"Lessons" Learned

Lessons are strange and unique in that we can glean wisdom from without realizing sometimes, until years later. At what point do we look back and say "I learned a valuable lesson there"? We can be in a negative situation that would seem to have no potential for gaining wisdom at all. In that event or series of events, however, some of the most significant lessons can in fact be learned.

            There is nothing to be gained by giving graphic details on the countless tortures I suffered at the hands of a , now reformed, monster. Doing this would only overshadow the lesson, turning it into a twisted show and tell lasting some twenty years. Suffice it to say that time does not heal all wounds, but it helps deaden the pain some.

            My first real memory started in 1973 in a little house in Pocatello, Idaho. It must have been winter because I remember it being dark outside; my older siblings and I were sitting at the kitchen table quietly eating macaroni and cheese. It's odd, but I remember the wood grain of the table better than the meal; following the lines of the wood seemed to detach me from the frightening sounds of my father's voice beating away at the background. It is amazing though, how the sensation of being wrenched to your feet by the hair of your oh-so-stretchable scalp will bring your entire world into sharp, crystal clarity. What I did to deserve being drug around by my hair, while being kicked and punched is beyond me; how great of a crime can a three year old commit, while sitting quietly at the dinner table?

            My father had (and to some extent still has) an erratic, volcanic temper that could explode at any given time. That temper would often explode without warning, sending anyone within striking range flying back in a painful confused scream. Something I never understood was what made my father so angry all the time. It was not until years later that I realized my father had been raised in much the same way that I was. I know now that he was self-imprisoned in a cage of his own anger and seemed unwilling or unable to free himself or our family.

            As I matured, so did the bars of my own cage of anger thicken and harden into a menacing prison. I often exploded into fits of black rage just like my father, without concern for those caught in the blast. I spent most of my teen years fighting anyone who happened to offend me, while looking for reasons to be offended. I was told by friends years later that the only reason they had been my friends in school was because they were afraid not to be. What kind of a person had they really perceived when they looked at me?

            I had not realized how much like my father I had become until 1997 - the year my daughter Ilirijana was born. I was in the army at that time; my unit just got out of the field and I was absolutely dead tired. As soon as I walked in the door my wife walked past me informing me that she had things to do and I needed to take care of the baby. "Just take her with you" I growled. "I just got in from the field and I get to change shitty diapers, while you take off to play!" She was already out the door and down the stairwell before I had even finished the sentence.

            Babies sense anger and there is no doubt in my mind that my little girl felt the ominous waves spreading out from me. She started to cry; it was one of those cries that starts as a whimper and evolves into an ice pick that drives itself deep into an already throbbing skull. There she was standing up in her crib, screaming at the top of her little lungs. I just wanted that goddamn noise to stop right fucking now! Like a being possessed, I started screaming back at her to "shut the fuck up!" There is no way something so small could make so much noise.

            As I reached toward my little girl with dreadful purpose, I was flooded by the memory of being ripped out of my seat by my hair like a rag doll, while being beaten like a dog. I picked my little baby up and sat down on the floor with her and bawled my eyes out in utter shame of what I had become. At that very moment, the gates of my prison were opened, letting out the man I could be. I thought my father had taught me the lesson of anger and violence, but I realize that I was shown how a man should not act. My precious daughter taught me love and patience, a lesson many people never learn. Patience is a lesson I relearn every day, but I do not have to worry as long as my little teachers stay on task; thank God for time out.