Boys to Men's 2nd Annual Father's Day Newsletter

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June/July 2007 Issue No. 11

"Facing" In my educational consulting work, I do an activity with students where they anonymously write down two questions they’ve always wanted to ask their father but never have. No matter what the racial, socio-economic, or ethnic background of the students, the most common two questions are almost always the same: “What was his relationship like with his father?” and “What was his childhood like?” Though they may not ask, children want and need their father’s stories, even if they never knew who their father was. I call it the elephant in the living room of child development: the missing stories of men’s lives, particularly men’s emotional lives. Somehow, at the age of twenty-five, I knew that if I was ever going to be a father myself, I had to face my own story. The following is an excerpt from a short piece I wrote about our relationship: I walked into my father’s office to settle a score; he thought we were going out for lunch. For the twenty-five years prior to that day, nobody in our family had found the courage to speak honestly and directly with my father. All that would change in just ten short minutes. I told my father that we weren’t actually going to lunch, that he should stay seated and not respond to anything he was about to hear. He had been given plenty of time to speak over the years; this time was mine. Barely able to breath, I said “You’ve done a lot of great things for me as a dad.” After describing a few, such as how he supported my love of baseball and patiently taught me how to drive, I said, “And… I want you to know that growing up with you was also very difficult. You were irresponsible, alcoholic and abusive. As a consequence, I have struggled with self-worth for most of my life.” He opened his mouth to speak and for the first time in my life, I raised my hand and without a word, motioned for him to stay silent. I knew that if I allowed him to deny, explain or minimize what I was saying, like most loyal sons, I would back-down from speaking my truth… Confronting my father at the age of 25 was the single most difficult emotionally vulnerable moment of my life. As a white youth of European-American descent, I was taught that vulnerability got you nothing but trouble, and thus learned to hate it. The currency of my suburban boyhood was as follows: Being tough, “getting” the girls and holding your own in sports competition. If you had no currency, you were at risk of verbal or physical reprisals. At all costs, I avoided situations where I could be taken advantage of, be proved wrong, or look like a ‘whimp’ or a ‘pussy.’ Implicitly, discussing feelings and relationships with or around other boys was forbidden. When I confronted my father that day, I assumed that it would mark the end of our relationship, that he would want nothing more to do with me. Paradoxically, in making myself vulnerable before him, our relationship actually grew closer. While we didn’t necessarily spend more time together, speak more often or agree on everything, a more open and honest dialogue developed between us. We became more like two adults than a father and a child. The affect of that one conversation was deep and long lasting.  Two years ago my father became ill from years of neglecting his diabetes. As his condition worsened, it became clear he wasn’t going to be leaving the hospital.  I remember looking him in the eyes one afternoon and saying, “You can go now, there’s nothing left to do here.” He looked back at me, smiled, teared up and nodded. Our peace was made. A few days later he quietly passed away. John Badalament Back to Top

"Till you were Gone" Did not realize how fortunate I was, till you were gone I had a roof over my head, And that wasn’t enough! And I was not APPRECIATIVE Had food on the table, Clothes to cover my behind and one pair of shoes And that wasn’t enough! And I was not THANKFUL You taught me respect, showed me love and how to share Sent me to one of the best schools in my neighborhood And that wasn’t enough! And I was not GRATEFUL Gone are you in flesh, but NOT in spirit  NOW I realize how fortunate and blessed I was to have YOU in my youth And that will always be cherished And now I am ENTIRELY appreciative, VERY thankful, and OUTRIGHT grateful  to YOU, for being there not only for me, but us Blinded by selfishness Love & Miss you Baba (Dad) Anonymous Back to Top

I always thought that my dad was a tough guy.  Physically tough; he was never sick until he was well into his 60’s.  He had never seen a doctor in his life until then, except for during his army induction physical when he was 18.  Emotionally tough; he never told his children that he loved them, until very near the end of his life.  But when he died, while cleaning out the house, I found a cigar box full of letters he had written to his mom while he was in the army during World War II.  He was drafted the month he turned 18.  You see, he was a farm boy from Texas who had never been out of the state. He had never even seen a house with running water or a telephone.  They bathed in a creek and ate only what they grew on their farm. I sat down and began reading his letters.  There were about one hundred of them.  They made me cry.  Not because of his loneliness from being so far from home for the first time.  And not from his fear of getting killed by Japanese soldiers either. He wasn’t scared.  They made me cry because they were so tender.  He filled the pages with wonder at the sights he had seen: hundreds of miles of wheat fields across the Midwestern states during his train ride to boot camp; big cities and the buildings that were 10 stories tall; the Hawaiian islands; a volcano in the South Pacific (he even drew a picture of it in one of his letters); and the camaraderie that only Brothers in Arms could really understand.  And he expressed his love for his family.  His letters revealed a side of him I never knew. These letters opened a door to my dad that he had closed.  Why did it close?  Was it PTSD?  Was it the pressure of providing for his family?  Was it something left unfinished?  Or was it because that was the way men were supposed to be?  It used to bother me a lot.  I tell my own kids that the reason I tell them that I love them so often is because my dad didn’t.  I wonder if they understand. But now I understand something much better.  Talk about your feelings, your dreams, and your ideals; show your emotions – you can still be the man-rock and do these things too. Anonymous, Age 50  Back to Top

"Words for Ben" 75 years witnessing an amazing array of what life had to offer, the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beautiful.  Dad died this morning around 12:30 a.m., peacefully moving to a place without pain.  He has struggled and suffered so much for so many years.  I am truly happy for him, yet overwhelmed with feelings of sadness that so much had to be so challenging for him. Though there were many difficult times between us over the years, I so admire the courage that he had as he faced what life placed in front of him.  Surviving a very challenging childhood and adolescence, being diagnosed with mental illness at such a young age, and at a time when society and the psychiatric profession really struggled with how to respond. But he persevered, accepting the labels that were given to him and acknowledging their impact on his life.  For Mom, Gary, and I, living with him and the illness that he carried was not always easy.  But those times made us who we are today – individuals filled with compassion, understanding, tolerance, and love. Looking through Dad’s eyes, he struggled with how to share the gifts of life with us.  But he did. . . he did the best that he knew how, and he only wanted us to be happy.  He ended every conversation with his blessing, simply saying, “let us know if you need anything, and know how much we love you.”  And I know that he loved us deeply, especially mom, a beautiful woman who he depended on as much as the air that he breathed.  She has been his guardian angel for more than their 54 years of marriage.  Her spirit was never broken by the challenges of his failing health, and he knew that the love that bound them would be forever. Dad, I pray for you a gentle passage to that place of peace, joy, love, and health.  The loving arms of those wonderful spirits who have gone before you are stretched wide to greet you.  Go in peace, and know that you live on in our minds and our hearts. . . . . In the brilliant clear night sky last evening, a bright cloud of light appeared to the west, crossed by a shooting star whose purpose seemed to be to make sure that the unusual atmospheric formation was noticed.  The anomaly slowly dissipated into the form of a cross as it passed overhead.  Though I’m sure there was a scientifically logical explanation, I want to believe that it was Dad’s spirit letting me know that everything is now okay. Perry Sutherland, age 48 Back to Top

"I Think This Is Where My Real Father Lives"   I think this is where my real father lives. It's near a river. I see a light in one of the rooms.   Someone is pulling up the driveway with a car. The chimney is smoking. I see an oak tree in the back yard. As I get farther and farther away, I see a shadow in the distance, now gone.   An anonymous teen   Back to Top

I wrote the entry below almost four years ago when my son Pete was just beginning a two year chemo treatment plan for leukemia (he is now in remission and doing great).  When in crisis, you learn a lot about fathering; indeed looking back I guess you learn some things right away. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Last Thursday, on the third night of Pete’s hospital stay, with Sponge Bob over and Pete fading into sleep, eyes closed, I sat at the edge of his bed just staring at my little boy. I suppose I was feeling sorry for him -- and for me -- for whatever brought us to this moment. Somehow sensing my stare or maybe my sadness, Pete suddenly opened his eyes, looked at me and smiled. He then closed his eyes and fell to sleep, and I knew that his smile would allow me to soon fall asleep as well. It was a gift. But before I crawled on to the couch, I lingered on Pete’s bed a while longer, wondering what would bring a smile to the face of a boy who had been handed a two year treatment plan to keep him alive, who was absorbing chemicals that were making him nauseous and sick and confining his life to the sixth floor of a hospital. Where did that smile come from? I think I know. It came from a place inside Pete that knew he was not alone. It came from knowing he was so loved that his journey was his mom’s journey. And his sisters’ journey. And his dad’s journey. As fathers, we can give our children so much, but nothing more crucial or special than making sure they know how loved they really are. It is from where our kids draw their courage and find their compassion. So on that third night of chemo, with just 727 nights to go, I found tremendous comfort in knowing that Pete’s smile was not only his gift to me. It was also my gift to him. Bob Stein Back to Top

Max Ritchie and his dad Jim Haddow preparing breakfast at the 2007 "B2M Conference."