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Personal Statement #8:
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November 17, 2008
When I get together with some of my closest uncles, aunts, and cousins, we cannot help ourselves but to speak of a different time, a different place - many years ago now - when we were a different family. And we start to laugh; and we laugh at ourselves, the way we were, as we laugh at nothing else in life. How different we were then! Some of these recollections are humorous, some are sad, some embarrassing, some disturbing; and some of our laughing is more cathartic release than comedy. We have a big extended family. If I combine the family numbers from my paternal and maternal grandparents, I count 16 sets of uncles and aunts; and over 70 first cousins! I am the eldest grandchild of my father's parents. 50 years ago, the title of "Grandfather" was a most high and august distinction, as this larger-than-life demigod ruled, by legal claim and moral suasion, over a vast expansive realm of the lives of all of his children. My cousin Jerry, one of the comic-wags of the family, long ago made reference to Grandpa Becker, in the spirit of Marlon Brando's "Godfather," as THE GRANDFATHER. This is funny because we are only half-joking when we lovingly refer to Grandpa in this way, as his influence over the family was near-absolute and unquestioned.
In those days, all of the old gray heads in our community commanded a good measure of reverence, whether a particular one was your Grandpa or not - because each was somebody's GRANDFATHER!
The Grandpa and The War Dance My cousin Bobby loves to tell the story of his paternal Grandpa Schumacher, a story that never fails to make me laugh. It seems that this GRANDFATHER was "supervising" the farm work one day. GRANDFATHERs do that sort of thing, you know, it's their job; they're retired, of course, but they go out and "supervise." Well, one day Grandpa Schumacher is walking around this plowed field, tending to his duties, and he's dressed in traditional farmer's garb, the heavy-canvas coveralls as his body armor. But suddenly, this normally emotionless, granite-faced icon of industry begins to shout, and to hop, and to prance, and to cavort. And he's sort of feverishly running around in a circle. Even his body armor could not protect him from a tiny brown mouse which, having run up his leg, had decided to stake a claim and make a home somewhere en route to his mid-section. And this Grandpa is now not only running around in a circle, but is madly pounding on his own body - and we cannot tell for sure, and dare not ask, if he is on a warpath, trying to make it rain, or attempting to attract the attention of the angry gods! You know, this story is very funny just as it is; but, when Bob and I laugh at this, we are really laughing at a certain hidden element. You have to understand that these German immigrant GRANDFATHERs, as a veritable strict religion, subtilely forbad, by their much-watched example, all expression of undue emotion. That would be wrong, of course; because emotion is weakness, and weakness will take you to hell faster than any other sin. These severe men elevated to high art-form the ninja-like attributes of self-discipline, self-denial, self-determination, and all manner of survival strategy. I am having some fun here, and I know that, today, these men are laughing, too; but, friends, I want to tell you - these men were Lions, the very personifications of will, and if you ever wanted to know if a job would get done, these men, and their wives, would get it the hell done! you better believe me. And for those of us who grew up in their shadows, we would never forget it; nor do we want to. And all of that solitary fortitude makes North Dakota "legendary," as some call it today; but, we went too far, and we hurt ourselves in the process, and today we are making our way back to a more enlightened way.
Why Did The Boy Cross The Fence? I few years ago I attended a family get-together. I had not seen my cousin Jerry in many years. He and I have always had a kind of electric, telepathic comedy-connection. He takes one look at me, starts laughing, and the first words out of his mouth are: "Do you remember the time you jumped over the fence?" And we both start laughing hysterically, just as we did decades earlier when we were with THE GRANDFATHER on that day! Well, this was no ordinary jump, and that's why Jerry would remember it over 30 years later. It was 1970, and I was 19. The three of us were visiting the old place, "Grandpa's farm." Grandpa and Jerry had just made their way past a barbed wire fence, carefully holding down the top wire, in order to straddle it, one leg at a time, the customary way; and they were waiting for me to do the same. Barbed-wire cattle fences were about 3.5 feet high. The barbs were steel-cut, and would rip your flesh easily if they had the chance. I have multiple scars on my leg from a horse that, one winter night, purposely tried to gallop closely alongside such a fence, in an attempt to scrape me (age 10) off his back! It failed, but my pant-leg was ripped apart, as was my flesh. It would be quite unremarkable for a young person to jump over such a low hurdle; especially, with a running start, many might accomplish this. But that's not what happened that day! Well, I said that I could fly in those days, and I feel, just now, that old cockiness welling up inside of me, and I decide that I will show-off to THE GRANDFATHER and demonstrate my super-powers! I would have been in blue-jeans, just like in the photo above, and I probably had those cool Puma track shoes, too. I had never before attempted what I would now do, and would never try it again - but I had confidence that I could do it. Now, picture this: I am standing a distance of 1 foot away from the fence, facing it directly, with both feet planted squarely on the ground. My plan was to launch myself, straight up, from that position - simply from that standing start - and land on the other side of the 3.5 ft. barrier, 2 feet away. I would have to jump higher than 3.5 ft. - maybe, 4 feet above the ground - in order to safely clear the fence and to avoid the barbs. While such a vertical jump is somewhat difficult, many could do this. But here's the hard part: the real problem is the angle of ascent. I can't just jump straight up, as I'd come back down to where I started. And if my angle of ascent were to be less acute than necessary, in an effort to land on the other side, I would brush against the barbs on the way up, be ripped by them, and I would crash; probably, falling, stomach first, on top of the fence, on top of the sharp barbs; and I had no shirt. The best attack seemed to be a near-vertical 4-ft upward assault, 4 feet off the ground, with just a slight angle of ascent, but then, at the apex, gyrate myself in mid-air, like a pole vaulter - but without a pole for leverage! - gyrate myself across the fence-line, in order to clear the barbs, and then to fall safely on the other side!
It must have looked impressive! Well, what happened next was unexpected. Both of my witnesses are too stunned for some period of seconds, and I see them processing the mystery of what just happened; but, THE GRANDFATHER, now, quickly recovering himself and his proper role, starts shouting in German, in a loud voice - apparently, displays of emotion were appropriate for such instances! and he is rattling off a long string of well-placed German curses, plus an unscheduled recitation of the Litany of the Saints! And this broadway performance goes on for awhile. And Jerry - who refers to me with the phrase, "Where there's a will, there's a Wayne!" - is now rolling on the ground, killing himself laughing and laughing. And I'm just standing there, with no scratches down my back, or on my stomach, and I'm all cocky-like, grinning and laughing, just having proved that I could fly after all! How funny! a pretty neat thrill! Recently, I was thinking about this incident, and thought about why Grandpa acted with such histrionics. And then it became clear to me - as I mentally reached back in time and sensed THE GRANDFATHER's true feelings at that moment. He was not worried about me at all. While not wishing me harm in any way, Grandpa, I could sense, was not pleased with this display of excessive "emotion" and frivolity and wasted energy! Only crazy people act as I did! Only deranged people waste energy on such useless antics - energy that could have been invested in farmwork! Yes, I think he might have agreed with himself that, under these dire circumstances of my compromised sanity, a few bloody scratches down my back might do me a world of good! Well, Grandpa, you could have been right. There would come a time in my life when a bit more humility would have served me better, would have saved me certain other scars in life. Even so, Jerry and I will always remember this moment in time with THE GRANDFATHER.
The Farmers Union Elevator and the Strict Dress Code This whole issue of prohibition against any display of emotion, or even a hint of frivolity, or a life that might not be wholly dedicated to the hard-labor camps, played itself out in an unexpected way. I am 35 years old, and we have been visiting my parents. I am a glass-skyscraper stockbroker in Toronto at this point. This visit to my parents is over, and we are about to leave the old village. I am driving around, looking for Dad to say a last good-bye. And I find him downtown at the Farmers Union Elevator. It's a hot summer day, and I am wearing cut-offs. This useless bit of information would now take on a strange life of its own. In my boyhood, there had been an unwritten code, part of the no-emotion-no-frivolity-no-nonsense religious cult, that only crazy people, only low-lifes, ones who had refused the Kool-aid of absolute consecration to the goddess of work, would be caught in such immoral garb as cutoffs - because cutoffs are a symbol, a manifest sign to all, that one is not ready, that one has not completely and wholly given oneself over to The Truth that work is the only Reality. And I would sacrilegiously violate this holy precept now. I am wearing cutoffs! but, surely, Dad is not going to say anything to me at this point in my life. But I would be wrong. So, I find Dad in the elevator, to offer my last well wishes. But now - utterly surprising me - with palpable hostility, he is immediately berating me for what I have done! How could I! Here I am, now, desecrating the holy inner sanctum of the Farmers' Union Elevator, no less; and what am I wearing - cut-offs! You were raised better than this! And he goes on about this, and how embarrassing it is for him! and how I should be ashamed... and where is my good sense? Well, my Dad, to his credit, 99% of the time that I knew him, was a model of equanimity and thoughtfulness; but his lapse here only serves to illustrate just how entrenched some of the old dark attitudes had become! And I am standing there - slammed and shocked by this! I don't know what to say! What do you say to a good father who goes crazy like this... Part of me wants to say this:
Amen. The service hath ended. Go in my peace my brothers. Well, I didn't say any of it. And I'm glad I didn't. I just said good-bye and left. But he knew he was wrong. Dad died three years ago from cancer. But just before he died, I saw him on his deathbed. Betty is with me. He is gasping, not able to speak very well, but it is clear to me what he wants to say. And I can see him, now, reaching up to me. And he wants me to know that I am loved. And I can see in his eyes, and also know from his few words, that he wants my forgiveness for certain things in the past. I reassure him that everything is ok. Dad and I have always been close, and I have never felt materially estranged from him, a few dark incidents, notwithstanding - and everything truly is ok - I lean down and kiss him on his lips, and he fades into a fitful sleep. I would not see him again in this life, this man with whom I had worked so closely, for so many years, and who had taught me many things.
The Testimony of THE GRANDFATHER: "We will all march out of hell together!"
Teenagers often do not appreciate the gift that is a grandparent. How I wish I could speak to them again! I can hardly believe myself, now, as I realize that I had virtually no meaningful conversations with these special souls in my life. I never thought to ask them questions! How amazing! Such was my egocentrism in those days. But I do remember one conversation with Grandpa Becker. He initiated it, or it wouldn't have happened. I am 17, sitting in his living room, and, without my talking about it, he knows that I am angry with Dad about some issue; and THE GRANDFATHER says something like this to me: "I know you think your father is hard on you; but I was even harder on him when he was a boy; and my father was harder still on me, so long ago now." And Grandpa's point was that I lacked perspective; that the family was improving; that things were getting better; but that it takes a long time, sometimes, to come out of the darkness; it takes a long time, sometimes, to see the light, and a better way. It is difficult to explain, to an outsider, just how we were in those days. But, all of us who lived in that culture will know exactly what I mean here when I say that... We did everything in a hell-bent way. We ate our morning cereal in a hell-bent way. We tied our shoelaces in a hell-bent way. Even our hell-bent was hell-bent. And we even sat in our easy chairs in a hell-bent way. Dad told me one story about THE GRANDFATHER, who, like Mighty Odin, seething with lightning bolts, one who cannot be defied, would sit in his living room at night, alone - and none, no mere mortal, but only upon pain of excruciating death, dared to cross the line, from the kitchen, and enter that holy of holies to disturb him - except Grandma, of course, that's ok, anytime. Even Grand Overlords, the wise ones, discount their own propaganda, and know their own limits!
Look again at the first photo above, the one with Bobby. Do you see that man, that Lion, in the background? Notice his stride. Notice the length of his stride. This man is not on a Sunday stroll. And what I say now applies to virtually all of the Lions of those days, but I happen to have his photo, so he shall represent all at the moment. Do not get in this man's way. Do not try to slow this man down. Do not stop this man, if you know what's good for you. This man is on a mission; and let me tell you something, he will get it the hell done, you better believe me. As I prepared this article, I explained some of this to my family members, and their response to me was, "Well, that explains a lot about you!" Yes, I know, such insolence cannot go unchallenged, and must be crushed, as an example to all, that all may fear, and heed, and by thus shall peace of the realm be maintained; and I'll get to it soon; but... they were exactly right, of course. In my days as a young father, though geographically far removed from "Grandpa's farm," I, too, did everything in a hell-bent way. And my family, at times, suffered under this insensitive rule. And in my articles, at times, I will give you glimpses of my work achievements, and some of you will say, you did this, and you did that, and you did other things, how did you do all that during those years. Well, friends, as I said, I grew up among Lions. But I'm happy to announce that my healing continues, and that I'm doing better now, just hell-bent-lite today. The truest test of such progress are the words of my tender daughter, Sara, who is reported to have said, "Dad is so different now!" That is good news for me.
The highest mountains create the deepest valleys... and cast the longest shadows of darkness. Famed management consultant, Peter Drucker, once said that those with the greatest strengths will also have the greatest weaknesses... and a lion, the "king of beasts," is not known for its sensitivity, but for something else. Our family is a family of pioneer farmers, and children of pioneer farmers. The obstacles overcome by these stalwarts of heart have become legendary. And I have heard the stories of how some of my grandparents, in quick succession, lost 4 children to plague a long time ago; and I have heard the stories of survival in the early years, of just having enough fuel, a collection of dried cow pies, to get through the brutal and life-threatening North Dakota winters. And we learn from Abraham Maslow that, for people who live on these lower psychological levels, that of mere survival, that this does something to one's spirit, not all of it good. All of one's energies, during times of crises, are marshaled to achieve the first priority, that of simple survival. And in that process of just trying to stay alive, new definitions of morality are forged: work and production, industry and self-discipline, fortitude and a no-nonsense disposition - all of these can form a distorted view of life and reality, and become the highest and most revered principles. And even when safety and security finally come, when a measure of wealth and worldly goods have been achieved, it is easy to remain trapped in those lower dysfunctional levels of thought, simply by force of habit. And severity becomes institutionalized as the highest virtue. In such diminished state of mind, higher cognitive expressions of the human spirit are disparaged: simple things, like appreciating, and even noticing, the beauty of a sunset; kindness toward animals; a tolerance toward others who might not be as industrious. But the very worst of these sins is how people, in such darkened state, treat each other; especially, the weakest of the group, the children.
This is the dark side of my ancestral culture. Every culture has its own definitions of hell, and this is ours. Our industry and fortitude have made North Dakota famous; but we are learning that there is more to life than work and survival.
There is a famous and detailed near-death experience, one by Mellen-Thomas Benedict. During his temporary journey to the Other Side, Benedict was given a vision and sense of how all people are spiritually connected to each other; that, given this mutual connection, in a sense, the suffering of one becomes the suffering of all; that one cannot just ignore the suffering of others and expect to do well alone - and that "we must all join hands and march out of hell together!" Yes, that's it, isn't it! We all suffer under various forms of darkness, various forms of unlove and insensitivity toward others; and we begin to heal ourselves, and emerge from this darkness, only when we extend that hand of fellowship to a brother or sister, in an effort to help them do the same: "we must all join hands and march out of hell together!"
There are pivotal points in human history, times of change, like the coming of a great springtime thaw after a brutal North Dakota winter, when things finally begin to move and to break out; and life, seemingly unexpectedly, flourishes. So it can be with the history of families as well. And I am thinking right now of a moment in our family history, which just might be that epochal event when things began to change for us, when a more enlightened way began to appear. And, in this photo of Grandpa and Grandma Becker, I think I am looking at it now. THE GRANDFATHER is smiling. This was somewhat unusual, as such excess was not often encouraged - maybe, only at a wedding, after a few drinks, but that's it - do not go too far. As a boy, I don't think I can recall a time seeing Grandpa this way - how nice he looks! But this smile is more than just a smile. In this small gesture of openness and warmth, one of his last gifts to the family, THE GRANDFATHER was giving all of us permission to finally begin to smile, as well... and to begin a new life for the family. This healing continues to this day. And when we get together now, we love to laugh at the way we were. Because, now, we know that THE GRANDFATHER is laughing and smiling with us.
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