wasn't "chilling" with the guys, but I knew what I was doing.  I already discovered that there would be plenty of time to hang with the fellas, but that spending time with the opposite sex certainly had its advantages.  Oh sure, there were the obvious ones, being that they were much more pleasant to look at, coming with accessories that us guys just didn't have.  But more than that, I just enjoyed their company, even as friends.  For one thing, they often offered a wider range of subjects to discuss than most guys did.  For someone like me, who always enjoyed conversation, it was very refreshing.  And in some ways, I'd have to agree with the statement that girls mature faster than boys.  And as I was always mature for my age, that was appealing as well.

     And over the years, my confidence and proficiency in interacting with women would grow tremendously, as would my understanding and appreciation of them.  A good woman is not only a great complement for a man, but a tremendous asset as well.  And in spite of the fact that to one degree or another, we thing that they're all crazy, we men still need them. Very much.  Sure we've come a long way since we first discovered fire, with the ability to launch man into outer space for extended periods of time, the discovery of cures for illnesses that would previously kill mass quantities of people, and the ability to create great works of art, whether they are in words, pictures, or music.  But many of us are still inept at the art of communication, finding a tie to match our shirts, and we are still producing fine examples of our gender such as the male from "Jersey Shore".  Not to mention the fact, that we see fire not only as a way to cook our food and keep us warm so that we may stay alive, but also as a tool to light our farts.

     And it's very possible that all of our testosterone, as well as our lack of proficiency in positive communication and conflict resolution (again, only generally speaking) are at the forefront of the reasons why the vast majority of violent acts committed by men.  If we men took a cue from women, there would be a lot less bloodshed.  A man is a lot less likely to pull out a gun on another man, if instead of getting kicked in the crotch, he merely has his shoes criticized, or is told that his pants make his ass look fat.

     Suffice it to say, I love women.  And good women give us so many good reasons to feel that way.  And I definitely count as part of my evolution, both as a man and a human being, the understanding of that fact.  And while I may not know my wines, or be able to identify most styles of art, I consider myself a bit of a connisseur, having a keen eye for woman with fine qualities.  I deserve nothing less, and thank goodness, I know they're out there.  And even though the company of an appealing female can still be exhilarating and intoxicating, just as it was when I was a kid, I've grown in my appreciation of them, and in how to express that apprecation.  So if I ever have the pleasure of your company, don't worry, you can leave the extra pair of clean shoes at home.
 

IT MATTERS

     "Words have power.  Just as fire can be a gift, by both keeping us warm and cooking our food, for both sustenance and life, yet still have destructive power, with the ability to take away that same life, so words can prove to be a tool for either sustenance or destruction.  Words have power.  Once they're said, we can't take them back.  There's no bungee cord on them that allow us to pull them back.  Words spoken become a part of recorded history.  So if we're going to say something, whose impression may last forever, let's make it positive, not negative.  Let's build up, not tear down."

     "While it's true that we can always ask forgiveness for mispoken words that hurt or make someone feel "less than", we can't count on the offended person's ability to overcome the hurtful words.  We can only exercise control over the words that come out of our mouths."

     I first wrote the proceeding words several months ago, in one of my notebooks, with the intention of incorporating them as part of a future book.  Ironically, and sadly, I came across them again, a couple of months later, the day after I failed to follow my own advice.  In spite of the negative behavior that I've sometimes encountered from others, for years, I've managed to show discipline in the words that have come out of my mouths.  I can't be responsible for the behavior of others, only mine.  But on this particular day, with this particular situation, I failed to do so.  And they've very possibly made an indelible impression on this person, in a negative way.  In a single stroke, I managed to undo months of effort to build someone up, to try to help them forget the negative "Ghost Voices" of their past, which were often attempting to outshout the positive voices of their present.  It can happen just that quickly.  Whether or not others may say that my words that were spoken were accurate or not, justified or not, is irrelevant.  The only things that is relevant is that I said them, and the impact that they made. And sometimes, 1000 apologies will never make up for one poorly spoken word.

     And our misteps aren't always limited to words, but often can include our actions.  I used to work in Behavior Management, working with both adults and at-risk youth. And one of the things that I would sometimes tell the clients was, "It only takes a second to make a dumb decision that we can pay for with the rest of our lives."  And I'd relate to them the story of how years before, during my less evolved days, how I had become so upset during one arguement, that I threw a bowl of refried beans across the kitchen, both striking a wall and breaking the bowl.  But of course, as so often happens with emotional reactions, thee were more negative consequences.  There were beans splattered all over the wall, and the bowl made a hole in wall.  And to make matters wores, they weren't even my bowl, my wall, or my apartment.  Yeah, sometimes people make dumb mistakes, and other people pay for them.  While I can now laugh at how ridiculous the situation was, it wasn't nearly so funny at the time.  I had to hurry off back to work, being that I was on my lunch hours, but I obviously had to come back later in order to clean up the mess that I had made.  By the time I got back, several hours later on that unusually warm Autumn night, the kitchen smelled like a Taco Bell restaurant had blown up.  After many apologies for my earlier behavior, and a couple of hours of scrubbing the walls, the beans were nowhere to be been.  But, the smell of the beans still remained, and a $50 dollar wall patch job needed to be done as well.  So long after my attempts to clean up the mess were over, the memory of my actions still lingered.  And they were more costly than anticipated.  But it isn't that the way it usually is with bad decisions?

     When we're upset, the first thing that comes to our mind as far as a response, is usually the wrong thing.  So taking a personal time out, whether it be counting to 10, physically removing ourselves from the situation, or whatever method is helpful, is always a good idea.  I advised one young person, when he would feel himself beginning to get upset, to stop and ask himself these 3 questions.  Since they can be easy to forget when we're upset or first trying to learn the new behavior, I wrote them down for him on two cards, one of which he carried in this wallet, and the other which he taped to his desk at school.

1.  Ask yourself, " Why am I upet?"

Often the answer to this question is because we feel that were not getting what we want in one shape or form.  Perhaps consideration, acknowledgement, respect, love, food, service, physical comfort, or any number of things.

2.  Ask yourself, "What do I want to do about it?  And is that the best thing to do?

3.  Ask yourself, "Will that get me what I want?"

   I find these questions helpful, not only because they can help us with our self-awareness as to our motivations and our feelings, but they also help ust to think things through.  Because behind every emotion is a thought.  Plus, the time it takes to consider them often takes 10 seconds, which gives us time to calm down some, and avoid reacting impulsively, and thus possibly avoid much regret.

     And when it comes to split second decisions, there are lots of things that are more critical and impactful than throwing a bowl of refried beans.  Some of them involve whether or not to use protection (when it comes to S.T.D. s, sharing is NOT caring), whether or not to pull the trigger of a gun, or to get behind the wheel of that car when we've tossed back a few adult beverages, and so on, and so on.

     I don't mind being candid about some of my mistakes of the past, partly because I've learned from them.  And also, because it can be tough learning life's lessons, and I often have learned not only from my mistakes, but the mistakes of others.  It's shortened the learning curve for me, and if I can shorten the learning curve for someone else, by virture of my lessons learned...then I'm glad to do it.  Every one of us is here for a purpose.  We all matter, and so does what we do.

"A Noble Cause" or... "And the motherf..."

"And the motherf*#%er that's left over, you put over there, and that's called a motherf*#@en remainder!"  That's how my quick tempered stepfather was explaining to me how to do fractions, on that weeknight so many years ago.  This was only one of two occasions that I could ever remember him taking any interest in how I was doing at school, and for me, those were two occasions to many.  When it came to patience, he never gave Mother Theresa a run for her money to begin with, but he was probably even more pissed off at the thought that he probably shouldn't have had to explain the math to me to begin with.

   I had always been a good student, particularly in math, so by all accounts, I shouldn't have had a problem with the schoolwork.  Even though the teacher had explained it in class, at home that evening, it was like I was hearing it for the first time.  Obviously, it was the first time that I had heard it explained THAT way.  Maybe if my 3rd teacher had used the "f" word a little more often in class, I wouldn't have had to lose so much sleeptime that night because I was trying to complete my homework.  Maybe that's what's wrong with education these days... there's just not enough educators dropping "f-bombs".  Maybe that's what was missing in the proposal for "no child left behind".  When my Stepfather taught me how to make scrambled eggs, he said, "First, you beat the shit out of the eggs, then, you pour a little bit of milk into those bastards, and you beat the shit out of them again!"  Simple enough.  I never went hungry.  And I got a "2 for 1" lesson one Friday night when I was about 11.  My stepfather stopped by the house around 4 pm, just long enough to tell me to bake some chicken for the family dinner, before he went off to drink with his buddies.  However, the only instruction on baking chicken that I had ever come across before then, was when I was flipping channels on the tv one day, and I came across a cooking channel.  However, I never heard Julia Child say to "Cook the son-of-a-bitch in the oven at 400...", so I was a little lost in the woods.

  So I called my mom at her work around 4:30 pm, which she wasn't too thrilled about, to ask her for some instruction.  She became upset, and told me not to do anything, and that she would make dinner when she got home around 6 pm.  Hey, she didn't have to tell me twice, I just left the kitchen and went to watch a little bit of the Benny Hill show on tv.

Now 6:30 rolls around, and my stepfather comes into the house, drunk as usual on a Friday Night, and he sees my mom preparing dinner.  So I get called out "onto the carpet" so to speak, and he's cursing at me for not preparing Dinner.  "Didn't I f#**ing tell you to cook that f%**ing chicken?!  After a long day at work, why does your mom have to come home and cooking fu**ing dinner?!! " This, and several other choice words were used for a few minutes, and then  I explained that I didn't know how to bake the chicken, and that when I asked my mom for instruction, that she got mad and said not to do anything, and that she'd cook when she got home.  That I actually wasn't at fault this time kind of took the wind out of his sails, and for one of the few times that I could remember, my stepfather looked flustered, and became speechless for a moment.  And also for one of the few times that I could remember, he looked like he felt guilty for his outburst.  He then went on to explain how to cook the f'n chicken, which was lesson number one, then went on to say, as if channeling the spirit of Mr.Rogers (well, if Mr. Rogers was smelling strongly of Alchohol and had gang tattoos on his forearms) :  "From now on, if I tell you to do something, and later, your mom tells you to do the opposite, you tell her, 'Fuck you!' AND...  if your mom tells you to do something, and I later tell you to do something else, you say 'Fuck you! My stepdad told me to do something else!"

     So that night, I learned to bake chicken, and I also learned... well, I'm not quite sure what the second lesson was.  It might've had something to do with the importance of good communication, but back then, I think that I was trying to rationalize that it was ok to use the "f" word when addressing your parents in certain situations.  But I knew that the "drunken speech from a bad parent" clause, would probably kill my defense in the household courtroom.

     The most important thing that all of those experiences, and so many more taught me, was that I really wanted to use a very different communication style if I ever had kids of my own.  And thankfully, that has never been a problem for me.  I don't mean "thankfully, I've never had kids", I mean, I'm thankful that I've escaped the pitfall that some people unfortunately fall into, which is to become the kind of parent that their parents were.  I know that was true of my parents, that they repeated the cycle.  I can understand how that would be hard not to do,  because our environment, and our genetics as well, can exert a strong influence over us.  But I've found, that even more important than our experiences and environment, is how we RESPOND to them.  And that even if some of those experiences and environment negatively impact our environment, it's never too late to turn that around.  Although how we start off in the race is important, how we finish the race is even more important.

   Being a parent is without a doubt, the toughest, yet potentially, most rewarding career anyone can have.  It doesn't mean that it's a career for everyone, or that it's wrong to not want that as one of one's careers.  And we all know of some parents whose example presents a strong arguement for government enforced birth control.  Mere survival of a family, particularly in the type of social and economical climates that currently exist, can be a challenge in itself.  But what elevates the role and status of being a parent from being a big responsiblity to one of a most noble calling, is the daily effort to do more than just have our children to SURVIVE.  It's the daily effort, in spite of whatever negative influences we may have encountered while growing up, or the daily pressures that we may face, or the struggles with our own imperfections, to discover and implement methods that will provide our children with the necessary skills and tools to THRIVE as well-adjusted human beings.

Although I've got to say, that when it comes to raising my daughter, she's made it relatively easy thusfar.  She's a hard worker, very conscientious, and very respectful.  Very different from what I was at her age.  And thus, I was very surprised, and a little dismayed, when I was sent an email yesterday, showing that her grades weren't quite as good as I was used to seeing.  She had an "A" and a "B" thrown in there among her grades, but her mother and I are used to that being the norm, not the exception.  The facts that she was recently doing extra credit work for those two classes, plus her inability to "remember" what her recent report card looked like, were starting to paint a clear picture.  Although she's far removed from "delinquent" status, my daughter was becoming a little distracted with socializing in class.  Plus, now that she's in Jr. High, the workload has increased dramatically, and I think that she was surprised by that, and is having a little trouble adjusting.  In spite of that, I made her aware that she still has to bear personal responsibility. I've helped her realize that what was once considered "above and beyond" in regards to her efforts, now have to be considered a minimum requirement if she hopes to do well in school.  That was a lesson that first became evident to me back when I was trying to learn those motherf'n fractions back in the 3rd grade.  I was in a combine 3rd and 4th grade classroom, because I was considered academically "advanced" for my age.  However, I was even more advanced at being disruptive and getting into trouble.  The fact that most of my schoolwork was quite easy for me, resulting in my finishing it quickly and thus having more time for acting out, just instilled in me the false confidence that doing well in class would never be a problem for me.  But when the teacher introduced something new during math time, my overconfidence caused me to fail to pay attention during the instruction, resulting in confusion for me, and eventually leading to my stepfather's colorful instruction session.

   Fortunately for my daughter, my previous experiences and lessons weren't limited to the need to step up in school as we get older and are presented with more challenges, but also included the lesson that what we say to our children is important, and more importantly, so is how we say it.  My daughter never had to worry about me going Kung Fu Panda on her, or Samuel L. Jackson delivering a "death speech" in Pulp Fiction.  The knowledge that her parents were a little disappointed in her grades and efforts, although not in HER, was enough to motivate her to vow to do better.  Hearing of her father's experiences when he was in school (although they were appropriately censured just a bit for content), hearing of his reasons for wanting her to do well, and how education helps to give her options, and how good work habits can be transferred to any area or goal in life, and that it's possible to completely turn around a bad start, made an uncomfortable situation more bearable for her.  And that, among other things, confirmed for her that she is supported and loved. 

And those, I feel, are more important than any lessons that she'll ever learn in school.