Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Traditions of fatherhood, not traditional fathers
By Russell King
I don’t have to tell you what’s happening to our traditions. In our frantic, plastic, throw-away world, all of life’s dramas must set up, unfold, peak and resolve in the space of a TV sitcom. Popular songs become golden oldies after 12 months. Family meals have yielded to impatient trips through the fast-food drive-up window. And great debates of the critical issues have become sugar-coated images in 30-second TV “sound bites.” All of which is why this dad loves fishing.
Fishing is a tradition with staying power. I think it’s so because it’s a unifier. All the things we let divide us as a nation—age, race, money, religion, politics—seem to disappear when we pick up fishing rods.
Some of my best memories of yesterday center on a series of fishing trips to Canada with my father and brothers. Some of my strongest yearnings of today center on somehow getting my father and all of his sons back to those same northern woods, together, with fishing rods in hand.
The trips were times of wonder and joy for me, as a son and as a brother. Even when it rained for three days straight, and we were trapped inside our damp, cramped, mosquito-infested tent, it was a great adventure. We’d play Rook, eat nuts and tell stories. Best of all, we were together and we were with our dad.
These periods of immersion in Dad’s presence—free from the interruptions and distractions of daily life—were the times I think I learned the most from Dad about being a dad. In his prime, Dad was a physically powerful man whose strength seemed exceeded only by his gentleness. A tough farm boy who played both offense and defense on a football team coached by the great Bob Devany, Dad moved through life with an uncommon grace, uninhibited humor and uncompromising compassion. Dad demonstrated that a man could be macho while cooing at an infant, reading a book or saying a prayer. I’m still working toward, and falling short of, the example he set.
Whether fishing close to home or hundreds of miles into the Canadian backwoods, bringing along his boys meant that Dad made sacrifices. Of course, he couldn’t start out as early or stay out as late as he would have liked. Kids like lots of action and tire from too much casting, so he couldn’t fish how, where or for what he would have preferred. He bought a lot of extra lures and leaders, which we regularly left on logs at the bottom of lakes, and even a pole to replace the one I dropped into the lake.
For the first several years of my adult like, I carried a considerable load of guilt for what I had robbed from dad. The favorite lures lost forever, the quiet hours that could have been spent casting through an early morning mist, the intensity of working the tricky spots for the more challenging catches—he’d sacrificed all of these for me and my brothers. What’s more, I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t seem to mind.
Then my first child arrived, and I understood. Maya, at 2, is the only one of my six children who does not own her own fishing pole and who has not yet caught her first fish. She’d still rather play with the bait. I’ve given up working my favorite bed of weeds for the trophy bass I just know is hiding in there and taken up baiting hooks for schools of perch and bluegill instead. I’ve traded untangling the mysteries of nature for untangling intricate webs of fishing line. And I don’t mind.
I’m passing along a family tradition, and I feel good about that. Not all traditions, of course, deserve to be passed along. There’s plenty of our engrained, inherited culture that we’d be better off leaving in the past. This one, however, seems worthy of passing forward.
More importantly, I’m out there with my sons and daughters—and they are out there with their dad. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll remember it when they are moms and dads.
By Russell King
I don’t have to tell you what’s happening to our traditions. In our frantic, plastic, throw-away world, all of life’s dramas must set up, unfold, peak and resolve in the space of a TV sitcom. Popular songs become golden oldies after 12 months. Family meals have yielded to impatient trips through the fast-food drive-up window. And great debates of the critical issues have become sugar-coated images in 30-second TV “sound bites.” All of which is why this dad loves fishing.
Fishing is a tradition with staying power. I think it’s so because it’s a unifier. All the things we let divide us as a nation—age, race, money, religion, politics—seem to disappear when we pick up fishing rods.
Some of my best memories of yesterday center on a series of fishing trips to Canada with my father and brothers. Some of my strongest yearnings of today center on somehow getting my father and all of his sons back to those same northern woods, together, with fishing rods in hand.
The trips were times of wonder and joy for me, as a son and as a brother. Even when it rained for three days straight, and we were trapped inside our damp, cramped, mosquito-infested tent, it was a great adventure. We’d play Rook, eat nuts and tell stories. Best of all, we were together and we were with our dad.
These periods of immersion in Dad’s presence—free from the interruptions and distractions of daily life—were the times I think I learned the most from Dad about being a dad. In his prime, Dad was a physically powerful man whose strength seemed exceeded only by his gentleness. A tough farm boy who played both offense and defense on a football team coached by the great Bob Devany, Dad moved through life with an uncommon grace, uninhibited humor and uncompromising compassion. Dad demonstrated that a man could be macho while cooing at an infant, reading a book or saying a prayer. I’m still working toward, and falling short of, the example he set.
Whether fishing close to home or hundreds of miles into the Canadian backwoods, bringing along his boys meant that Dad made sacrifices. Of course, he couldn’t start out as early or stay out as late as he would have liked. Kids like lots of action and tire from too much casting, so he couldn’t fish how, where or for what he would have preferred. He bought a lot of extra lures and leaders, which we regularly left on logs at the bottom of lakes, and even a pole to replace the one I dropped into the lake.
For the first several years of my adult like, I carried a considerable load of guilt for what I had robbed from dad. The favorite lures lost forever, the quiet hours that could have been spent casting through an early morning mist, the intensity of working the tricky spots for the more challenging catches—he’d sacrificed all of these for me and my brothers. What’s more, I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t seem to mind.
Then my first child arrived, and I understood. Maya, at 2, is the only one of my six children who does not own her own fishing pole and who has not yet caught her first fish. She’d still rather play with the bait. I’ve given up working my favorite bed of weeds for the trophy bass I just know is hiding in there and taken up baiting hooks for schools of perch and bluegill instead. I’ve traded untangling the mysteries of nature for untangling intricate webs of fishing line. And I don’t mind.
I’m passing along a family tradition, and I feel good about that. Not all traditions, of course, deserve to be passed along. There’s plenty of our engrained, inherited culture that we’d be better off leaving in the past. This one, however, seems worthy of passing forward.
More importantly, I’m out there with my sons and daughters—and they are out there with their dad. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll remember it when they are moms and dads.
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
The Sacrifices of Soldier-dads
By Russell King
There is a group of dads about whom, almost every day, we read, hear, debate and pray, but we never think of as dads. They are soldiers. Make no mistake: Beneath those sand-scoured uniforms beat the hearts of fathers, complete with all the passions, dreams, yearnings and fears that you and I know.
Perhaps we think of them as soldiers instead of dads, because it makes it easier for us to ask them to do our dirty work for us. When we send them away and put them at risk for taking and losing lives, it’s easier if they seem less human. It’s too hard if we know they’re deeply loved and desperately needed by a child.
One particular soldier-dad, SFC David Rhein, is special to me. I started corresponding with Dave while he was on the front lines in Baghdad. His son--his first child--was born days after the war began.
Even after the fighting of the invasion ended, he had to tolerate: life in the blinding, choking sand; sleeping in a bombed out building; enduring 130-degree heat; and looking into the eyes of the Iraqis around him and never knowing behind which pair lurked the hatred that would cause someone to take his life.
All the while, deep in this man’s soul, was the father’s urge to hold his child, to feel that infant in his hands, to fill his lungs with that special newborn baby scent, to kiss the soft cheeks of his only son. He ached, I’m sure, with the husband’s desire to look into the eyes of the mother of his son and pour out a heart full of gratitude, admiration and undying love. It would be more than six months before that moment could happen.
Meanwhile, Dave did everything imaginable to be a dad. Not content to coo at his son over the telephone, he made a two-hour video reading Disney books. Each night, Dave’s son can watch and hear Daddy read a bedtime story. Not content with mere snapshots sent home, Dave sent a digital photo that his wife enlarged so that, each night, as he’s climbing into bed, Dave’s son can say goodnight to Da-da.
Dave isn’t alone. There are countless soldier-dads in Iraq, and they’re making sacrifices for us that we never even consider. They send emails, letters, audio tapes, video tapes—anything to stay in touch. One soldier who was due to become a dad last month, made tapes of himself reading stories, which his wife played close to her stomach so the baby would hear Daddy’s voice inside the womb.
All the while we have written back and forth, not once did this soldier-dad complain. Instead, he spoke to me of his higher purpose. Regardless of the politics of the situation, this young man–this new father--was serving his country.
He wasn’t serving his country in abstract terms. It wasn’t a piece of cloth colored red, white and blue he was serving. It was me. It was his wife and his son. It was my wife and my children. It was everyone you and I love.
His purpose, as he saw it, was to serve us–to risk his life to protect the lives of all the dads, moms and kids in America. And because he held to that deeper purpose, he was able not just to endure, but to remain a positive force for life in the middle of hell.
If keeping true to his deepest values and his higher purpose can sustain Dave under those conditions, imagine what they can do for us in our lives, in our homes, in our roles as dads. In the relative luxury of my life, what excuse do I have for failing to live with the same passion and purpose as this young soldier-dad?
And what excuse do any of have for failing to remember, as we send these men off to war—and when they come home--that they are not unloved, unfeeling, solitary soldiers, but dads, daddies, da-das and papas?
None.
By Russell King
There is a group of dads about whom, almost every day, we read, hear, debate and pray, but we never think of as dads. They are soldiers. Make no mistake: Beneath those sand-scoured uniforms beat the hearts of fathers, complete with all the passions, dreams, yearnings and fears that you and I know.
Perhaps we think of them as soldiers instead of dads, because it makes it easier for us to ask them to do our dirty work for us. When we send them away and put them at risk for taking and losing lives, it’s easier if they seem less human. It’s too hard if we know they’re deeply loved and desperately needed by a child.
One particular soldier-dad, SFC David Rhein, is special to me. I started corresponding with Dave while he was on the front lines in Baghdad. His son--his first child--was born days after the war began.
Even after the fighting of the invasion ended, he had to tolerate: life in the blinding, choking sand; sleeping in a bombed out building; enduring 130-degree heat; and looking into the eyes of the Iraqis around him and never knowing behind which pair lurked the hatred that would cause someone to take his life.
All the while, deep in this man’s soul, was the father’s urge to hold his child, to feel that infant in his hands, to fill his lungs with that special newborn baby scent, to kiss the soft cheeks of his only son. He ached, I’m sure, with the husband’s desire to look into the eyes of the mother of his son and pour out a heart full of gratitude, admiration and undying love. It would be more than six months before that moment could happen.
Meanwhile, Dave did everything imaginable to be a dad. Not content to coo at his son over the telephone, he made a two-hour video reading Disney books. Each night, Dave’s son can watch and hear Daddy read a bedtime story. Not content with mere snapshots sent home, Dave sent a digital photo that his wife enlarged so that, each night, as he’s climbing into bed, Dave’s son can say goodnight to Da-da.
Dave isn’t alone. There are countless soldier-dads in Iraq, and they’re making sacrifices for us that we never even consider. They send emails, letters, audio tapes, video tapes—anything to stay in touch. One soldier who was due to become a dad last month, made tapes of himself reading stories, which his wife played close to her stomach so the baby would hear Daddy’s voice inside the womb.
All the while we have written back and forth, not once did this soldier-dad complain. Instead, he spoke to me of his higher purpose. Regardless of the politics of the situation, this young man–this new father--was serving his country.
He wasn’t serving his country in abstract terms. It wasn’t a piece of cloth colored red, white and blue he was serving. It was me. It was his wife and his son. It was my wife and my children. It was everyone you and I love.
His purpose, as he saw it, was to serve us–to risk his life to protect the lives of all the dads, moms and kids in America. And because he held to that deeper purpose, he was able not just to endure, but to remain a positive force for life in the middle of hell.
If keeping true to his deepest values and his higher purpose can sustain Dave under those conditions, imagine what they can do for us in our lives, in our homes, in our roles as dads. In the relative luxury of my life, what excuse do I have for failing to live with the same passion and purpose as this young soldier-dad?
And what excuse do any of have for failing to remember, as we send these men off to war—and when they come home--that they are not unloved, unfeeling, solitary soldiers, but dads, daddies, da-das and papas?
None.
Thursday, November 13, 2003
Hey! Where did Dad go?
By Russell King
If you're a dad, you just barely exist. We talk a lot in this culture about how important dads are, but we don't mean it. Almost any time you read or hear about how important dads are, it turns out to be an attempt to shame deadbeat dads--most of whom should never have been fathers in the first place--to meet their financial obligations.
Forget nurturing. Forget loving. Forget guiding. It seems you're good only for a paycheck, and you're only visible when the check isn't.
The realization struck me one night as I sat in the urgent care clinic, waiting for the doctor to take a look at one of the kids. I was paging through one of the many magazines aimed, in title at least, at parents. What struck me was how the articles were all about moms. I went back to the front cover and started looking for any sign of a dad.
Flipping through the magazines, I counted photos and drawings (including those in advertisements) that clearly depicted either an adult male or adult female. All but one of them had lopsided mom-to-dad ratios, some of them running as high as 30 to one. The one exception was Sesame Street Parenting, with a ratio of 50:50.
To test whether this was a fluke, I leafed through the so-called parenting and family magazines we get at home. Family Life had 23 moms and nine dads. Family PC had a score of 34 to 19. Family Fun ran 30 to 19. Parents was at 77 to 31. Sesame Street Parents closed the gap to 24 moms to 19 dads. All together, that's 188 moms and 97 dads.
Although black dads are even more rare, accounting for just 13 of the dad images, they actually outnumbered the images of black moms (10). In the Family Life I looked at, every dad was white. Family PC had one, Family Fun two, Parents four and Sesame Street Parents six.
Other non-white dads appeared even less frequently. Most were absent entirely. Demographics make this an oddity: The number of Americans identifying themselves as "Hispanic" in the latest census is higher than the number identifying themselves as "African-American."
Advertisers take their lumps for their bizarre portrayal of the world, but in this sampling they did better than the magazine editors. A disproportionate number of dads, and an overwhelming number of the black dads, were found in advertising.
I did not see a single image of a family that looks like mine, with people of a variety of hues. More than a million American families are multi-racial, you'd think we'd get an honorable mention.
Was it a sampling problem? Perhaps, despite their names, these were really women's magazines. Maybe I just haven't subscribed to any magazines for dads. So I went to two local bookstores--Barnes & Noble and Border's Books--to look for fatherhood magazines. I found none.
The point is not that my feelings are hurt because I feel left out. My point is about the hypocrisy of American culture when it preaches so much about the importance of fathers and then acts as if they are expendable, nonexistent or both.
I'm a dad trying to find my way through, and I need information, insight and inspiration just as much as any mom. How do I better balance work and family life? How do I converse with my 15-year-old so that he can hear me? Why does my 2-year-old-old say "no" all the time? How do children learn empathy? How do I best foster their spiritual lives? Does anyone have the secret to getting done all the stuff of being a dad--meals, lessons, homework, laundry, games, stories and so on--and still having time to be a husband, or just a man, afterwards?
We're dads. We exist. So why is it we only get noticed when we're gone?
By Russell King
If you're a dad, you just barely exist. We talk a lot in this culture about how important dads are, but we don't mean it. Almost any time you read or hear about how important dads are, it turns out to be an attempt to shame deadbeat dads--most of whom should never have been fathers in the first place--to meet their financial obligations.
Forget nurturing. Forget loving. Forget guiding. It seems you're good only for a paycheck, and you're only visible when the check isn't.
The realization struck me one night as I sat in the urgent care clinic, waiting for the doctor to take a look at one of the kids. I was paging through one of the many magazines aimed, in title at least, at parents. What struck me was how the articles were all about moms. I went back to the front cover and started looking for any sign of a dad.
Flipping through the magazines, I counted photos and drawings (including those in advertisements) that clearly depicted either an adult male or adult female. All but one of them had lopsided mom-to-dad ratios, some of them running as high as 30 to one. The one exception was Sesame Street Parenting, with a ratio of 50:50.
To test whether this was a fluke, I leafed through the so-called parenting and family magazines we get at home. Family Life had 23 moms and nine dads. Family PC had a score of 34 to 19. Family Fun ran 30 to 19. Parents was at 77 to 31. Sesame Street Parents closed the gap to 24 moms to 19 dads. All together, that's 188 moms and 97 dads.
Although black dads are even more rare, accounting for just 13 of the dad images, they actually outnumbered the images of black moms (10). In the Family Life I looked at, every dad was white. Family PC had one, Family Fun two, Parents four and Sesame Street Parents six.
Other non-white dads appeared even less frequently. Most were absent entirely. Demographics make this an oddity: The number of Americans identifying themselves as "Hispanic" in the latest census is higher than the number identifying themselves as "African-American."
Advertisers take their lumps for their bizarre portrayal of the world, but in this sampling they did better than the magazine editors. A disproportionate number of dads, and an overwhelming number of the black dads, were found in advertising.
I did not see a single image of a family that looks like mine, with people of a variety of hues. More than a million American families are multi-racial, you'd think we'd get an honorable mention.
Was it a sampling problem? Perhaps, despite their names, these were really women's magazines. Maybe I just haven't subscribed to any magazines for dads. So I went to two local bookstores--Barnes & Noble and Border's Books--to look for fatherhood magazines. I found none.
The point is not that my feelings are hurt because I feel left out. My point is about the hypocrisy of American culture when it preaches so much about the importance of fathers and then acts as if they are expendable, nonexistent or both.
I'm a dad trying to find my way through, and I need information, insight and inspiration just as much as any mom. How do I better balance work and family life? How do I converse with my 15-year-old so that he can hear me? Why does my 2-year-old-old say "no" all the time? How do children learn empathy? How do I best foster their spiritual lives? Does anyone have the secret to getting done all the stuff of being a dad--meals, lessons, homework, laundry, games, stories and so on--and still having time to be a husband, or just a man, afterwards?
We're dads. We exist. So why is it we only get noticed when we're gone?
Sunday, November 02, 2003
What do we wish for our kids?
By Russell King
Every couple of weeks a friend or relative forwards to me via e-mail some bit of writing they have found entertaining, educational or inspirational. There's one that keep coming around with comments like "this is so true," "have a tissue handy" or "everyone in America should read this." It's attributed to Paul Harvey, but it’s a hoax. I've read it more than once, and I've yet to need a tissue. In fact, I think it's empty, mistaken and sad.
"We tried so hard to make things better for our kids," the mystery author writes, "that we made them worse. For my grandchildren, I'd like better."
By "better" he says he means he wants them to "know about hand-me-down clothes ...homemade ice cream and leftover meatloaf sandwiches." He hopes they "learn humility by being humiliated ... honesty by being cheated.... to make (their beds) ... mow the lawn and wash the car." The ghost writer also wishes for his grandkids: a black eye from a fight over "something (they) believe in;" a room shared with a younger brother; an uphill walk to school; soap in the mouth for talking back to their mother; a knee skinned climbing a mountain, a hand burned on a stove and a tongue frozen to a flagpole. He concludes by saying, "These things I wish for you--tough times and disappointment, hard work and happiness. To me, it's the only way to appreciate life. Written with a pen."
That's it? A grandpa looks back over his life, dips deeply into his accumulated wisdom, and comes up with that? Is that more scary or more sad? Who really did write this, and could he possibly be as dull or as hollow as this makes him sound?
As we age, we tend to convince ourselves that the era of our childhood was some sort of golden age, and almost everything since has been a downhill slide. Given that childhood, for most of us in the United States, is far more care-free, entertaining and stimulating than adulthood, it's easy to see how we reach such wistful conclusions. Never mind the facts, and never mind that every generation before us has thought the same thing.
The truth is that the "good ol' days" never existed.
I find precious little in this wish list that would contribute anything meaningful to a child's upbringing. We like to think that the "sacrifices" we had to make or "tough times" we had to endure strengthened our character and made us better people. We're wrong. They don't. Suffering does not build character (although it can reveal it). Tough times, disappointment and hard work do not make us appreciate life. The usually make us bitter and calloused.
Most of us are not all that strong of character anyway, so we shouldn't be so smug about either how we turned out or how we got this way.
Black eyes, burned hands, skinned knees, frozen tongues or any other sort of physical pain does not make children grow up to be good adults. Humiliation breeds anger, not humility. Wearing used clothes, eating leftovers and making your own toys and ice cream do not make us better people. There is nothing ennobling about writing with a pen. And all you get from walking uphill is a hardy heart and a better butt.
What really grinds me, though, is that there's nothing here that really matters. What matters to me as a dad, what I wish for my children is: that they learn to feel empathy, compassion and generosity; that they seek truth, create beauty and share love; that they feel connected to the Earth, moved by art and overwhelmed by laughter. Most of all, I hope they learn that the most important pursuits in life are the development of their spiritual lives, their inner character and their personal relationships. All others, including most of this mystery grandpa’s hopes, fall way down on the priority list.
Written with a laptop (which makes no difference at all).
By Russell King
Every couple of weeks a friend or relative forwards to me via e-mail some bit of writing they have found entertaining, educational or inspirational. There's one that keep coming around with comments like "this is so true," "have a tissue handy" or "everyone in America should read this." It's attributed to Paul Harvey, but it’s a hoax. I've read it more than once, and I've yet to need a tissue. In fact, I think it's empty, mistaken and sad.
"We tried so hard to make things better for our kids," the mystery author writes, "that we made them worse. For my grandchildren, I'd like better."
By "better" he says he means he wants them to "know about hand-me-down clothes ...homemade ice cream and leftover meatloaf sandwiches." He hopes they "learn humility by being humiliated ... honesty by being cheated.... to make (their beds) ... mow the lawn and wash the car." The ghost writer also wishes for his grandkids: a black eye from a fight over "something (they) believe in;" a room shared with a younger brother; an uphill walk to school; soap in the mouth for talking back to their mother; a knee skinned climbing a mountain, a hand burned on a stove and a tongue frozen to a flagpole. He concludes by saying, "These things I wish for you--tough times and disappointment, hard work and happiness. To me, it's the only way to appreciate life. Written with a pen."
That's it? A grandpa looks back over his life, dips deeply into his accumulated wisdom, and comes up with that? Is that more scary or more sad? Who really did write this, and could he possibly be as dull or as hollow as this makes him sound?
As we age, we tend to convince ourselves that the era of our childhood was some sort of golden age, and almost everything since has been a downhill slide. Given that childhood, for most of us in the United States, is far more care-free, entertaining and stimulating than adulthood, it's easy to see how we reach such wistful conclusions. Never mind the facts, and never mind that every generation before us has thought the same thing.
The truth is that the "good ol' days" never existed.
I find precious little in this wish list that would contribute anything meaningful to a child's upbringing. We like to think that the "sacrifices" we had to make or "tough times" we had to endure strengthened our character and made us better people. We're wrong. They don't. Suffering does not build character (although it can reveal it). Tough times, disappointment and hard work do not make us appreciate life. The usually make us bitter and calloused.
Most of us are not all that strong of character anyway, so we shouldn't be so smug about either how we turned out or how we got this way.
Black eyes, burned hands, skinned knees, frozen tongues or any other sort of physical pain does not make children grow up to be good adults. Humiliation breeds anger, not humility. Wearing used clothes, eating leftovers and making your own toys and ice cream do not make us better people. There is nothing ennobling about writing with a pen. And all you get from walking uphill is a hardy heart and a better butt.
What really grinds me, though, is that there's nothing here that really matters. What matters to me as a dad, what I wish for my children is: that they learn to feel empathy, compassion and generosity; that they seek truth, create beauty and share love; that they feel connected to the Earth, moved by art and overwhelmed by laughter. Most of all, I hope they learn that the most important pursuits in life are the development of their spiritual lives, their inner character and their personal relationships. All others, including most of this mystery grandpa’s hopes, fall way down on the priority list.
Written with a laptop (which makes no difference at all).
