The strong and sometimes silent men AND the woman who loves them.
Sometimes I feel just like a teenager. There can be one quick moment, one fast reminder that I still carry the same doubts, concerns and over reactions that I felt at 16, and I must pause and analyze my own actions and reactions just a bit. Isn’t that funny? How we can be grown-ass adults, and still be reminded that we don’t know it all and that we may still carry some pangs that used to haunt us at that crucial age.
After my last post, I had a conversation with my mother. I’m not a great phone talker, so I really must have patience sometimes, because I know that my reticence to endure long conversations can affect that relationship, and I often remind myself that the connection that occurs is much more important than my discomfort with phone conversations in general.
I didn’t used to be this way, but somehow, I shifted as an adult, and I find that I reach out less and less in this way. I’m great in person. I welcome any and all conversation when I’m able to see someone’s face, take in their body language, etc. But the phone? Ugh. It’s so much harder than it used to be. I had even gotten to the point where I didn’t want to make these kinds of calls until the evening hours, when I was accompanied by my glass of wine, because it stilled me enough, and even opened me up enough to take in two things: the verbalization AND the person on the other end of the call.
Anyway, she told me that she read the last writing to my father. He doesn’t read them all, has never used the home computer or Ipad, barely uses a cell phone, and is more technologically challenged than any grown man should ever allow themselves to be, so she chooses which ones she shares with him. And he has the beginnings of Alzheimer’s. I say beginnings, not to imply that it’s not getting worse each and every month, but to say that it isn’t as bad as it could be. But what’s that? Is bad when my voice is a confusing entity over the phone? Is BAD when he doesn’t know who I am? Is BAD when my mom won’t be able to leave the house?
And I want SO much to be able to help. I want to be able to be next door, so he can come and just hang out for a couple of hours, because he’s become less and less verbal over the last year. Perhaps he questions what he says more and more. Perhaps he needs time and patience with both himself and from his surroundings before verbalization is possible. Perhaps my mother fills the empty space with language, because that comes easily for her.
But I long for moments on the porch with him. That’s what we do well. Early morning coffee talks and porch sitting. These two things represent how and when we connect…just the two of us. And sometimes we don’t even say much. Silence is just as acceptable as open dialogue.
We didn’t really have the relationship that I wanted until I was a young adult. See, there’s the teenager in me… “that I WANTED.” But once I was in college, I’d visit on the weekends, and we’d sit on the back porch and drink Shiner Bock and have relaxed conversation. When you do this with my father, you must endure 102-degree Houston heat and humidity, because he’s entirely acclimated. It is not a problem for him to work or sit in the heat for hours and hours, only armed with a box fan from 1988. There was never any pressure, only the pair of us, and I found that we could talk about gardening, just as easily as we could talk about family, school…really anything. And it never centered around music.
I always welcomed that, because I often fought the fact that music was the center of our household. It was my parent’s profession. It was what my entire family succeeded at. It was even what the weekend centered around, because my parents also had church music jobs, where the liturgical calendar dictated our weekly and yearly schedule. My parents are very, very different individuals, but this common interest and their professions undoubtedly contributed to the success of their marriage.
But initially, I never sought out musicians. And I never sought out partners who thought that my singing was any big deal whatsoever. I think at a young age, I made an unconscious decision to never make music the conversation around the dinner table. Not right or wrong, it’s just what I did. This proved to be a problem eventually…to have a partner who likely did not understand that part of me, where it comes from, what it means, how and why I value it. I’ve learned that if someone doesn’t appreciate and value the “musician” in me, they will not know me. My core self. That doesn’t have to be everyone I know, just like I might not know the CORE of every individual I speak to on a daily basis. But it is most definitely important that I recognize which individuals in my life need to understand this part of me, and who I must know in this way. It sure as hell better be my partner, my children, my parents, my close friends. Thankfully, I believe I have that. That musician in me is who writes this morning, and who harmonizes with Mike.
My dad is pretty old school. I think that writing in this way is probably pushing his acceptance a little further than he would naturally go. I don’t think I ever write anything that I wouldn’t say to him on the back porch. He’s used to that. But I learned that he wasn’t all too pleased with my last writing. My mom told me that after hearing ALL that I wrote, he not only focused on my cursing, but even wanted to speak to me about it. And Oh My GOODNESS, if I did NOT focus on THAT throughout the day. I had already felt the usual angst after sharing my post. That comes each and EVERY time. Feeling embarrassed and a teensy bit stupid. But, his words, even though once removed, since it was coming from my mother…pained me. Made me sad that my language alienated him from my message.
Was it possible that I do that ALL the time? With anyone reading? That by writing the word “fuck,” my words are discounted?
No, I don’t speak to my children like this. No, I never cursed in the classroom. No, I don’t even curse in everyday life during conversations, but I most certainly do with adults who know my CORE. And that’s what I’m willing to give to whomever reads these words. If they like and appreciate the candor, they are likely also “my kind of people.” The people who would join me for deeper conversation and also inappropriate humor. I’m still ever mindful of the responsibility when I write publicly, but these words are what I would say on the back porch.
You see, that language was merely a chord progression that wasn’t pleasing to his ears, and he obviously turned off the sound when he heard it. That’s unfortunate but can’t determine how I compose. If I focus too much on the notes, the piece will be compromised. If I decide that my core needs to be edited, I may change the message entirely, because the questioning, the “editing” is where I’ve often gone wrong.
There were even tears after hearing that I upset my father, although I imagine the tears centered around more than just his reaction. I’m sure I’ve upset him in the past. I doubt that having a daughter who EVER went to rehab was on his list of hopes and dreams he had for me, but I also think that I thought I was THROUGH with feeling like a disappointment in any way. Take note, I said I may “feel” like one sometimes, not that my parents make me feel like this. That’s an important distinction.
And it brings to mind the idea, that I wonder (even as adults) how certain ideas and experiences in childhood manifest themselves in our lives…how and why we cater to what others think of us. Whose thoughts and opinions matter. What…either encourages or hinders our connection with strangers and those we love?
Was I even speaking to HIM and why would I care that he doesn’t approve? I know that he knows and appreciates my “core.” I trust that, so I mustn’t indulge any other doubts, really. That can’t hinder my writing, because I also know that he trusts my intentions, even though my entire message was compromised for him. And that’s okay.
I think it’s probably more important to recognize that I DO care about what he thinks, but it need not be more important than what I do, if I feel that I’m right in doing it. If I feel that I’m not being irresponsible or lacking consideration for others in my writing. My father always represented a man who “does the right thing.” And so this WOMAN is trying to do that, proactively in my life. By writing.
Evan’s 16th birthday was a couple of days ago. There was no party with his friends. There was no solo trip out with his license. There were no birthday hugs from his teammates.
Of all my children, he handled any disappointments with the utmost grace and acceptance. It is not lost on me, that if it was the birthday of either one of my other children, there would have been tears and much more outward display of disappointment, frustration and maybe even anger. But I’ve never really seen Evan angry. Not in an ugly way. He seems to take whatever comes his way as an opportunity for growth and positivity, better than anyone else in this household. Including adults.
When I first found out that I was pregnant with him, I cried. Not out of happiness, but out of fear. Grace had been a terribly…difficult infant and toddler, and I wasn’t quite prepared to take on another force of life in my house. Because that’s exactly what she was. A force. Everything came with force. Crying, glee, physical energy, learning. She would work at identifying her colors with me, correct me on which ones were which (even though I was right), stand by her answer, and even look and treat me like I was a fool for saying anything OTHER than what her assertion was. She was the authority, and she didn’t want to hear anything otherwise. I had to start calling her Gracie, because her namesake wasn’t even close to how she entered or reacted to the world around her. That wild-eyed toddler even scared me at times, because I wondered how I would relate to my child, obviously so different from myself…from the very beginning.
Evan came along, and I realized that yes, indeed I was ready. SHE was ready and NEEDED to have company, and so did I. I needed some very REAL representation of balance, and all would be well with the world. Eventually. My job was to just ride out those years, appreciate and support their differences, and make sure that I fostered a loving household.
He always loved any experience, if a ball was the focus of the activity. Baseball, football, basketball, eventually soccer. Really anything. When he was five, he went up to his first at bat in T-ball, crushed the heck out of the ball, and ran the bases with confidence and ease, scoring a homerun. Not that it was an incredible hit…I mean, if you’ve ever watched T-ball games, the fielding, or LACK of fielding ability, is what makes a homerun, not usually the hit. But he just always had quiet confidence, void of any verbose pride or excessive celebration. He just steps up to the plate, gives his best, and does his job for the team.
Baseball was and IS his first love. He’s played year-round baseball for many years, and after coming home from London and reengaging with the sport and his friends, he joined a select team where tournaments became our family activity just about every weekend. When Will came along, he just had to grow up on the baseball fields. He didn’t know anything different. I remember nursing him in the stands in 102-degree heat and walking him in the jogger during games to get him down for his naps. Well, or bribing Grace with Blowpops to walk him in the jogger, because all baseball moms know that snacks, suckers and bags full of Double Bubble is what gets us through the games with our other children.
And when he was 11, he was shot in a hunting accident. This was when, totally without any intention whatsoever, Evan and I began our own porch chats. Weeks in the hospital, over 12 surgeries, vein bypass (really like a transplant of sorts), months out of school, homeschool while he came home with open wounds, skin grafting, wound vacs, wound dressings, endless trips back to San Antonio, years of physical and occupational therapy for both arms.
I only left the hospital in San Antonio to get clothes once, so for those weeks, we had each day and night together…just the two of us after visiting hours. And I got to know my son to the CORE. We didn’t talk about baseball (which was always foreign for me, since I only experienced the fine arts growing up), we just got to know one another. In fact, baseball was distinctly on the list of “not-talked-about-for-awhile” subjects, because it was doubtful that he would even play again, at that point.
We did a lot of listening. Through silence and through dialogue. We paid attention to one another. We leaned on one another. We lifted one another up. We laughed at things that would have made others uncomfortable, otherwise known as “hospital humor.” And I will ever be grateful that we had the opportunity to have that time. It changed each of us, and it shaped our relationship moving forward. I believe I got to know my son’s very depths, even at the age of 11, and I doubt that many can claim the same.
When I first arrived at the hospital after he was life-flighted to a hospital able to handle his level of trauma, I stood to the right of his gurney for what felt like hours, leaning over him, stroking back his bangs with my left hand, talking to my loopy 11-year-old child…while the doctors fought to find evidence of appropriate blood flow into his left arm. This was so strange to see…if you would have been there, because the shoulder that I leaned over for that entire time, was the one that had a hole through it large enough to drive a hot wheel through. Yes, I mean this very literally. You could see through his shoulder. The gauze had moved as I was inches away, and I saw the bed beneath him. I saw through my child.
But doctors were entirely focused on the left arm that was peppered with about 75 entry markings from the pellets of the shotgun shell that had blown cleanly through his right shoulder, opened up upon exiting the front of his body and spilled into that left arm. So, what was happening on the inside of that arm, was much more dramatic than what we saw on the outside.
He went into surgery that day, without knowing that they might take that left arm. His father and I knew, but I don’t remember him knowing this at that point in the journey. It’s strange how much you can deal with, when you know that their life is not in danger anymore. During those 13+ hours in surgery, my basic needs were already met. He was alive, so whatever happened, I thought we and HE could deal with it. I bow down in praise and prayer for people who have had that bottom line removed for them…who had to face the death of their own child, because I know that I am only lucky that the shell missed crucial organs, when it entered from behind.
Evan still plays ball. Lots and lots of it. I have never heard him express any anger whatsoever towards the person who accidentally shot him, nor have I ever seen him openly angry about having to fight his way back to the baseball fields. He’s accepted that he will always have limitations, but that does not stop him from his innermost desire to play or continually use his quiet confidence to show strength and perseverance.
He still plays year-round select baseball, made his high school JV baseball team as a Sophomore, and leads his teammates in a very real way. Some of his friends call him “shotgun,” and that’s entirely alright with him, because he is openly proud of what he has accomplished in these 16 years, the massive scarring on his left arm and his right shoulder that healed a little mal-formed which we call “funky fresh.”
When I first entered recovery, I began to give much more credence to both the positive and negative thoughts that I have throughout each day. I started to notice how and why they come, how to process them all, and even appreciate the fact that I no longer could push them aside or cover them up with wine. And writing became a way to eventually qualify and quantify these thoughts. I find that interesting.
So, after writing these several pages, I realize that I’ve been focused on these two men in my life who are similar in some remarkable ways. Evan values saying “yes, m’am and no, m’am,” just like his grandfather. That’s funny, because I don’t require it. It just comes voluntarily at this point, even as a teenager. And these two men are whom I can sit in silence with, knowing that our love connects us, as well as a deep understanding and appreciation for one another’s core self…even if we don’t always appreciate how it’s expressed.
I love a strong and silent man. I also love a strong and silent woman…but only when appropriate to be either one.
I value silence, just as much as I love people who will say what’s on their minds, and use language that makes us listen.
I am the cream in this Oreo of generations, so I guess that must be important as well. Maybe that’s why Evan doesn’t openly cuss, but he knows that I allow his listening to inappropriate rap music, because I trust that he would never talk like that himself. Yes, I know this. I can state that with confidence, because I know NO adult or even teenager who would read this and argue this assertion.
And I trust that being able to bridge this gap in generations is my responsibility and deep honor.
I learned not to fill every space with talking, from my father. And I passed this onto my son. And I learned that we must leave what we typically focus on as parents…and take the time to get to know our children to the core.
Thank you, Papa John. Thank you, Evan. For being strong and sometimes silent leaders in this world. You remind me to do the same.
But when I speak out, I still may drop the f bomb.
