We Must Teach Our Children To Hate

Picture it: small town in northwestern Pennsylvania, sometime in October, 1980. I was by that time a Junior at Elk County Christian (Catholic) High School in a neighboring town. I saw Ronald Reagan yard signs in some of the yards of this traditionally Democratic voting area. Having never given much interest to politics, it was easy for me to see things from a less informed perspective. We'd been living through four years of what appeared to be weak and ineffective leadership of the incumbent candidate, Jimmy Carter. As a country, we were suffering from high unemployment, repercussions from an oil embargo and a humiliating hostage crisis in the toppled government of Iran. Though years later I would find out that little of this was the fault of his leadership, it was easy for folks who weren't that involved in politics to be lulled by the charismatic former Hollywood actor and tough talker, Ronald Reagan. I would find out years later as well that history would record what happened in my small neck of the woods as voters who'd turned into "Reagan Democrats" and much of the rest became the history of the Republican "revolution" of the 1980s. We would live for twelve years under Republican leadership. During this time, however, I'd recalled speaking with my dad after seeing a clever Reagan TV ad that he seemed like he'd make a good President--after all he'd spoken of a "new morning in America" and that we'd be a "prouder, stronger, better nation."  Hey, it sounded good and everyone seemed frustrated with the way things were going. Dad got red in the face as he often did and said I was crazy. Reagan would be the worst thing that could happen to our country.

Fast forward thirty-six years later. I've never had as much respect for my father as I do now--though it's sadly posthumous in many cases. I couldn't understand his loyalty to the Democratic Party at that young age but I certainly do now. I wish my father would have explained more of the why he felt the way he did rather than expressing such anger. He sure knew how to get angry though. I'm learning about that anger more than ever before--only this time it's me getting angry. Dad knew about the lies Republicans in the ilk of Richard Nixon were pushing as truth. Since the party had nominated "law and order" President Nixon, it had shifted from a party that cared little about the little guy and more about the big guy. My dad was no liberal in today's sense, but he really wasn't an Archie Bunker type either. He knew the struggle...and he knew the difference between real talk and bullshit.

I needed to learn to hate then--at that time of my life. I didn't need to learn to hate homework, or grownups, or any person. I needed to learn to hate injustice. I needed to learn to hate racism. I needed to learn to hate an ideology that I barely understood then but so sadly do now. Now, it would be terribly wrong for me to say that I've never known any good Republicans. I have and I've been pleased to debate them civilly and have even rarely agreed on certain points. But make no mistake, their exclusive message--strong in my father's time--still stronger today, is a message of loyalty to a way of life that doesn't have room for me. With an even more exclusive message today--"Make America Great Again"--read by suffering laid-off factory workers as a call to action and by people who know better as a call to another time, yes, a time before Civil Rights, LGBT rights, Women's rights actually made America a great place, we have a Republican Party that has veered farther right than at any time in history. We need to teach our children to hate that. We really do.

Relax. God's In Charge

(sketch by Clarence Boylan. 1925)

When we lost dad in 2013, I had no idea that I'd be moving from Texas to start a new life in Virginia. I wasn't particularly happy in Texas but I had a good job that I really loved and there was the "comfort zone" of course. Eventually, I started to think about mom and how her life would play out if she remained in the house--their house--and the town that was increasingly becoming unfamiliar to her--not due to any mental deficiency mind you, but because the town was changing and she was losing many of her friends. So I made the decision to move and put a huge amount of faith in God for what was to be my future. 

Fast forward to 2016. I am now living with mom and we share our modest apartment with my husband of a little over a year. Too bad dad never met my husband, Edu. Fortunately, he and mom have become best of friends. If I plopped back into the last months of 2012 at this moment through some time machine magic, I'd probably see someone who was more certain of his faith than he is now. I'm not sure why that is but one big reason could be that I became a little more cynical and a little less certain that decisions based on faith are always best. There's a small card in one of my many meditation/prayer books that says "Relax. God's in charge." It's becoming clear to me that although He is in charge, that doesn't mean we will always like how things turn out. I made a decision to have surgery in March and the prevailing attitude I had was it's not in my hands--it's in God's hands. Death came very close to me as the result of that decision. Was it a good decision? Probably…given the uncertainty of any real healing of the severe condition caused by my diverticulitis. Although I was aware of the possibility of complications I didn't count on any of that happening. 

Dad lost his father Clarence in 1933--a victim of infantile paralysis, also known as polio. He was only eight years old at the time. Memories of his father were rare and precious and little physical remnants remain of his brief time on this earth. One find, however, has intrigued me and I keep coming back to it as I try to imagine a future for myself. Shortly after dad was born, Clarence made a little sketch on a notepad and wrote "Our son Bill~25 yrs. from now." The sketch--with the exception of the mustache--looked a lot like my dad at 25--judging by photos I frequently scan. I guess Clarence expected his son to live a full and good life. Dad did just that. He did so many things without a father. He was a good man. I'm sure that when dad was my age he had a lot of the same questions I ask myself now. I'm not sure but I think he acted on faith in many instances. When dad was 25, he nearly died in a terrible car accident. My brush with death came at a much later time in my life. Has it made me a better person? I'm not so sure of that. I'm still putting all the pieces together and hoping that I can get back to that place where I felt a little more certain about putting it all in God's hands.

Alive And....Well...

The big wake-up call happened in my 51st year on the last day of March. I went into the hospital for what was billed as laparoscopic intestinal resection. In other words, the doctor was going to remove a portion of my colon (which had perforated) and I'd be free of the pain that had been plaguing me for several months. The surgery seemed to have been successful. A few incisions in my abdominal area and a good dose of morphine for a few days post-surgery and I'd be headed back to work in no time.

That changed on the 6th of April when I lost consciousness and was diagnosed with sepsis and renal failure. I had a major infection. I was rushed in for emergency surgery and was cut from stem to sternum. I wasn't aware of it at the time but my rib cage was opened like an actual cage as they flushed my body with whatever was needed to heal me. When I woke from this procedure, the pain was unbearable and I began a very long road to recovery. But I was lucky to be alive. During the course of my hospital stay, I learned that actress Patty Duke had died of the very thing that happened to me. In other words, I could have died. But I didn't. I'm still recovering and I've got many scars to prove it. I'm thankful for another shot at life. Writing is going to help me to heal.

I'm sure of it.

(Actress Patty Duke: December 14, 1946 – March 29, 2016}