Father's Day

This week I found out that there is no shortage of “World’s Greatest Dad’s.” If I am to believe Facebook and Twitter, the overwhelming majority of my friends and acquaintances were blessed with the kindest, smartest, funniest fathers that anyone could ever ask for. I am happy for them…really. 

I saw picture after Polaroid picture of dads on my social media feeds on Father’s Day. Dads decked out in polyester, dads proudly displaying a hard- won catch from the lake, dads hugging kids, young kids, grown kids, their kids. Great words too, dad was an inspiration, dad was a mentor, dad is a hero.  I had to disconnect, unplug. I had to remove myself from the endless tribute.  It was too much.

There are people who remained invisible to social media on Father’s Day. They did not post loving memories of dear old dad. They did not give words of thanks to the man who taught them so much and loved them so well. Some are fatherless, never knowing the man who is semi-responsible for their existence. Some know their fathers but, after a lifetime of abuses, wish they did not. Some are working through it with their dads, trying to lay pavement to a relationship that has always traveled along very rocky terrain.

For people like that, people like me, there are questions as to how we should feel when Father’s Day rolls around. Is it okay to be a little resentful of friends that seem to have been blessed with a wonderful relationship with their dad? Should I consider myself lucky that at least I did not have it as bad as others who have suffered unspeakable crimes at the hands of their fathers? What is the appropriate amount of pain I am allowed, and when should I just “get over it” and move on? 

The thing I have learned about pain, it’s like a fingerprint, unique to you and attached to you. Other people may see your pain but they don’t know it, and because they don’t know they really don’t have the right to tell you how it should be managed.  We have a bad habit in our society of putting pain on the scales of justice, rationalizing that because one person’s wounds seem to be deeper than another’s , then the more wounded person deserves more compassion. It’s a false assumption.  Compassion and understanding are for everyone, and so is the right to heal. 

I have known many people with parental wounds, and while I do my best to encourage them, I know enough not to try to “fix” them with a self-help catchphrase or even worse, tough love. Your wounds are your own, so is your road to healing. For some, it is simply a matter of forgiveness, being able to let go and move forward.  Others might require confrontation and justice, an acknowledgement of wrongdoing, an apology.  For everyone who must deal with the past, the question of the future also remains. Do we try to repair the broken relationship, or do we build a wall and leave the offenders on the other side? It is unique, a million life circumstances and just as many responses, fingerprints.

As for me, I am approaching peace. I am fully aware of whom my father is, and I know that we will never have the happy, smiling, father-son photo op that social media seems to adore.  That is ok.  Sure, every once in a while I might mourn our dead relationship but I know what is best for me. That is why on Father’s Day I did the very best thing I could do for myself. I unplugged, put my phone away, and took my two beautiful little girls swimming. We had a wonderful time!

Gun Lovers, Don't Tread on Me.

It was my friend Monty’s birthday, sometime in the summer of 1989.  Monty was from the country. He loved to hunt, fish, and ride horses.  The horses we had in common, everything else, not so much.  Monty had decided to have his birthday party at an indoor firing range in Fort Worth. I went, if for no other reason than to see what it was like.

 I had never been to a firing range before. The only experience I had with guns was firing a couple of shots at a tin can with my grandfather’s .22 rifle. That was a long time ago.  Now I stood in a booth, ear muffs on, pistol in hand, ready to shoot. I don’t remember whether or not I hit the target, I remember the recoil, jarring and sudden. I remember the noise, booming even through the “ears”. Holding that weapon I was awestruck by the idea that something so simple and small could be so forceful. Here was the power to take life, to maim and cripple, to alter family histories, to alter world history, and it fit in the palm of my hand.  That thought humbled me, in fact it terrified me.  I was uncomfortable. I did not like the feeling of having the arbitrary power to end something, or someone’s life. It did not belong to me. What right did I have to a power like that? More importantly, could I trust myself with a power like that? It was the last time I picked up a gun.

So I am not a gun person.  Does that make me un-American? Am I a “sissy” because I don’t like to shoot things?  According to some folks in my great home state of Texas, the answer is yes.  Recently members of the “open carry” movement in Texas have been holding very public demonstrations, exercising their right to walk around with long rifles, assault rifles, and the like. They have mugged for pictures inside restaurants and coffee shops, they have marched in the parking lots of Home Depot’s and they harassed a former Marine in downtown Fort Worth because he had the audacity to question the sanity of their brazen disregard for the safety and security of their fellow citizens.   This particular group of people actually accused the NRA of being too soft after that organization called the groups tactics into question.  Wow.

I have questions for open carry advocates. These questions are not asked in the spirit of accusation but in the genuine interest of understanding your position. You want to be able to display your weaponry for the entire world to see.  Why? I really don’t understand. Is it for protection? I would think if someone wants to take you out being able to see what you’re packing and where it is on your person would actually put you at a disadvantage.  Is it fear? Are you so afraid of the bad people in this world (and yes, there are bad people in this world) that you feel your only recourse is to strike fear into the people around you, be they man, woman or child, guilty or innocent?  I hope your reasons go beyond intimidation and antiquated notions of old west justice.  I am for your rights, but please don’t tread on mine. 

I think back to that birthday party at the gun range and I remember this; it was not the gun that frightened me. It was the thought of what I could be capable of with that gun that scared the hell out of me.  So when I say I am uncomfortable with the way you are expressing your rights, I am not saying it because I don’t trust the guns, I am saying it because I don’t trust you.   I don’t trust you to always, always think safety first. I don’t trust you to always, always keep your emotions under control.  I don’t trust you to always, always value human life, even if it is the life of someone you hate.  You want to have guns?  Fine. You want to carry them openly in public? Ok. Just know that along with that choice comes the burden of a greater responsibility that you can even fathom. I’m simply asking that you take that responsibility with the seriousness it deserves.