I come from good lower middle class family with a healthy respect for education. Most of my relatives from the generation prior to mine had rarely finished high school, let alone gone on to college, but they weren’t stupid people, oh, no — we were regularly told that a good education was a path to a better life, and all had a lively interest in the world around them. My parents both liked to read and were creative, alert people, but I will admit that the combination of unschooled intelligence and an omnivorous curiousity unhampered by academic conventions meant that the reading material around the house was eclectic, to say the least. I’ve explained before that I had easy access to lots of weird literature, and I read just about everything I could find.
That’s the prelude so you can understand how I found myself in the uncharacteristic situation I describe below, over 30 years ago when I was but a skinny nerd in high school, and how I could be so stupid as to hurt someone I cared about.
I was sitting on the steps of the back porch when my father came home from work and sat down next to me. He asked what I was reading; it was a book about palmistry of all things, loaded with bogus diagrams and recipes for divination, all by looking at someone’s hand, so naturally Dad holds out his hand for a reading, not that I knew how to do such a thing. All I could do was go to the front of the book and start following the formulas from the top.
Now of course I knew my father well, and if I’d been a real bunkum artist I would have spun out a happy tale, pointing out the signifiers of the bumps and lines on that hand to add verisimilitude to whatever I said. My father was a romantic who eloped with his sweetheart fresh out of high school, driving off to Idaho to marry her under the more liberal age of consent there. He had an imagination — the first books I read were Tarzan of the Apes and A Princess of Mars, his books, favorites from his youth. He wasn’t much of a student, preferring to hike and fish anywhere in the Pacific Northwest. I’d been mushroom hunting with him in old stands of cedar after a fresh rain; he showed me how to tie and bait a hook, and how to sit patiently waiting for the steelhead to strike; when we cleaned the fish, he’d explain what all the organs were; we went clam digging on the Sound, and we’d happily grub about in the molluscs and polychaete worms and echinoderms. His hobby was art, and he liked to sketch and we had a few of his watercolors hanging about. He was good with people and seemed to know everyone in town, and was ready to have a conversation with anyone he bumped into—and he was a laughing good old boy, his humor a bit dark and cynical, perhaps, but never made at the expense of his friends. So, sure, I knew him well, loved him, thought he was the best dad around…heck, he was my hero.
So he held out his hand to me.
Something else you should know about my father is that he had a high-school education and six kids, and he spent most of his life working hard, too hard. He was on the Boeing roller coaster: getting hired at the most desirable blue collar job in the Seattle area for a while, and then when they didn’t sell enough airplanes, getting laid off and having to scrabble for temporary work until he could get hired on again. He’d done stints as a lumberjack and a railroad worker, a custodian and a water meter reader, and often he’d make do as a mechanic at a gas station. Frequently he’d be juggling a couple of jobs in these in-between troughs of poverty, trying to keep us afloat, no easy thing with that many mouths squawking at home.
So here’s the hand he gave to me: I still remember it vividly. It was like something carved out of gnarled granite, strong and solid, thick-fingered and muscular. The skin was leathery and calloused, scarred and bearing recent cuts, the nails rough. He always washed thoroughly with this powerful industrial goop before coming home, and I could smell that soapy, astringent odor still thick with the tang of oil and metal; every whorl was starkly outlined with ineradicable grease and grit. It was a strong hand that could have been on a poster for the Wobblies or on the cover of the International Worker, and it would have been posed holding a massive wrench or a sledgehammer.
My stupid little palmistry pamphlet starts out with a series of panels of outlines of hands, and we’re supposed to identify the shape that best matches—and there it is, as I point out to my father, the “spade-shaped hand”, which in the caption below is described as the hand of the common laborer. Goddamned idiotic book.
Have you ever seen someone surprised, seeing something familiar with new eyes for the first time? That was my father. He pulled his hand away and looked at it, and the wheels were turning, I could see—wait…that isn’t my hand, this isn’t my life, how did it get like this? We all have these moments, especially as we get older, looking in the mirror and wondering where that wrinkle came from, that gray hair, the slack lines around the jaw—but we usually don’t have them thrust upon us by our kids, we don’t suddenly get this twisted perspective that leads us to think that those we love see our lives as something not at all as we picture it. I hurt my father with those few thoughtless words, I effortlessly stabbed him deep right to the heart of him, and I could see it. I think it was the cruelest thing I’ve ever done.
My dad died on the day after Christmas, 1993. Every year at this time there’s one thing I think about.
Damn it, Dad, I take it back. Those are hands that can deftly fillet a salmon without a single scrap of waste. Those are hands that diaper babies. Those are hands that rescue lithe princesses on the dusty sea basins of Barsoom. Those are hands that held mine when I could barely walk. Those are the hands of an artist and a dreamer.
I knew that all along.
Thanks for sharing that PZ. We all have moments where we wish we could change something we’ve done to hurt the ones we love. Some get that chance, some don’t. I still remember a moment in college when I made my grandmother cry. I was living with them at the time to save money and I said some things I wish I could have taken back.
Nice post. From the heart it is clear.
That’s a bit extreme. It may have been the most hurtful thing you’ve ever done, but the dominant meaning of ‘cruel’ is causing pain intentionally.
Part of being a son is making your father cry. It comes with the territory.
Thanks for sharing, PZ.
My dad’s hands were designed to hold beer cans, cigarettes, and racing forms. The cruelest thing I ever told him was that he had become obsolete as a mentor. Of course, that bit of nastiness allowed us to move the relationship to “the next level.” In retrospect, I should have given him the business when I was ten instead of twenty.
It was unintentional. We’ve all had unthinking moments, many of us have had cruel moments. I called my mom a horrible mother once, and at that moment I really meant it. She then slapped me for the first and only time. It was the worst moment we both had ever had. A good relationship survives the moments like that.
You need to sit down and start writing a book, PZ. That was beautiful.
Cm n PZ, w knw y ht rlgs ppl.
Pls dn’t wsl rnd nd sy y dn’t. Y DSPS thm. t DRPS frm yr pst.
Wht RLLY hppnd?
Y knw th trth wll cm t vntlly.
PZ: I’m at a loss. This was so vivid, so moving that I couldn’t let it go by without responding—but now that I’ve begun, I don’t feel up to it. It hurts.
Guilt and regret, hurts real and imagined seem as much a part of our holidays as we get older as any cherished tradition. I’m not smart enough to expound on that without risking being misunderstood, and I have too much regard for you to take that risk on something so personal.
So I wish you clarity, acceptance and peace. It’s the least I can do after what you shared. Admiringly…SH
Look PZ, there’s only one thing wrong with being a common laborer: the pay sucks. Try imagining a world where labourers were paid 200K a year and see how that feels. So if you hurt your dad you were doing so by saying the worst thing you can to a father: you don’t provide well for your familly / you’re a bad father / a dead-beat. Men are judged almost entirely by how much they earn in life. (It’s a negative stereotype that would have been dealt with by a genuine gender equality movement but sadly there’s never been one)
However since he clearly wasn’t a dead-beat… and since you were just a kid… I wouldn’t knock yourself out over it.
Btw, a comment on the old 2003 post about Fate magazine: my experience is that science-minded people actually go for that sort of stuff more than artist types. It’s the difference between people who believe there is some truth out there and people who don’t really see truth in black and white terms and don’t really either beleive or disbelieve things.
I used to read all through that section of the library when I was young. Of course I realised it was all bullshit but it was interesting to think about WHY it was wrong. You can’t be a skeptic if you never really believe in believing.
Absolutely beautiful, PZ. Thank you.
Beautiful, brought tears to my eyes.
“Reasonable” Kansan:
What did PZ say that you think was about religion, or religious people? I’ve re-read the post, and I just don’t see it.
But then, your rants rarely seem to have any connection with reality, so maybe I shouldn’t be surprised…
That was very moving, PZ–thank you for sharing it.
Thanks for that story, PZ. My father’s life was nonstop hard physical labor until he reached his thirties, at which point the dairy farm was big enough and successful enough to support some full-time hired hands. Up to that point, it had been my father, uncle, and grandfather who did everything. (And cows don’t take vacations.) After the business expanded, the hard work continued, but with occasional breaks and vacations.
Dad’s a curmudgeonly octogenarian now and he drives me crazy every time I visit him and Mom down on the farm. His religious faith is simple-minded, his politics are worse, and his favorite hobby is complaining about things. Still, he’s always loved books, music, and education (and he was mostly denied the latter). Although he occasionally seems to think he succeeded entirely too well in making me into a scholar (or, perhaps, a goddam pointy-headed liberal intellectual), I’ve been told that his second-favorite hobby — right after complaining — is bragging about his boy the college professor.
I’ll keep trying to bite my tongue in his company while he rants and raves. He deserves some slack and much gratitude from his son.
Thanks for posting this, PZ. It’s very moving. We’ve all had moments of serious regret, and I’ve certainly had mine.
Probably the biggest was the turbulence caused by my mental illness. My father was an anti-medication woo when I was first diagnosed with manic-depressive disorder. And through all the fighting, I spent about a half and hour with my therapist ragging on him for being such a pig-headed jerkoff in not accepting that I had an actual problem and not a simple character flaw. The next time I saw him (after I was discharged from the hospital) he had tears in his eyes and was apologizing up and down. I felt like the biggest asshole in the universe.
Coincidently, this happened a few days before New Years, so it was also pretty close to Christmas time.
Zeno,
Very interesting. Replace “Diary Farm” with “Vacuum business” and you’re relationship to your father is almost a perfect analogue to mine.
I was taken aback by this post. I’m a bit cynical about the whole blog thing but . . . geez.
Having an admirable father is sometimes a tough thing. The bar is high.
First “you’re” should be “your”. Sorry. :(
Wonderful. And your father probably weighed the injury against the devotion he felt from you.
…wow…
I’ll just sit and think awhile.
It’s terribly difficult to be the different kid in a working-class family, the first one (or the only) to attain higher education. One’s parents are proud of you but at the same time you are striving to be something other than what they are.
My Dad’s faith was simple-minded too, Zeno, and it definitely caused conflict between me and my Dad sometimes (and I regret the things I said sometimes), but my mother assures me that toward the end of his life he was proud of me, and that’s all I really wanted. And I’m sure your father was proud too, PZ, and forgot that awful moment.
That’s a bit extreme. It may have been the most hurtful thing you’ve ever done, but the dominant meaning of ‘cruel’ is causing pain intentionally.
Yeah. But, at least in my experience, that doesn’t lessen the guilt. Out of ignorance I once did something like this to a high school friend, and despite the natural separation brought by graduation and diverging lives (I’ll never see him again), I’ve been wanting to take it back for 15 years.
Damn, PZ. Rough story.
Laboring is a tough life, as are many jobs. Low-paying jobs are just as stressful as many high-paying jobs, and often require substantial amounts of specialized knowledge, but all there is at the end of the week is “market competitive” wages, which means nine times out of ten that the people you’re working for will pay you as close to the minimum wage as they can get without being seen as total cheapskates, and they’ll come down hard on you for unionizing to make it better.
If you spend a long enough time working bottom-feeder jobs and you’re still a fan of laissez-faire economics, you’re too stupid to live.
This makes my daily visits to your site all the more enjoyable. Rarely do I visit and not learn something new, or see something in a new light. Very touching story, PZ.
I agree completely with Caledonian.
I’m as surprised as you are. But there you go.
What kind of blackhearted monster would troll a thread like this? By their fruit ye shall know them, indeed…
Anyway, this reminds me of my friend Katie Boone in third grade. My only friend, really, but I thought of her as a “girlfriend” and had not yet realized that the dichotomy between “friend” and “girlfriend” was bullshit. So, under “best friend” in our year-end-book-things I wrote…I think verbatim “I don’t have any real friends.” I’d have listed her as a girlfriend/boyfriend if there was a space. There wasn’t. I think I realized after doing it that it was thoughtless and cruel, but it took me years of reflection to really understand how much so.
I never found out how she reacted to that, but I can imagine well enough. After that year I went to a different school (GATE program) and didn’t see her again until 8th grade. She didn’t remember the incident (although, I’m not positive I worked up the courage to ask directly) and had degenerated from the girl I had known and puppy-loved into a wannabe-tagalong of the popular crowd…tolerated to her face, abused behind her back, with no apparent “real” friends and no clue as to how I had felt and to an extent still did. I wish I could get ahold of her again and apologize. Any suggestions?
Oddly enough, she had freckles, dark hair, and pale skin. So does my wife. Hmmm… O.o
Hold on, PZ dissected roadkill?
PZ, in some ways I have your memory.
Oh, and wait a minute, I need to do something that I honestly won’t regret.
Rsnbl Knsn:
Sd ff y sphltc, pstltng, gngrns twt.
There, I feel much better now.
But, back to where I was heading,
My dad was basically a rotten bastard, so, to hell with him. But, my grandfather, now that was another story. My grandparents raised me, because my mother basically wasn’t brave enough to leave my dad (until he decided to divorce her after I was out of college).
But, never mind that, let me tell you about a wonderful man, and his wife, well, at least as much as sticks out in my aged memories. My grandmother was a wonderful woman to be around as a kid. All smiles, candy, and plenty of hot meals. This was in MS, you know. Always willing to lend a hand, and always willing to listen. Fixed scrapes, cuts, and could probably set a fracture (thankfully, I didn’t need to test that). Pretty good with third degree burns as well (I did test that one after accidentally laying a dirtbike on my leg).
Then there was Pop (ie, grandfather). The man who taught me to shoot, work on cars, cuss, put up sheds, how to plumb, and if you had to, be an electrician. Silent man most of the time, but always gentle with the grandkids. He and Mem (grandmother) were the end all and be all of my world. They in many ways were like opposites that fulfill each other.
Damn it, it is too hard to put in into perspective.
But, they were great. Pop was an alcoholic, but stopped shortly after I was born. Mem and Pop raised me. Fascinating people, religious in their own way, but they never drug me off to church. Plenty of moral lessons in their own simple way (and you could imagine them raising me in MS, since my parents weren’t really up to that task).
Both of them were pretty much to the point people. Pop was the most blunt with the fewest words. His disappointment was all it took. Mem, she could down you with a sad look. But, above all, they taught me to think for myself, and how to take care of myself and be a good person, and especially how to care for family.
Mem died when I was in high school, Pop when I was in college. He was never quite the same after she died, but still a noble man. Both of them, damned tough in the country style, without the BS overblown “proud redneck”ism we see today, from people to make $250K a year. They never had to shoot squirrels for food, and count themselved lucky growing up.
As for an artistic bent, they both had it in their own way. Mem was a woodworker in the Aeolian piano factory, and Pop was an auto body repair man. So, I well know the grease in the fingerprint that will not come off, and the cuts of working on metal. Mem would bring me home little wood toys made out of piano pieces. Pop wasn’t really good at those small things, but he could take a totalled car, and reshape it’s metal back like new. (I know it won’t mean much to those who frequent here, but Pop was the only person in out town in the old days who could work on an Aston Martin. Someone wrecked theirs, and he had to fix it. The replacement fenders only had the general shape set into them as they were shipped from england. He had to panel beat the edges into shape, and then weld them back to the car. Aluminum is a bitch to work with.)
Ah hell, I am being too maudlin now. Too long of a post.
But, because of them, I am who I am today. And they make me appreciate any honest hard working person, regardless of whether they are the janitor the guy who fixes the brakes on your car. Unfortunately, I myself work in the corporate world, and there aren’t many genuinely honest and good people there. But, my grandparents memory keeps me grounded.
I agree completely with Caledonian.
I’m as surprised as you are. But there you go.
Dont’ be too quick; “he didn’t mean to be cruel” is not self-contradictory, and “a cruel remark” does not necessarily imply an intent to cause pain.
PZ, He would have made the realization no matter what, you said it yourself – ever now and then we review our lives and how much they diverted from our visions.
If anything your dad was glad that the impetus came from his son. There is no way you could actually have read what he thought, although without doubt emotional states do very well express in the eyes (e.g. dilation) and the 53 facial muscles and we can interpret them intuitively but not to the point where one can read one others thoughts.
The only thing you can be sure about your father is that he loved you very much (biology dictates him to).
There’s an R. A. Heinlein quote about this….
“A human being should be able to:
change a daiper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn. a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, co-operate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a problem, pitch manure, programme a computer, cook a tasty meal. fight efficiently, die gallantly; SPECIALISATION IS FOR INSECTS.”
There is nothing ‘common’ about ‘common laborers,’ and I’m sure that your father knew that, when he’d had time to think about it.
Too late for your father, but something that has happened in recent years is a shortage of ‘common laborers.’ Two of my brothers are builders, and in the last twenty years or so very few people seem to have wanted to learn those skills, so that there just aren’t enough carpenters anymore. Both brothers are good at what they do and take huge pride in doing a good job. Both work independently, they never skimp or cut corners, and are in huge demand. They are both turning away jobs on a regular basis, and are doing far better than those of my family in white collar work (including my fundie Christian brother who has a business that buys cheap Chinese tat to sell on at grossly inflated prices).
In NZ, at least (England as well, I hear) people with these practical skills and qualifications with a good reputation are pretty well guaranteed to always have work, and be paid well.
When I visit my brothers, they drive me around their respective towns pointing out the houses they built. It makes me so proud, to know that my brother built that house, and that house, and that one… MY LITTLE BROTHER! How cool is that? Real houses! Buildings that people live in, that keep them warm and safe and are the centre of their lives! Built by my clever brothers!
My father died when I was 22. I wrote a couple of things about him on my current blog and my old one. I still miss him. He was a wonderful man when he was sober, and although he was a hugely literate person he was the one who encouraged my brothers to get some practical qualifications under their belts before considering anything else. “The world always needs builders and plumbers,” he said, “and good, intelligent builders and plumbers will never be out of work.”
He was right. I just wish he’d extended that thought to girls.
(But one day I’m going to build my own house anyway. My brothers will help me.)
“I think it was the cruelest thing I’ve ever done.”
As one of your prev. posters said, there’s no cruelty without intent.You have all the guilt for a crime you didn’t mean to commit.
PZ,
I come from blue collar people and started out as one myself. (went back to school at 35 and got a degree and eventually a Master’s). My father could build anything and had those hands too. I have them. Big square hands. Made for doing heavy jobs that need doing. I hated it when I was young. But I have learned that there is an artistry to that kind of work. An honesty that most white-collar work cannot match. Your father should have been proud of his “laborer’s” hands and explained to you what those hands could do for people. When I retire, I will go back to building things for people (grandchildren, etc.).
Hey, Professor, you’re not supposed to have this kind of emotional depth; you’re one of those godless heathen amoral bunkolutionists, remember?
Seriously, though: that was a lovely, albeit painful, post. Please take comfort in the fact that you are not alone — I’m sure that most of us have similar memories. I know I do.
PZ –
When I was growing up I would compare my hands to my Dad’s and mine were so delicate compared to his. Even through my 30’s my hands looked like they had never done a lick of physical labor, even though I have worked at many different hand-damaging jobs in my life.
In my early 40’s, I looked at my hands one day, and was startled to see my Dad’s hands. At first I was dismayed that I was starting to show the signs of age; but then I realized that in at least one way, I was finally measuring up to my Dad. It turned into a proud moment.
I would be that if you looked at your own hands now, you would see your father’s hands. It’s a great feeling, really, and perhaps it could exorcise that pain you carry.
That was simply beautiful, and moving for so many personal reasons. Thank you.
Honest, useful work is always honorable. And I’m sure that after being momentarily taken aback, your dad remembered that and felt good again.
What a touching story. I would give anything even to have known my dad when I was in high school (he died when I was 11.) To this day (at age 51) I think all the time about what it would have been like to have him in my life as I reached my 20s and beyond.
Wow, PZ. You make me laugh, educate me, stimulate my thinking, and now you have made me cry. Thank you for sharing. And for writing that beautiful story about my Dad……. ;^)
I deeply regret never going to visit Mum more frequently after I moved to another town.
An especially nice post, PZ — one of the more worthwhile things I’ve read in the blogosphere.
Your fellow SBer, DD
A wonderful memory, yet somewhat ironic that some of us common folk are treated with dismissal for our common beliefs, even treated with contempt on these very pages, yet my hands too witness to the common labor that many of us common folks do, common labor that even builds universities for those with soft hands to dwell in. Yet we don’t dismiss those with soft hands, for we spend our life’s labor in hopes that our children can have soft hands, and the irony is that most of us bear in silence when we hear our now university taught children dismiss and even ridicule our simple and common religion.
We have all had those regrettable moments, but very few of us have the honesty and faith in ourselves and others to let everyone else see us at our worst. (And no, you sure aren’t going to hear about mine!)
A thought, which doesn’t diminish the poignancy of what you wrote in the least: Just as I’m sure, if you could have chosen a father from among any person you’ve known, you’d choose your Dad, I’m quite sure if he could have taken his pick of sons, it would have been you (excepting for the moment any brothers you might have:). And I’m equally sure you each knew that about the other. So while this moment might loom large as one you’d like to have back, you know it doesn’t weigh a feather on the scale of the love between you.
No. I know “common” people, and they aren’t stupid. The blame lies in those stupid people who try to cloak themselves in the virtue of labor, and thereby give the whole class a bad name.
My father was a progressive Democrat and union man who read widely…and no, he didn’t waste any time with the church. I think he and I would be very compatible in our views if he were still around…and he’d have little patience with some trumped-up bible-thumping poseur who pretended that his hard work justified their lies.
You aren’t “common folk”, Bartleby. You’re an addled ass.
PZ:
That was a beautiful, moving post.
I continue to read you, in spite of my massive disagreement with you on some things, in part because of the deep humanity that comes through in some of your posts (also in part because of the fact that I do learn things from you on such matters as biology and even religion). This was one of those posts.
“I hurt my father with those few thoughtless words, I effortlessly stabbed him deep right to the heart of him, and I could see it. I think it was the cruelest thing I’ve ever done.”
No, you didn’t. But that’s how it lives on in your perception. You imagined in your immature, inexperienced mind that that’s what he was feeling and thinking. But you have no way of knowing.
The perceptions that we carry with us from past experiences are often distorted and inaccurate. These faulty interpretations of reality acquire a life of their own and live on in our consciousness, causing us needless grief and pain.
But it’s personal experiences like this that make great stories.
wintermute: Apparently (based on re-emvowelling) Reasonable Kansan thought that PZ was expressing his hatred of religious people in his unintentional cruelty towards his father.
Caledonian and others: I don’t think it is part of the meaning of cruelty that it be intentional. Cruelty is taking pleasure in or displaying indifference to the suffering of others, according to my dictionary. “Unintentional cruelty” is not an oxymoron and in fact names a very real phenomenon.
PZ: My father was born on the day after Christmas, and fortunately is still alive. Your description of your father’s hands fit his as well. This post reminded me of how much those hands have done for me, and how much I owe the man who wields them.
Bro. B: My hands are soft, yet I have great respect for the calloused hands that build the world. But hard hands do not redeem soft heads.
I’m going to chime in on the chorus here and say this is one of the best posts I’ve read on this blog, and (with a couple of notable exceptions) some of the best comments also. My father is also a blue-collar worker (expert heavy equipment operator). He is certainly no simpleton; he is the most mechanically inclined individual I’ve ever met, knows how to do practically everything, and would have made a fine engineer if he had been so inclined. He was also an excellent father, with the added side benefit that I got to spend many childhood days riding in an 18-wheeler or on a bulldozer or excavator. And as near as I can tell, he hasn’t got a lick of religion, “simple and common” or otherwise. Looking back, I really wish I had learned more of what he tried to teach me when I was younger, but it wasn’t until much later in life that I began to appreciate that there’s nothing common about “common laborers”.
I think the definition of cruel is taking a beautiful post about adolescence, parenting, expectations and love, and hijacking it to try and force an irrelevant point about religion. Or wait, maybe that’s the definition of a complete jerk.
The description of your father reminded me of my grandfather, who passed away a few years ago. People like your father & my grandfather are hardly common.. If they were, the world would be a better place.
I havent commented on your website before, but I’ve been reading it every day for a few years now. Thanks
you’ve just moved into another sphere with this one, pz.
i didn’t know you had it in you–it’s a bit as though proust had written an insightful treatise on invertebrate anatomy.
beautiful work.
and as for the event–as a son who was needlessly cruel to his own father, and has suffered for it as you do, and as a father who has a son now–well, i can only hope that we can all forgive each other somehow and treat each other with the love and compassion that human beings are capable of.
Your father only needed to look at his kids to know how wrong that dumb book was, and think about you to know you didn’t mean it the way it sounded.
I’ll be he did, too.
As one of your prev. posters said, there’s no cruelty without intent.
Repeating a falsehood doesn’t make it true.
You have all the guilt for a crime you didn’t mean to commit.
Since when is it only criminals who properly feel guilt? Or only intentional criminals? Ever hear of reckless endangerment and involuntary manslaughter?
PZ has the decency to take responsibility for his actions and their consequences.
I am not going to say that there is nothing redeeming about being a white collar worker, there are very few jobs that really don’t need to be done. But personaly, I couldn’t do it. I love the work I do, even as I seek education for a better life. I love to stand back and look at the work I do, when I finish a job. Whether it is fixing a little leaky plumbing, building a house or fixing my truck, I love to look in awe, thinking, I did that.
But no pride is greater, than that which I feel, when my son pipes into any conversation about something that is in need of repair. It doesn’t matter what it is, electronics, furniture – it could be anything. My son’s reaction is always, “my dad can fix it.”
I am not sure how I would feel if my son disparaged what I do, intentionaly or otherwise, but I suspect I would take it with a grain of salt. Children are renound for saying hurtful things, making careless comments – parents learn to let it slide right over them. Unfortunately, this can lend itself to driving kids to new heights, in their attempt to hurt mom or dad.
My dad adopted me when he married my mom. As a teen I slapped him in the face with a big, “your not my real dad” and finished with the penultimate, “f**k you.” That really was cruel, intentional and it hurt him alright. It took me meeting my biological father to realize just how cruel and uncalled for it was.
My dad is and always was my real dad and I am a lot better person for it. It was telling that when I apologized to him, a couple years after it happened, that he said, “no big deal, I hardly remember it.” I remeber it quite clearly, I remember the pain and anger etched on his face. I know that he could remember it clearly himself, but he just shrugged it off to asuage my guilt. Of course, the guilt’s still there, I get a pain in my stomach whenever I think about it. But my dad’s concern was, “what did you learn from this?”
From the sound of it, your dad was probably much the same in that regard. I would geuss that his concern would be more along the lines of, “what did you learn” rather than, “you should feel bad.” Of course, feeling bad about it helps remind us of the lessons involved – but how those lessons change us, helps to keep from dwelling on guilt.
I think the definition of cruel is taking a beautiful post about adolescence, parenting, expectations and love, and hijacking it to try and force an irrelevant point about religion.
Huh? No one who commented on the definition of cruel said anything about religion. The only ones who mentioned religion were the trolls, RK and Bro. Bartleby, and they said nothing about the definition of cruel.
Or wait, maybe that’s the definition of a complete jerk.
Self-reflect much?
Ouch. Gulp. Sniff.
But now for the good news. Those weren’t the last words he heard from you, to say the least. You had quite a few years to say other things, and I bet you did.
Your father was “common folk” and you are now university folk and I am not common folk because you know common folk and while you toiled in college study, I at that age was apprenticing in a printing plant on a huge printing press that I climbed about with cans of ink to fill the ink fountains and oil cans to lubricate the spinning rollers. But before I knew it a war in Asia interruped my apprenticeship, and off I went, a very common draftee. And all the while back home the future college professors were deep in study in university libraries, that is when they were not at the local draft board making sure to extend their college deferments. Yep … you sure know your “common folk.” Well, at least I can now zero in an M-14 and field-strip an M-60.
The hell? I was specifically talking about the trolls you mentioned. Reading comprehension problems much?
Debates about who the true proletariat is here seem beside the point, Brother B, and I think you know that.
The real reason that you and UNreasonable Kansan provoked a negative response is that both of you attempted to coopt PZ’s heartfelt memoir into grist for your particular ideological mills.
And you know what? Regardless of how pure your motives are, it came across as bad manners. It’s almost as if, while you reading the post, you concluded, “Aha! PZ is vulnerable here! Now I’ll pile on!”
And then you did. It’s the sort of thing that politicians and pastors do all the time, exploiting a stranger’s personal tragedy/loss/grief for their own benefit. Is that really the way you wanted to come off?
Sincerely…SH
Darn it, I let tm derail me into overt rudeness. Sorry ’bout that. My point, which tm managed to miss entirely, was the same as what Scott just very much more eloquently wrote. So, what Scott said.
PZ, you made me cry.
The depth of your regret reflects the depth of your love for your father. The love is more important than the pain; if your dad were here now, and you could tell him, don’t you think he’d say he forgave you long ago, that the hurt was gone almost as quickly as it came? I suspect he would; and he might say something to the effect that forgiving yourself now would be a greater gift to him than carrying the regret.
Thank you for your openness.
Truth Machine is a bit of an enigma. On one hand, I’ve seen some very coherent and insightful comments from him. On the other hand, this isn’t the first thread where he’s given me the strong impression of operating under a “shoot first, shirk the burden of proof/justification later” mentality. What’s the deal?
Last Monday evening, my mother called me with the news that my paternal grandfather had shot himself. His health had been getting increasingly worse over the past 15 or so years, various heart and lung ailments stemming from years of smoking and unsafe working conditions. He used an oxygen tank for the past 10 years and even sitting in front of the television exhausted him physically.
I never was close to my paternal grandfather, not in the way I was with my maternal grandfather, my Poppaw Bean. As a small child, I worshiped him and despite spending the last five years of his life lost to Alzheimer’s, I cried when they laid him in the clay some 13 years ago. But Poppaw Thompson, it just wasn’t the same. Part of it lay in the fact we lived in Northeast Mississippi, near Tupelo, and Poppaw Thompson lived in Jackson, a miserable four-hour drive at best. Most of it, though, had to do with my old man, an emotionally distant man at his best and someone who never ever revisits his past, apart from his service in the Marines during Vietnam. I don’t know why Daddy is like that, but he is and we’ve learned to live with it. He doesn’t dwell. The world keeps turning and he just moves on.
Poppaw Thompson was pretty much the same way. Shortly after my paternal grandmother died – six weeks before I was born – he married an old flame and helped raise her youngest daughter. That was that. One would think that caused a rift between him and the old man, except Daddy apparently didn’t care for his mother, and I don’t know why. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and the most I can get from my relatives is she was a “pretty, unpredictable woman who smoke and drank constantly”. No one wants to talk about it, so I let it go.
My mother tried to bridge the gap. She comes from a tight-knit hillbilly family, most of who still life within a square mile of the hill where they were all born. After my brother and I left home for college and Momma retired (my dad’s been disabled and unable to work since 1977, on top of being injured and exposed to Agent Orange in ‘Nam), my folks made regular trips down to Jackson to visit, but it never changed. It just wasn’t the same as being immersed in my mother’s family.
It was just different, and my mother still doesn’t understand that. My brother and I left Athens early and drove to Jackson to be with my family and my father’s people, many of whom I hadn’t seen in almost 20 years. Some I’d never met before. Some I didn’t know existed. It’s odd. My father rarely talked about his father’s people, apart from one favorite aunt that, apparently, more or less raised him. However, as much as he apparently had issues with his mother, he loved her people. Of all my father’s family, I know them the best and I still have fond memories of my Uncle John and my Uncle Sam and my Uncle Dallas, a whole wad of characters and all gone, too.
My grandfather’s people were like him, and many of them commented that they never got together except for funerals. Things were said about a family reunion, but I doubt it’ll come across. That’s just how they are. It’s how I am. It’s why I haven’t spoken to most of the folks I knew in Gainesville since I left or why I haven’t talked to most of the people I went to school with. It isn’t a lack of love that causes the distance, it’s just that peculiar family trait. It’s not like Momma’s people, and even though I am my father’s son in that respect, I don’t understand it. I can’t. It just is.
During the funeral, the preacher – a second cousin of mine who previously did not number in my recollections, which is a helluva note – said he remembered my grandfather as a kind, gentle man who always took the time to listen. That’s how I always knew him, as well, as that warm, gravelly voice on the other end of the phone who was just pleased to hear from me. Most of my life, I’ve felt my family and friends expected far too much from me, more than I could ever hope to deliver, but Poppaw Thompson just listened.
I understand Poppaw’s decision to do what he did, why he made it. He told my step-grandmother he was tired of living the way he was, and before she could reach a phone to call 911, she heard the shot. I understand, though I’m angry with him for not giving us the chance to say goodbye, especially that aforementioned step-daughter’s daughter, who worshiped the ground he walked on. He was in pain, the medication dulled his senses, he just wanted peace, he wanted to call his time. I understand. I wish he hadn’t have done it, but I understand.
Momma was five minutes from calling them when my step-grandmother told him the news. Momma and Daddy were going to make a quick visit before my brother and I came home for the holidays. I’d planned a trip to New Orleans and was looking forward to telling Poppaw T. that I’d come for a visit sometime in March. Both of us can’t help but wonder, if we had just said something sooner. If maybe I’d been a better grandson, if I’d tried harder to ignore the lean towards my father’s emotional distance for my mother’s wide-open heart. If. If. If.
I worry about my father. He’s been disabled for almost 30 years, but the past few have seen a marked downturn in his health. Momma can’t help but cry when she tells me how listless he is these days, how he doesn’t hunt or fish anymore, how all he does is stare at the TV. She doesn’t know what to do and I don’t know what to tell her. He doesn’t want to talk about it. All I can offer is professional therapy but I’m not holding my breath on whether or not it ever happens.
A very wise friend of mine once told me, “Life is people you love hurting you and never even knowing what they’d done or even that they’d done it.” It’s a dark outlook, but there’s truth to it. The best we can hope for, the best we can do, is love each other as much as possible despite what we do to each other. We must live with our regrets, but we also get to live with the better memories. I’ll always cherish the memories of my grandfather’s voice and I’ll always regret I didn’t hear more of it. That’s life.
Here’s to you, Prof. Here’s to your dad and my poppaw. Here’s to all y’all.
Correct, truth machine. That’s a secondary meaning of ‘cruel’, however, and PZ’s statements suggest that he’s taking on more blame than I think he deserves.
He’s perhaps guilty of thoughtlessness in reading the description without considering how it might affect his father’s feelings, but if that’s truly the cruelest thing he’s ever said to his father, that’s a very lucky man. Being unintentionally hurtful is nothing compared to being intentionally so.
The hell? I was specifically talking about the trolls you mentioned. Reading comprehension problems much?
Talk about reading comprehension, you have now compounded it. As I noted, those trolls didn’t refer to the definition of cruelty, moron.
Being unintentionally hurtful is nothing compared to being intentionally so.
Not necessarily; it is often easy to dismiss intentional cruelty, but unintentional cruelty may seem more honest, and thus cut to the core.
P.S
That’s a secondary meaning of ‘cruel’, however, and PZ’s statements suggest that he’s taking on more blame than I think he deserves.
This argument doesn’t work. If you believe that PZ was employing the primary definition, then there was no reason for you to point out what it is — you should have simply made this latter point, that he was taking on too much blame — although that wouldn’t make much sense, since he obviously doesn’t think he intentionally hurt his father, unless there’s something he’s not telling us. And if you believe that he was employing the secondary definition (as seems quite obvious, and as you recognized previously with your “correction” to his word use), then his statements don’t suggest otherwise. I think it’s really quite clear: he believes he hurt his father, unintentionally, he considers that to be cruel, and he regrets it. I don’t think that he is confused or mistaken about either the meaning of “cruel” or how blameworthy he is.
Truth Machine is a bit of an enigma. On one hand, I’ve seen some very coherent and insightful comments from him. On the other hand, this isn’t the first thread where he’s given me the strong impression of operating under a “shoot first, shirk the burden of proof/justification later” mentality. What’s the deal?
“The deal” is that your “strong impressions” are unreliable and have little to do with reality.
P.S.
“The deal” is also that you love to dwell in these hypocritical ad hominems. You imply that I “shoot first, shirk the burden of proof/justification later” here, but fail to point out any error that I made. That sure looks like shooting first and shirking the burden of proof to me. Perhaps you will justify it later — who knows?
Azkyroth: Who knows? Maybe it’s easier for some to offer quick pronouncements, parsing this and that phrase for correctness, rather than deal with the actual emotions raised. For the record, it’s OK to sometimes eschew the former and meditate on the latter.
A very joyous New Year to all. SH
We’ve all had unthinking moments, many of us have had cruel moments. I called my mom a horrible mother once, and at that moment I really meant it.
This brings back an incident when I was cruel, and hurt someone badly, and had clear intent, but if it was intent to be cruel, it wasn’t operating on a conscious level. I was perhaps five or six, and was very angry at my mother over something (I don’t recall what), and I knelt and prayed to God for a new mother. This was a nearly non-religious Jewish household, and praying wasn’t something we did. My mother saw me (perhaps I intended that at some level), and asked me what I was praying for. I considered lying, but I was terrible at it, always got caught and punished for it, and perhaps this was my payback — in any case, I told the truth. That hurt her so much that I immediately tried to take it back and say I didn’t mean it, but it was too late; no amount of apology, however sincere, could undo what I had done. Telling her wasn’t the cruelest part, it was the fact that I really had prayed for a new mother. We never spoke of it after that, but I fear that she never forgot it. I’m so sorry, mom.
Maybe it’s easier for some to offer quick pronouncements, parsing this and that phrase for correctness, rather than deal with the actual emotions raised.
It certainly seems easy for you to make such facile judgments.
I think the definition of cruel is taking a beautiful post about adolescence, parenting, expectations and love, and hijacking it to try and force an irrelevant point about religion.
Carlie, I misread this. You’re right, it was my poor reading comprehension, not yours. You have my sincere and humble apology (which isn’t enough — I was an ass, and can’t undo that).
Your insults are not only completely gratuitous, but deliciously ironic. Do you really expect me to believe that you can turn on a computer, but are too retarded to figure out that she was citing them as a prime example of what would fall under the definition of cruelty, moron? Whether or not the trolls referred to the definition of cruelty is at best a red herring. Were your comments to the opposite effect due merely to stupidity, or was malice also a factor? (There. How do you like it?)
If it looks like a dick, walks like a dick, and quacks like a dick…
Matt, that reminds me a bit of my maternal grandmother. She was 40-something when my mother was born, and actually died a little under a year ago…from Alzheimer’s, essentially, as I understand it. She got to the point where she couldn’t even recognize the faces or names of immediate family, but reportedly, a few days before she died, she asked the person present (I don’t remember who it was, now) about me. If I didn’t have this weird near-inability to cry… x.x
I found myself wishing I’d listened to more of what she had to say, back when she was coherent; my teenaged self had little patience for the datedness of not just the particulars, but even the general elements of her worldview (she firmly believed that “times change, but people don’t”, apparently oblivious to the radical shifts in values, expectations, and attitudes that had occurred in the course of her adult lifetime), and consequently I found it difficult to engage in conversation with her. I’m glad, at least, that she had a chance to meet my daughter, even though her grandchildren and even (I think) great-great-great grandchildren (as you might guess from so many generations in a mere 92 years, most of her side of the family are conservative Christians) could fill most classrooms, by a conservative estimate. x.x
If it looks like a dick, walks like a dick, and quacks like a dick…
By those criteria, you’re quite a dick. Perhaps you could be less of a dick and read all of my posts, and stop worrying your little head so much about what kind of person I am or am not — a question that really isn’t relevant.
…ok, since you actually apologized and withdrew it, I suppose I should withdraw my comments above (and reinstate my policy of refreshing threads before posting comments once I’ve finished composing them).
As for my observation about shifting the burden of justification, since I don’t recall the exact title of the other thread where we wound up at each other’s throats, nor the exact wording of your dismissal of my contention that your acerbic tone in addressing others comments was unwarranted, citing it is going to be difficult, nevertheless, the message I got was that you were essentially demanding I prove that you shouldn’t be a jerk.
Do you really expect me to believe that you can turn on a computer, but are too retarded to figure out that she was citing them as a prime example of what would fall under the definition of cruelty, moron?
Given how retarded you evidently are, I don’t expect much of you. But I misread/miscomprehended “The definition of cruel” as “Defining cruelty”. Something like:
“Defining cruelty takes a beautiful post about adolescence, parenting, expectations and love, and hijacking it to try and force an irrelevant point about religion. Or wait, maybe that’s the definition of a complete jerk.”
I took it as a slam against Caledonian and myself, akin to Hatfield’s slam about “offer quick pronouncements, parsing this and that phrase for correctness, rather than deal with the actual emotions raised”. So you see, it was my misreading — a careless misreading — and I reacted sharply, as is my wont. That’s the truth, which is what I’m about, even when it doesn’t reflect well on me.
“…ok, since you actually apologized and withdrew it, I suppose I should withdraw my comments above”
You can suppose whatever you want, asshole — as I said, it’s not relevant.
P.S. I apologize to PZ for my role in the hijacking of this thread by those intent on making it about something other than his heartfelt regrets.
I would politely suggest that you take the time to amalgamate your replies into singular comments rather than firing them off to one point at a time as fast as you can type them. It might not even be too much to hope for that you might, if you gave yourself longer to consider it, actually decide some of these things didn’t need to be said.
That said, with the (*sigh* I guess I really do have to make this explicit…) caveat that the following is not presented as a point against the factual truth of any claim you’ve made, your verbal demeanor, your judgement in what you attack by what method, and your semi-explicit lack of concern for how your comments come off to others remind me of myself at about 15. Make of that what you will.
I would politely suggest
“those intent on making it about something other than his heartfelt regrets”
As juvenile a response as “you started it” usually is, I find your attempts to paint other parties as the aggressors here, given that this tangent began with me taking issue with your knee-jerk browbeating of another poster on a (by a generous estimate) marginally relevant point:
A. Ironic given your accusations of hypocrisy earlier and
B. A prime example of one of several patterns of behavior I imprecisely characterized earlier as “shifting the burden of justification.”
I’m done with you now, and won’t even stoop to trying to score points by ostentatiously apologizing to PZ for my part in this argument while sneaking in an implication that the whole thing was really the other guy’s fault and in a fashion that implies I think I’m being generous and indulgent by apologizing.
PZ…hmm. I suppose it doesn’t help to suggest that one good way to handle that situation would have been to follow up the comment about “the hands of a common laborer” with “…wait, that can’t be right…”, does it? :(
“those intent on making it about something other than his heartfelt regrets”
truth machine, azkyroth: let’s put this one to bed.
I, too, regret if I’ve said anything that hijacked the thread. In particular, truth machine, I’m truly sorry if I came across as snide. You shared something meaningful from your personal life as well, and I have to honor that.
Maybe the next time we interact we’ll all remember that the other person is more than just an intellectual sparring partner, but a person. I can dream, can’t I?
Anyway, folks, take care of yourselves and those you love….SH
My father is my hero, he still amazes me. He has humor and self deprecation. Cares first for all life and attempts to defend it to the best of his ability. He has the hands of the so called “(un)common laborer” but graduated college. Retired not that long ago with a highest earned year of 20K because of his abilities with his hands, he was so darned good at technician level stuff that he was nearly punished for it with that pay. Like an earlier post, he would have been a superb engineer had he chosen that line. Instead, he raised a son that works for a top internet portal, and another who is a Fire Captain. Greatness is reflected in legacy, and legacy should be reflected in how others perceived your humanity. His humanity is so deep as to be nearly unfathomable. (A defining moment in his life was when he was kicked out of a restaurant for speaking Spanish to assist a new arrival, this occurred in rural Idaho, by the Mormon owner. They made a powerful smart enemy that day). He went from Idaho to Army to Peace Corps (Brazil). There is so much more——this is a great man, as most are that have been reflected upon. Thank you for my first post.
Maybe the next time we interact we’ll all remember that the other person is more than just an intellectual sparring partner, but a person. I can dream, can’t I?
It’s an excellent thought; thanks. And thanks to PZ for bravely sharing this “Category: personal” entry.
Thank you so much PZ.. Made me all sad as well..
I think that one of the big problems of success in blogging is evident here. The threads are often so long that I find myself skimming to make it through all the posts and missing the point of many (as well as sometimes missing entire comments), and then when I do comment, by the time I hit the post button there are ten or more extra comments that have shown up in the meantime. It’s a semi-synchronous format, and that can cause people to talk past each other. Sorry for my part in the spat.
Back to regrets and confessionals, very early upthread the topic of friends was mentioned too. I hurt one of my very best friends in high school deeply. Well, possibly, but by the time I was deep into hurt territory she probably had already written me off and I didn’t know it. I can only hope. My crime? Proselytizing. I was exactly the smarmy goody two-shoes super-Christian I now find completely disdainful. She had a difficult life; her mother was gay, yet they had moved to my homophobic town, so she had to lie constantly about the status of her mom’s “roommate”. Hell, just that her mother was divorced was still enough for stigma among my bunch. She managed to overlook my personality issues enough that we were good friends, but drifted in college mainly due to the fact that I became even more fundamentalist and evangelical then. The last time I ever saw her, what did I do? I tried to shove God down her throat, hard. She never spoke to me again, and I deserved it. It’s a weak apology out in the ether where I’m sure she’ll never see it, but Latifa, I’m sorry.
I’m not so sure of that. I think it was Stephen King who once wrote that when a parent sees his child, he’s looking at his headstone.
All kids hurt their parents, and they generally don’t mean to inflict the wounds they do. Think of how you feel about your own kids, and I think you can be certain at least of one thing: Your father’s forgiveness.
I don’t come from blue-collar roots; my father’s a surgeon. He has great big, thick hands, which he’s informed me are “surgeon’s hands”; I’ve been privileged to see him operate on a few occasions, and it was quite inspiring (though I also saw him do a partial amputation, and it was just plain depressing to see the grayish forefoot sitting in a metal tray, looking forlorn, as amputated forefeet do).
Through a series of disastrous coincidences, he was out of work for about a month. I’ve never seen him quite so miserable; he slept half the time, and sat in the basement the rest of it. He finally got temporary work baking bagels on a night shift before he went back. He has a far, far better work ethic than I do.
He’s been having some kind of problem sleeping of late; he’s kind of spacy now, like he’s been up for thirty hours straight, no matter how much sleep he’s been getting. I’ve seen him when he’s sharp, usually when he’s at work or something like that, but he’s constantly passing out on car trips and the like. Next month he’s going in to get hooked up to one of those breath-monitoring machines you wear while you sleep, so they can see what’s going on. I hope it helps; I miss him being awake.
DavidByron: Indeed (re: labourers). I for one have deep respect for them, as without them, thinkers and dreamers would have no materials from which to work, no houses to live in, no streets to walk upon and no food to eat. I shudder to think how horrible my existence would have been if I had been born in a time where everyone either worked with his hands or died.
Dear Mr. Myers,
I just wrote you the most beautiful e-mail which I stupidly lost, so let me try it this time without the poetry. I’m 53, and in the same boat as you with the guilt and laborer-dad and hero-worship, etc. It turns out that my father doesn’t remember any of the foolish things I said or did that may, or may not, have hurt him. The comment you made to your dad was guileless, a sin of innocence you might say. If your father was the man you portray him to be ,I truly doubt he would remember such a thing. For you spoke no insult, only truth. It was a laborer’s hand, and there is not shame, but honor in that. If your dad were alive today, I am certain he would be very proud of the man you have become, just as I am certain he would love you more than his life. I know this is how my father feels about me, (and I was unsure for many years, apparently without cause). I know this is how I feel about my own son. So revel in the joy of your relationship with him, and be at peace. He would want that.
From One Son to Another,
Nick V.
Bro. Bartleby,
Perhaps you could explain to me how “Knowing how to zero in an M-14 and field strip an M-60” squares with “Thou shalt not kill”?
Kudos to Scott H. for taking the high ground. Truth Machine and Azkyroth, grow up or take it outside.
Thanks for sharing that, PZ. You are lucky to have had a father like that.
PZ- You’re just as much an artist as your father was. I wish he could have been around to see the Internet and how you’re “reaching out and ready to have a conversation with anyone you (he) bump(ed) into”. You really should author a story book- maybe an atheist-friendly kid’s book? Thanks for sharing your life story.