It is interesting that out of all the sad and miserable global stories we take in every day, scaled from big to small, the one that sent me on the thought trip into what life must have been and will be soon enough, and how the events in a world such as ours, in these times, culminated for one Shaquan Duley.
Shaquan: where are the childfathers? Look at Shaquan now. Look. You see the face of generational child abuse maturing, unimpeded anywhere along the time line from 1604, likely earlier, likely as early as the upending of an ancient culture - as in genocide, civil wars, religious and social upheaval and its partner, lifelong oppression and the ever unfolding results of ethnic prejudice. You see an abusive grandmother, her abused daughter, two abused toddlers [murder being the ultimate abuse], a granddaughter [unprotected as of this writing] and the ugly thread of domestic violence weaving throughout their lives with nonstop crises.
But wait, there's more: the violence perpetrated on a people, the stolen potential, the disappeared opportunities, the dearth of literacy and intellect, the mindfulness to handouts and scraps of cooperation, the assuaging fictions, eventually the complete belief in your own inability to function at all, but you do, weakly, just enough to get through the day.
What kind of food did Shaquan like? What food did she prepare for her children? How did Shaquan come to possess a vehicle she could dump into the river? Now, Shaquan will go off to the big house where it is destined she will continue as tragically as she has begun, a blip on the radar, another statistic filling the cesspools of the deviant mind.
What is it that makes one child oblivious to abuse and another cower and fall ill at the moment its shadow appears over the horizon? What is it that allows one person to be unfeeling towards someones suffering but another experience compassion? Anyway, such stories of humans-gone-bad have gaping holes and appear to come from some dirty script hiding in someones metal drawer for when the need arises as it does now, in a national dialogue on race, an outdated term btw, the Anthropological update is Phenotypes. You get the idea that Shaquan's region of the US is a suburb of the southern outclasses and to be avoided at all cost. I don't know, but I'm in no hurry to explore the relic hotbeds of Plantation lifestyles or its current metamorphosis, its still all about cheap labor.
It is only too recently there were no Civil Rights for African Americans. Even though things were written and sealed, life is lived in communities which have attitudes of some sort or another. The more you read, thus educating yourself, travel and communicate with friendlies, the more you can understand some of what happened to make this world what it is. Obviously, Shaquan had no inspiring literature available, seldom left familiar turf and rarely dealt with anything of the larger world, especially that of creativity, art, drama, music, etc., which could have been a way out, but in her case is victim to abuse as well in that the abuse foisted upon her was that of stealing her potential for a reasonably meaningful tolerance for life's situations, deprecating even her worthiness to live and stealing her only means of survival, spiritual and social. Without the murdering of the toddlers, somehow she still would have found the big house because she was only allowed to get this far as a breeder for cannon fodder. If you asked her point blank, "Are you a person?" She might have responded with "You know what I'm sayin? " which is standard for get out of my face. Thank her Mama's mama's mama for that, moreover thank the Dutch slave traders and their extensive oceanic cruises provided African immigrants by our literate aristocracy penning for an incubating Big Agra. When Shaquan's trial comes around, it will be a prosecutor's slam dunk with nary a nod given to the horrors visited upon the factors which give rise to the actions of all the past, present and future Shaquans. In addition to the two dead boys, she has a five year-old daughter at "home". What chance for a life will this little girl have - especially in light of her sudden change in circumstance? And if those circumstances had been absent would it be the same cowardly, abused and abusive, straight line to incarceration? We hope not, but statistics are not on her side, still, something could intervene. Its always a good idea to offer support, even if its in spirit.
The people who make it out from under despite all extra judicial efforts to the contrary, at least have a fighting chance to discover life's a bitch on any level, so your level isn't that different in reality from anyone else's. You can change your situation, but first you have to break the chain. To break the chain however, you have to SEE it.
We had a maid who was very much a "member of the family" when I was growing up. Others had live-in maids, a position that made me feel sorry for them having to be away from their own families often a month or more between day visits. My earliest impression of Annette remained until the last time I saw her. Even as I grew taller, she didn't age beyond her initial appearance or dress. It was always the same plaid cotton dress, same broken down shoes, same overworked shopping bags, slowly stepping off the bus wheezing from her side of town into mine. Her shoes were the black lace up short-heel type with huge round bumps made from her bunions. Her stockings were rolled at the calf, her hair in a bun with stray grey curls pressing into the sweat on her forehead. She was hunchbacked from seventy years of dusting antique table legs and under beds. She had a Penguin's walk, swaying but sure, and a worldview shaped by her love of God. Her entire posture spoke of incredible suffering. There'd been a fire, she'd lost her house and her only daughter whom she often spoke of as if she was still alive. [and why not? ] I already knew enough to know some of what had happened to her and her people at large. In fact, I was fascinated by segregation, it made no sense, it was incomprehensible such a thing existed. That Annette's suffering had been so brutally compounded was simply inexpressible, but felt on the emotional plane. Every Christmas we visited Annette's house and took gifts, my mother lavished her with hams and woollens for winter, I believed this was because we could see the daylight between the slats of her uninsulated walls. On her mantle she kept the rubber leg that had fallen from my sister's toy. In order for Annette to get to our home in exurbia, Annette's bus would have taken her through the downtown city route which displayed every type of off limits to Negroes symbols thought up by Satan through which his vessels printed and hand-scrawled sloganry as well as lawfully providing two of everything, one nice something and around the corner one nasty something of the same item for Negroes such as toilets or water fountains. Everything having to do with the body/mind was segregated to prevent the ohmygosh possibility a mixing of some sort could come about. [It reminds me of the rare earthworm with salmonella that may nibble an almond fallen off the tree in which case all harvested almonds must now be pasteurized and microwaved before sale.] Annette didn't talk to me about racism, but Alberta, her fill-in, did. I learned much. Alberta was tall, big boned, glamorous in red lipstick and matching fingernails. She had a nightlife and some days called in sick. I imagined her off time spent in front of a mirror applying fakes. She knew I was a most willing listener and held nothing back. I'd sit cross legged on the carpet and let her roll while she ironed away the day. My mother said Alberta was the world's best ironer. Actually, she was even better with inspiration since I followed up on her recommendations and became a child gospel authority for my clique which meant eventually, I dumped them and made new friends beyond exurbia more to my liking. In no time at all, I found myself rolling on the floor between rows of school desks locked in heated scuffles with some of my former friends and classmates. I started taking the bus downtown to see some of what Alberta mentioned which was always either a club or a gospel tabernacle during choir practice. The lesson was these people I'd mingle with were a lot more interesting on every level than the people I'd met anywhere else in my adolescent life.
That's enough on this, except to state unequivocally, the person you are as a child is the mold for the person you are today. I'd just as rather listen to the Pearly Gate Singers take on Heaven with the Royal Telephone as I would Bach Harpsichord or Falla: Nights in the Garden of Spain, and that's saying a lot.
It is a statement on family denial that my parents and every one of my many aunts and uncles passed away within a comparatively brief time of one another, services attended when feasible, often the same attendees experiencing profound personal loss, the gathering of the clans in mourning and so forth, and yet, I was never notified of Annette's passing and it is impossible she is still around. There is no one left to ask and I don't care to know because I already know she went home for the last time.
May Shaquan have it better next go around and may her little sons rest in peace. Most of all, may her daughter possess the character and insight to break the chain.
Have you ever given any thought to your own reincarnation - should you have to return? You could be dropped into any time period, anywhere, into any level of enlightenment, facing the lies and mentality of that moment.
photo: unknown, c.2010
46 comments:
Thank you. Your post brings up many memories and associations. This is a story I'm prompted to share. I too grew up in a family of relative, though not excessive, financial comfort. With housekeepers, first Ruthie, then Bea, who took three buses across town to reach our home, then back again. Bea told me it took her an hour and a half each way.
For all the financial comfort, I and my 6 siblings grew up with my father expressing such wisdom about equality and civil rights. We also grew up with emotional poverty. They call it emotional neglect. Which led to most of us girls entering into one or more emotionally abusive relationships as we progressed through life. Took me many years and much self exploration to see and break that legacy.
Nothing is ever all good or all bad. When I was three, my family moved across country to Washington, DC, which was segregated, in 1960. Ruthie and her 16 year old daughter moved with us. The offer had been that if Ruthie agreed to come with us, my parents would put her daughter through college.
Shortly after the move, Ruthie fell prey to gambling, which my parents discovered when a rather threatening man appeared at our home to collect. Ruthie was released from her position because my parents felt it placed all their children at risk to have men like that showing up at the door.
However, my parents kept their promise to Ruthie, paying for her daughter to obtain her bachelor's degree from Howard University. Neither of my parents spoke about this, but somehow as a teenager, I came to ask my father about them sending Ruthie's daughter through school. He responded, "She was immensely intelligent, graduated high school at 16. (like he had done) She was the daughter of a maid, how would she ever get the chance to continue her education? It would have been such a waste, so we put her through school."
Years later I learned that Ruthie's daughter, whose name I've never known, continued on, finished her Masters (perhaps her doctorate?), and taught at the University of Michigan for many years.
My parents never drew any attention to themselves for providing Ruthie's daughter an opportunity to develop her interests and talents; for providing a way out. Yet even as a teenager, I recognized what they had done. My father walked his talk. It's always seemed to me an act of unconditional love and color blindness, a part of my legacy I strive humbly to retain.
I too send my prayers to Shaquan Duley and her children.
I thank YOU Lightkeeper, an incredible reminiscence. As you say, nothing is all good or all bad. I am very pleased you were moved to relate this observation on such an important part of your life and happy you have broken the legacy. I know by everything you write, here, on your blog and on Visible's blogs, you are a rare and unusual person. I must start keeping Kleenex handy ...
There was an update today on Shaquan, the press is reporting deep, deep remorse and long hours spent with her pastor. It would be great if her pastor was Rev. Jerimiah Wright.
beautiful multi-layered thought provoking post.
my dad used to talk about being a member of the "lucky sperm club" which he mentioned anytime one of us kids got all puffy about ourselves. in other words, anybody we thought we were better than was somebody not born into the "club"...the club of real food, education, money, resources, choices, etc. a trip back to earth always followed these examinations and a more empathetic attitude was adopted. he was the type to always give pandhandlers money -which i do too - and take great care of anyone in his employ.
Yet he was the same guy that beat my brother in a locked bathroom so badly he went to the hospital with a concussion and several broken ribs. when the beating was over i went into the bathroom and there was blood on every surface including the ceiling. it was the first of many beatings and then there was the time he took a garbage can - full of wet yucky things like coffee grinds and scraped dinner plate food - and dumped it into his unmade bed. the crime my brother had committed was having a messy room.
people are complex and terrifying and fragile.
my mom has an infection like MERSA and is in the hospital. nurses have to wear hasmat suits to deal with her...and nobody wants to. it takes two people to change her diaper and they are scared of her. its so hard to watch - the loss of dignity, the isolation....probably like having to use the colored water fountain. it hurts. she has a fine mind inside a sick and helpless jabba the hut body. like a giant slug that lays in a bed and waits to die. i can only be there to love her. theres nothing more to do.
i have missed you. todays labels are supreme.
Good grief, a regular Dorian Grey Daddy. A wise person once said to me in my turmoil over the state of my daughter's room, "Close the door."
Oh, I know, girls adore their daddies, but most fathers of our genre had a heavy, often seemingly impossible load to carry and it got to them. I'm wondering how that effected you chickory. Mine was a powerful, but infrequent exploder and his last days were spent much like your Mom's are now. But we could not have known that then and follow in the only footsteps we know until we know better.
Thanks for finding a minute from your vigil to comment. If she needs to go, tell her its okay, you are likely the only reason she is hanging on.
Love, nina
hard and easy
lost and found
hell and earth
heaven and ground
learning way
lightning charge
ray in beam
sun and star
streams of living
chasing light
across the sky
risen bright
up learning way
of ancient road
to the garden
of the old.
..peace..
..neil.., I just might try to send that to Shaquan somehow. It would just blow her mind.
Nina, Thanks for your kind words. It means a lot coming from you!
Our maid back in '68 was Josephine. I can picture her with the hair in a bun and the same shoes you described. Samr worn out bag and plaid dress too
She busted me early on for asking her to leave us alone out at the school bus stop. I was embarrassed to be seen as having a 'colored' maid. I hated that part of our so called auspiscious cicumstance.
The dynamic of that situation haunts me to this day, sorta like wondering:
Why is water wet?
I grew to respect and admire Josephine and needless to say I learned so much from her presence in our life.
What a guiding light.
Thank you for reminding me.
RW
You are very welcome RW.
the unsung mothers
Do you think they knew how we loved them in spite of the chasms of the zeitgeist? They knew - across the chasms of their own. You know mutual love when you feel it. That you've hurt from that incident and carried it with you for a long time is part of your love for Josephine. Someone with whom there is a lesser bond couldn't affect you on that level.
Where are the fathers?!?
As my father in law dies, I watch my wife come to terms with the fact that finally, there is no longer any possibility that she will have the relationship she sought, and it is heartbreaking.
A provider of wages. A disciplinarian. A man who would beat his kids and his wife at the slightest provocation. A man who would tell his teenage daughter that the only way she would amount to anything would be by using what she had between her legs. Casting a 15 year old out into the street for no good reason (what could it ever be?). And yet criticism comes to ME because I am not nearly man enough (likely true, but hey - I was raised by a single mom and had no father in any significant sense). I don't work, therefore I am worthless!
Sorry. This isn't about me, but where the FUCK are the dads? Where are the MEN who honor and respect and cherish their role?
Where?
Z
Z, you bring up a strong and welcome point. Behind, under, hidden, lost in statistics concerning the classes, everyone is leading a life all their own. Imagine that! Seven billion minds going in seven billion directions all the time. If we do not honor and respect and cherish ourselves, no one else will. Our failings only help an observer appear less flawed to themselves. The particular style of abuse you are talking about is the unbroken chain, or legacy, in action. Somewhere, somehow, someone needs to call attention to it and break that sucker otherwise it manifests itself right on through the generations. Too many out of the seven billion busy minds have no idea their own torture and torturing of others was born into them, and they have no idea how simple it is to stop because they can't see what is happening. Not seeing means they have an unmentionable investment to protect.
That silent investment would be self-respect/honor and approval in the form of strict obedience to their will.
Have you ever read Arthur Silber's work on abuse and obedience? He's done a series on this subject which is most enlightening: The Sacred Moment
I think the missing fathers are too devastated by the models set up for the classes. How could anyone measure up and be taken to the cleaners over and over without eventually seeking approval somewhere else? And, like too many who stick around, act on their frustrations seeing themselves trapped for life. The only alternative they see is court, payments to the bitch and abject hatred of their offspring.
Dads too?
Ok I'm game.
My dad passed on a bit over a year ago. I'm the prodigal son who never returned in time. I read dads obituary online in the Pioneer Press which included my name as a survivor. I thought if my name appears in the credits I was part of the show?
Its 'funny' how nobody contacted me about his passing until consideration is given to the matter of the estate.
Times must be tough. . .
I suppose it confirmed for me why I left at 18 and only visited that bio family once over 20 years ago at the request of my 6 year old daughter.
Lesson learned:
Death and money makes family act funny.
Yes, I love Josephine. I honor her most for dialing me into the primary existential sorrow of ALL OUR slavery in this so called society.
The woman relentlessly insisted I would not escape it regardless of my near genius or our familys place in this prison unless I took ownership of it. I was raised in a well padded cell with gilded bars.
I've admitted it since age 10.
She took me right to the core.
being south african i grew up with many mothers.
my own mother worked and played and i grew up sitting on the grassed pavements where there would always be 5 or 6 women talking loudly and i would be exploring the world around me.
i remember one day finding a half eaten piece of watermelon. i must have been four or five. i picked it up and started eating it.
gladys looked over at me and said is it good and i smiled and she laughed and continued her conversation.
now the thing is i 'knew' i should not be eating that, that it was 'dirty' and 'used' but for some reason i wanted to and once i started i did not want to stop. i ate all the way to the skin. not out of hunger, just out of an unexplained urge.
now had my mother being around she would have pulled it away from me, frowned and that would have been that.
gladys allowing me this experience was not out of lack of care or nurture, it was just from someone who knew enough about lack in life to be precious about anything.
this piece brought all these mothers flooding back into my heart. each and every one that raised me whilst separated from her own family i thank from the depths of my being. you have in large part made me what i am.
chicory my friend, my heart screamed when reading about your mother. a candle is lit for both of you on this icy morning.
and my heart broke when i read about your brothers beating. how can one survive such violence against a sibling. and yet one does.
and z when you say where are the fathers, my fathers were also the women who cared for me. maybe i am lucky in that.
thank you for the love nina. and su, your candlelight prayer is a real gift.
my brother didnt survive the beatings - or the systematic devaluation of his spirit. at 17 he left home, lived with a thirty year old woman out in new mexico somewhere (we lived in florida) shot cocaine and heroin into his arms, went to jail for growing pot plants on his roof, had a wreck that broke his neck, married a seriously emotionally damaged girl (and tries valiantly to "fix" it), and still weeps at the fact that Daddy doesnt "like" him. everybody says he was the sweetest and most open child there ever was. i have photographs that confirm this is true. He remains generous of spirit despite it all, but is uneasy in the presence of any of us -often drinks too much and acts out -thus perpetuating the dynamic of black sheep.
My mom has made me swear, time and again, that i will take care of him after she dies. I will - i always knew that it would be my job - no, my honor to do so.
I got lucky break in life. my parents lives together was so squirrelly that i escaped their focus. I was allowed to run wild. my sisters, who were gone by the time i was 8, would come home to find me not in school, not having been fed, etc. but i dont remember this as terrible. My mom was out of it for about 3 years -heartbroken and over medicated thanks to dad's many infidelities. this was the seventies! my story is not unique.
my dad finally left when i was 11. by 13 my mom and i moved to another state where she went to grad school and i was introduced to my grandmothers brothers and sisters...an extended family that saved my life. Kind of like su's many mothers.
My uncle, who was the fish and game warden of his county, took me under his wing and taught me about the natural world, and showed me an alternate way of being. It was something like understanding what was eternal and real; aligning myself with living things and understanding wealth wasnt what the TV said it was-God bless his soul!
I didnt have my dad around to break my spirit as he did the 3 siblings before me. as a result, i believe myself to be the most whole of the litter, the most confident in self and, ironically, the one daddy told an entire family gathered for his 8oth birthday, that of all the children, i was most like him.
nina, i am back from seeing my mom. it was very hard to leave. when i returned to Chickory the garden was burned up and eaten alive. its hard to do anything well divided between 3 worlds. something always falls through the cracks.
and that will be ALL for chickory confessionals. lol
http://dublinmick.wordpress.com/2010/08/20/listen-up-cromagnon-ingrates/
The rise of the Cromagnon, you are either with us or against us! LOL
And here I was thinking, this post is too close to home, no one will comment. Heh, sometimes I am wrong. I am always heartened when that happens because then we learn.
BTW, the Shaquan Duley link at the beginning of the post appears to update as she is shoveled through the system.
As long as the Earth is reincarnating, how about a justice system that reaches back into history identifying the original causes of why our species is so troubled? If we drew a pyramid of what happened to all the humans gone wrong, there is blame at every level, some acting-on some acting-out.
Surfing last night, I came across a site for long term unemployed where suicide is contemplated. The obvious suggestion in addition to a revolutionary justice system would be to abandon the monetary demands of living. (Not that we'll have any say in it until it happens.) Imagine
chicory,
that candle burnt out.
another one is lit.
and a flower for your brother adorns it.
Chicory, how is it exactly that you are supposed to take care of your brother?
Mick, did you do the seascape on your blog? I like it, its a side of you we never see, that undistubed peace, the Shangri La side. I found your earlier photo very appealing as well, the tree lined promenade with sheep grazing.
The stories we are telling here molded our present and our patterns. Su, I can really see you in the unschool more clearly now based on your many mothers and fathers. I think what I've been seeing for so long without naming it is freedom to explore. Beautiful. That is love. and it came from a discarded slice of watermelon ...
I did not know that you had this posted when I e-mailed you pictures of hideous Walmart shoppers, Nina. We must have been on the same wavelength, as these photos meant for laughter and derision due to their fat, tasteless, grotesque images seemed to me to reflect their painful and damaged lives.
I, too, was blessed with the presence of a "cleaning lady" named Felicia who introduced me to a whole other world on the other side of town. Her husband, a man of quiet dignity, advised people in his community in legal matters. My father gave him some extra legal books as a resource.
But, my father had a dark side, much like Chickory's father. Relentlessly abusive to our mother, my brother, and me at home, he could be charming and interesting in public. When our little dog got hit by a car and died, I thought "He's the lucky one." My brother and I both left home at 18 and have not resolved the guilt of having left my mother alone with our dad. But, we did break the cycle of abuse with our own families, at least.
In my next life, I'd like to live in the ocean where there is no private property and the inhabitants can live and play without screwing everything up. No walls and doors to hold dark secrets.
No Nine I didn't but I have some laying around here I like better that I did. (Bragging of course!) I will see if I can find some pictures I took of it and post them.
Did you read that thing by Kaminski? I am going to have to start checking out foreheads more closely!
Yes, I read it. Now that I think of it, there are a lot of people who bear these features. I saw it originally on a Visible link, briefly, nothing like the extent which you have gone into. Telling isn't it, what catches our imagination. I write about Shaquan and abuse, you write about Cromagnon, but we're both fundamentally writing about uncommon pre-written history of the species and behaviors.
Do put up some of your work, please.
FA, I would never have guessed it, never. You have left that so far in the dust, nothing of it remains outwardly. Inwardly, well, only you would know.
On the other hand, you express yourself with genuine compassion and understanding of others, the only way that is possible is having passed through a long tunnel of suffering.
It would have come to me eventually, there is no better time like the present.
nina dearest.
your posts always bring something forward.
the images you manifest capture me again and again.
the other day you had a painting of a wheelbarrow with a seed tray lying on its side.
resonance.
today you have a picture of what looks like sutherlandia - could i be right?
last night i dreamt of my many mothers.
i recall once aged 9 making chips or as you would call them french fries. i always used to peel the potatoes and slice them and then heat the oil, but in my growing maturity i figured to heat the oil first.
needless to say it caught on fire and i was about to lean forward to take the inferno off the stove when anna showed the pot away from me onto the floor.
my long hair was apparently about to catch.
these mothers kept me safe and it reminded me of when i had to keep one of my mothers safe.
i was seventeen and the police as they used to do then came to the door and asked for emma's pass. her identity document. her niece angel was with her as there were riots in the townships and school was closed because of this.
the one cop saw angel trying to get to the kitchen. he asked for her pass which was required from the age of 18 and i informed him that she was only 15, that she did not yet have a pass.
and then he said she would have to prove that she was at school and i told him that the schools were closed. he jeeringly told me that she could stay in jail till the schools opened. i said that could be weeks and he gave a twisted leer.
emma started wailing and angel just froze. these three men took this child/woman and roughly threw her in the back of the van.
and drove off.
and every fibre of my being screamed no - i will not allow this.
and with absolutely no qualms i called helen suzman who was very active at that time. by the grace of god i got through to her.
i explained the situation and she told me to wait by the phone.
she called back 20 minutes later and told me that angel was at the rivonia police station and i could fetch her, there were to be no more problems, she had managed to sort something out.
okay fetch her but no car.
no problem, i hitched everywhere anyway. got to the police station and the snarky bastard was there. he made some comment and went to fetch angel who came out terrified, her face ravaged with fear. i just hugged her and fell into her tears. (this day was the first time i had met her), these 2 girl woman tasting the watermelon rind, the bitter part.
now it was getting dark, she lived on the other side of the city. there was no way i could put her in a taxi or on a bus in her condition. and besides they were not running due to the riots.
so i looked up at this cop and just chanced my luck.
i told him that he had to give her a lift back to soweto and that i would be accompanying them, i also lied that helen knew what i was doing and should i not return home by a certain time would report this station.
he did not look happy at all.
so we drove through the city i knew into a strange and alien land. fear was everywhere, devastation stuck in my mouth.
army and riot cops escorted us to her home. a shack amongst millions of other shacks.
we had not said a word the whole way there. we just nodded at each other and that was that.
last night i dreamt i met up with angel in a field, both just walking towards each other.
the cop on the way home suddenly became an ally. talking to him could numb me to what i had just seen and felt - and in talking to him i discovered his humanness as well.
again the forbidden rind.
Almost eighteen years ago I quit talking to my father. I had my first child coming and was due to get married and I couldn’t take his incessant lying or unrepentant alcoholism any longer. The fact that my older, half-brother had recently revealed that my father had sexually abused him as a child was a major factor also. That brother hung himself in ’06 after years of struggling with cocaine addiction. My grandfather, a roustabout, was known to be violently abusive.
Now, my own daughters don’t talk to me. I was injured at work in 2006 and running out of money by ’08. Their mother, my ex-wife, simply had more resources and a dad with no cash is apparently no father at all. At least that’s what my daughters seem to think. It didn’t matter that I had been the parent that cooked all the meals and hauled the kids to the park; mom had the nice house and the money. Oh, and she was a Mom.
Where are the fathers? Who cares, really? When fatherhood is reduced to groveling for a paycheck in return for a pat on the head and a plate of hamburger-helper who gives a rats behind where the fathers of those children were. Who really gives a damn if they were upstanding citizens, unemployed, homeless or in prison? Did the state get the child support check? Fatherhood is a role with no respect in this culture. A fat guy in television cartoons who’s dumber than the dog. A sad clown in damn near every movie made. The cultural anti-hero; the “sperm-donor.”
As individuals, fatherhood is a tragedy, a mockery of real men’s complexities and abilities. As a society, we get the fathers we deserve and that’s also a tragedy.
A truly GREAT blog. I wish he'd post more often. The G.A.S. Station
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Hi Pango, we were posting sychronistically. Back later.
hi pangolin,
my father had nothing to do with me for most of my life despite my desperate yearnings.
he had extreme wealth but claimed poverty in order not to have to connect with me.
now many years later, we are superficial friends via e mail and there is no sadness left over any more.
pieter, my partner and father to my children gets a first rating for fatherhood to me.
he declined building an empire in order to watch the kids grow.
we were and are both totally hands on.
when i look at these beings and their ease in their world it is because of many factors and yet i think the primary one is the presence of a loving father.
too few of us had that blessing.
To All who've commented, thank you for the stories you've shared from your lives. I was struck by this: We daily look out to see what is happening in the world that matters, yet it is in our own life stories that courage, sensitivity, keen perception, resourcefulness, and love shine so brightly. You are each heroes.
To Pangolin, I sensed great disappointment and pain in the situation you shared and want to offer these observations from my experience with children, families, and divorce. Perhaps they will serve some usefulness.
One of the things I learned from the experience of having a mother who was not able to give any affection or show any emotional interest, turned out to be the most valuable learning from my childhood. I learned what children need. Often we learn what is important by the absence thereof. From my perception, what children need most is unconditional love, respect, and appreciation for who they are. They need at least one adult who believes in them. Though children are usually not able to express this need, most of the problems adults have in life go back to the longing for the unconditional love, respect, and appreciation they did not receive growing up.
From many years working with families in transition and representing people going through messy divorces....Children often feel abandoned to some level by the parent they are no longer living with. They may test that parent to prove that they still care about them. What the children really want is that their parent is there consistently, is interested in them and their lives, believes in them and listens to who they are. Even if the children act like it doesn't matter to them, it does matter immensely. Kids see through the money issues, eventually, if not sooner. And if that's the view they're getting of the world, then they really need you in their lives.
A child's "job" is to grow up and become an independent, competent person. They start working on this on day one and continue. They always push on the outer edge of their independence, in part because they want to know their parent won't let them go farther than they're capable of handling on their own. Children need their mother And their father, even when the kids are acting like they don't.
I'll sign off with a question. Has anyone ever heard someone bemoan the fact that they had too many caring parents or other adults in their life while growing up?
In Oneness,
Helen
Nina, thanks for the praise for my sadly neglected blog. I wish I had written the actual "story" part, but it is not my work.
Looks like I might have to work up some more stuff to put up there, but it will likely be guitar-centric and appeal to a limited audience, but hey - it's all fun and games anyway, right.
One more thing relating to the ongoing discussion. I want to thank my beautiful, departed mother for doing the best she could with what she had available, and for not teaching me a damn thing beyond the value of having compassion and love no matter how shitty things seemed. Thanks, momma - you are forever with me as I fumble through life and discover things for myself. Un-shooling to the max.
Z
Ah, that's where that sweetness comes from.
We may be that limited audience, do try it out.
I still can't post a comment on your regular blog.
I'll drop the moderation and see if that helps?
Z
It wasn't the moderation, but I will keep trying. Thanks.
enjoyable.
http://www.fredoneverything.net/KingGeorge2.shtml
i too can see the su i read now in the stories of the rind! Pangolins description of the modern father is spot on -especially how he is portrayed in popular culture.
as a southerner, i have to say, the standard bearer for fatherhood comes from literature: that would be Atticus FInch.
I never was mad at my parents. i saw early on they werent super human so the clay feet revealed themselves early enough for me to have reasonable expectations. i have a good relationship with both - my dad is a different man now. he deserves a chance to be regarded as that new man.
I waited along time to post this because I did not want to offend anyone. I disagree with Pangolin discription at the end of his post and Chickory's last take of reinforcing it on modern fathers as well.
I had a strict father but I loved and respected him immensely. I was punished as we all are and I deserved it. I am a divorced father too and I know my kids love and respect me. Yeah some fathers can do a better job but hey this is not about a best fathers contest
But I believe raising children is the absolute hardest job in the world. Especially in these times and when I was growing up in the 60's and 70's.
The greatest experience in my life after the birth of my kids is being at my fathers side holding his hand while he took his last breath. I kissed him on the lips and told him how much I loved him.
Pangolin please understand I mean this in the kindest way but you have extreme issues that you need to resolve or your life will continue to lack love as well as the love of your your children.
Love them as hard as you can. It is never to late
We are what we think
All that we are arises with our thoughts.
With our thoughts we make the world.
Buddha
As I stated earlier I say this with love in my whole being
Scrap
Scrappy_ There are wounds so deep that trying to sort them out is like trying to straighten the grain of a burl with a pocket comb.
You can cut around them, grow fresh tissue over them, polish them smooth and call them a feature but you can't cut them out without destroying the wholeness of the work.
One of the odd things that geneticists are finding out is that you can literally hurt a child so bad that his/her grandchildren will feel it.
Compassion is going to have to get a damn-sight bigger bucket if we're going to bail this leaky ship we're on.
It is quite possible out of seven billion, many are just not cut out to be fathers, or mothers.
Even though, in our oneness, we all are either potential or actual fathers or mothers. But overpopulation in the culture of lies has produced horrific deviants, perhaps by inherited mental instability, perhaps by inherited substance abuse, now we can also point to things like chemtrails and all manner of dispersants in the global air, water and food chain and let's not underestimate the punishments in store for unwillingness to blindly follow the herd mentality and strict obedience to false gods. Let's go back to Lightkeeper's initial statement - nothing is all bad or all good.
There is great truth there. All of us are somehow affected, and all of us, including our offspring, have to deal with it in our own ways.
Comparatively speaking, most of us have not had it as bad as certain others, but some have had it very bad and still do. What's more, we will see it worsen as more eyes are open and resource collapse increases.
Pangolin, your long term suffering is creating compassion within you. You can't deny it. Your reaction to another person in your shoes would not be one of indifference.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ySiOITYyZE&feature=player_embedded#!
Nina I know youtube doesn't work well for you, it is hosted on my site. This is must see. Neanderthal man saying never forgive, never forget, kill, revenge, the Begin's face and Foxman, with further scenes of nukes and Israeli politicians saying they will take the world with them.
This isn't bad either on VT but almost a book.
http://www.veteranstoday.com/2010/08/24/israeli-control-of-america-a-veterans-today-reader-comments/
Nina_ I have to say that I don't do indifference well. I do frustrated, angry, despairing, compassionate and on rare occasions, grateful when I actually have an opportunity to make a real contribution.
That's all some of us really want.
scrappy - i was in agreement with pangolin about how fathers are devalued in the culture in the examples pangolin gave: i.e. hes always the doofus on a tv show.
nina. i like your kitchen help.
every day, every chance, abounding with the possibilities for kindness, percieving the openings, sharing, caring, being real to the beauty we are.....
Thanks for being in my world all of you here at Deep Into the Artlife West
I love you and am grateful I have discovered all of you
Scrap
Thank you, everyone, for telling the truth of your own emotional lives. Dang, it's a miracle anyone survives... hey that rhymes.... oops.
I have re-learned a lot here, I am grateful for this forum, and for Freeacre and Murph and all you other bloggers from the heart. It's sad how many turn to something (shopping, smack, etc) to ease the pain, and of course it never works. My father was an alcoholic, never fessed to it, stayed stuck for 70 years...sad, but what to do? be grateful for what we got, I reckon....
Yes... if not for those mean, nasty 'dutch' slave traders the subject of your essay may have had a very different fate indeed.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/aug/24/congo-rebels-rape-un-rwanda
I'm occupied with family through the weekend so posting will be minimal, if at all.
We are also experiencing a serious heatwave and all its accompanying discomforts. Let me congratulate all west coast commenters, where did you find the energy?
Charles, thanks for visiting, you've mentioned a little detail that was left out of your eulogy post. My respect for you increases further (as if it was not already way up there).
Lukiftian, my essay deals with the inherited experience of Shaquans in the US and patterns of generational abuse, not the Congolese who define their undoing by saying "minerals are our curse".
Scrappy, do you make beautiful things out of wood as beautiful as your remarks?
Ok, its getting too hot for more, I'll be reading along and put something up next week, probably about global warming, a subject which is to be experienced rather than "believed". The reality is that is IS upon us and it shows no prejudice.
Two items of importance, Charles's excellent essay today: Shock Troops of Corporate Empire ...
and
Zoner (Z) has a new post on his Gas Station blog: (Gosh, ask and ye shall receive) Reunion
Provable evidence many chippies are also guitarded by choice.
Hi Nina
Most are probably not interested in this but it sometimes turns into such a contentious affair on the dog's site and it is such a broad subject it is difficult to discuss in a google block. So I have decided to ....nip....it....in .....the .......bud!
http://stargazersandgravediggers.blogspot.com/
I didn't want to put it on the word press site right away as I am trying to get people to notice the citizens are raising hell about the gulf in Tallahassee Florida. Dr. Termotto is a pretty heavy hitter in the affair. Some intelligent life forming there.
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