173 words later

One hundred and seven deaths per minute worldwide. Some have many words associated with them, words that celebrate life. Some have only a few words, announcing death. Many have none.

One minute six months ago, my birth father died, the man with blue genes who had abused my mother. I say birth father because I hadn't seen him since I was 13 -- hadn't wanted to see him since then. He hadn't reached out after that point, and neither had I. I didn't even hear about it until a month ago.

One minute six months ago, two lines described his death. Twenty-five words in all. Twenty-five words that describe where he died and funeral arrangements only. Twenty-fine words that I looked up online, that I actually spent $2.50 to access in the local paper where it was published.

I have no feelings either way. No resentment or forgiveness, no sadness or relief. Nothing except maybe relief for him having to live with his alcoholism and his painful ghosts, if he ever had any.

But 173 words later, the man my mother's been married to for 33 years, whose name my sister and I took as our own, the man we call Dad, the man my sister's kids and mine call Papa, is dying. 

The radiation treatments didn't get the melanoma. It's now spread throughout his entire body. Some form of chemotherapy is next, and although his oncologist seems to think he's strong enough to handle it, I'm not sure he's sure he is. Of course we want him to live, especially Nana (Mom) who's been chronically ill with an auto-immune disorder for almost three decades. He turns 80 next month and could live years more as far as we all know including the medical professionals. He's done it before after surviving a stroke in 1994 and an abscess on his lung that nearly took him home to Jesus back in 2002.

They've both been in and out of the hospital many times this past year and we've all been up to see and help them as much as we can. Living hours and hours away isn't easy, especially now. Thankfully we were just there, enjoying a family vacation with the B-hive as well as going to medical appointments with my folks and helping to plan their uncertain future.

We all have uncertain futures, though. When Bea is my age now, I'll be 88, if I make it that far, which God willin' and the creek don't rise I will, along with the Mama.

I've put the blue genes to bed; I have two daughters of my own. As I look to what's next for us all, I wish my father the happiest of Father's Days with many more to come.

I wish all the good fathers out there the same.

Be mindfully present and love your family. Always.

 

 

A global family failure

I trusted him. I didn't know him, or him us, but I still trusted him. He had a kind face, like my grandfather. Warm and sincere, he gave me a sense of real security, like I could tell him anything I wanted to and he would listen and provide the right counsel.

My sister and I sat in his chambers listening to him ask us questions. I felt awfully small sitting in there, sinking deeply into a large leather-bound chair, but again I trusted him. I was about 12 at the time, my sister 10.

The judge began to ask us questions about our abusive birth father, what we did with him when it was his turn to do stuff with us, how we felt about it, and why we no longer wanted to do stuff with him.

I remember the judge asking me directly, "Do you want to spend time with your father anymore?"

"No," I answered.

"Are you scared when you're with him?"

"Yes."

"Does he drink when you're with him?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you think he'll hurt you when he's drinking?"

Pause. "I don't know."

Similar answers from my sister. The entire time the judge enveloped us with a sobering warmth, one that gave me the confidence and comfort to be completely honest.

"Again, I ask you -- do you want to spend time with your father anymore?"

"No."

After that visit, we were no longer forced into visitations with our birth father. A year later was the last time I saw him.

I'm sure that because my mother worked for the police department and our soon-to-be stepfather was a cop, that helped get us face time with the judge, probably circumventing the family court system somewhat.

But it could've failed for us, the entire global family system that included our parents, other family members, friends, the police department, the court system, the social workers -- everybody.

It failed for Charlie and Braden Powell and their mother Susan and the millions of other victims of abuse.

No matter how "evil" we claim the Josh Powell's of the world are after the devastating facts come to light, we all failed in the end because we didn't protect our children and all the victims of intimate partner violence.

We didn't give them a voice. We didn't give them safe harbor. And then we have to bury the victims and mourn the loss that could've been prevented.

It was a global family failure that could've failed us all those years ago. Thank God it didn't.

And thank God the B-hive will always have a voice. The Mama and Daddy promise you that.

Please educate your little boys (and girls) for the better today

I went along with it. At first I said no, but he convinced me otherwise. He said it was a game she'd want to play, that she would think it was fun. That girls liked to play these games.

I was six. He was seven or eight, a neighborhood kid, a friend of sorts, one who led and I was a follower. She was only four and still in diapers, or some early iteration of pull-ups (the year was 1971).

I felt uncomfortable. It was late August making everything hot and sweaty. I knew it was wrong, but I remember not knowing what to do about it other than go along.

We didn't touch her or hurt her. The other boy, my sort-of friend, told her to pull her diaper down. She looked scared. I looked away. She pulled it down, he laughed and I stared.

My mom had watched the whole thing from our dining room window and immediately came outside, made us apologize to the little girl. My friend fled, the girl ran away crying (I don't remember if she talked with the parents of the girl or not, but nothing ever came of it).

She then took me inside and began to explain to me the differences between boys and girls, what a vagina was and what a penis was and why it was so wrong to do what we did. And why when I was older, I needed to respect women and never force anything upon them, never hurt them or belittle them in any way.

This coming from a woman who experience years and years of physical and emotional abuse, of which I had witnessed, who desperately wanted to instill in her son the self-awareness of knowing the difference between mutually respectful personal responsibility and the utter human failure of perpetrating intimate partner violence and blaming the victims of abuse.

Young men and boys need this education today more than ever. According to a recent article I read in Ebony online titled Stop Telling Women How to Not Get Raped:

"Telling women that they can behave in a certain way to avoid rape creates a false sense of security and it isn’t the most effective way to lower the horrible statistics which show that 1 in 5 women will become victims of a completed or attempted rape in their lifetime.  The numbers for African American women are even higher at nearly 1 in 4."

For those of us who have little girls, please educate your little boys (and girls) for the better today.

Because we grow up and innocence is so fragile and fleeting.

The catalyst of cause to action

An old friend told me she was happy I had a girl so as to be more sensitive to women’s issues.

That’s probably true, although I think it’s more about changing our minds and deciding to have a child. And hearing that my abusive birth father was dying of lung cancer.

I’ve lived the majority of my life abhorring violence, particularly violence against women and children; that’s what I grew up with. Unfortunately I participated in my own share of emotional abuse back in the day and am not proud of those unsettling moments.

However, I never made abuse of any kind my personal cause. It was just something I didn’t like, shaking my head at the tragedies reported by the media, maybe vocalizing my distaste to my wife, a family member or a friend.

It’s different now. Having a child is the catalyst of cause to action. I hold my daughter and I remember what my mother, sister and me went through all those years ago. I recall the pain I caused others all those years ago. That’s why I participated in The Human Race and will continue to do more.

We all have a choice and sometimes all we need is a catalyst. People can change for the better. Cycles of violence can be broken. We can be personally responsible.

Last month I listened to a Bill Moyer interview with Marta Peláez, president and CEO of Family Violence Prevention Services, Inc.

The interview was quite informative and disturbing as well, but one thing in particular that caught my ear was the discussion of her intervention services for the abusers themselves.

You don’t hear much about that, how some organizations work with the abusers to get them to understand they have a choice, that they can walk away from hitting and hurting, resolve their anger issues in other ways.

I was happy to hear that the Obama administration and Congress approved a funding package increases support for key programs that help to prevent domestic violence and support victims – nearly $70 million in increases for effective programs related to domestic violence, a tremendous accomplishment to help end against domestic violence. The bill includes more than $15 million in increases for the Violence Against Women Act, a $45 million increase for the Victims of Crime Act, and a $5.1 million increase for the Family Violence Prevention and Services Act. Following last year's cuts, the bill restores funding levels to those of previous years.

Thank God there are these resources. We all have choices. People can change for the better. Cycles of violence can be broken. We can be personally responsible.

What’s your catalyst of cause to action?

She's a mother for Christ’s sake

When she was on the Today Show earlier this week, I didn’t want to look. I was in the garage working out and I really didn’t want to look.

But I did.

And from all the medical buzz around the face transplant itself, what struck me the most was how she got to the face transplant medical procedure (over 30 of them prior to that).

She was quoted as saying, “If your husband threatens you in any way, it’s going to get worse. Even if they say something to you, they tell you…Oh, you’re ugly, you’re stupid. But if somebody points something at you and they say they’re going to do it, eventually they’re going to do it.”

In 2004 her husband shot her in the face then turned the gun on himself. He went to jail for seven years. She’s been to hell and back again multiple times.

But she said:

“I still love my husband. I forgave him the day he did it. I have to.”

It’s reported that he’s shown remorse since, telling her he’s sorry.

This haunts me. I don’t know how many times my birth father and first step father apologized after beating and berating my mother (not to be confused with the man I call Dad today).

I remember one time when my first step father was threatening my mother with a gun, saying he was going to blow her fucking brains out.

But if somebody points something at you and they say they’re going to do it, eventually they’re going to do it.

We got out of there just as we got away from my birth father. We were lucky. By the grace of God, or by our own. Or both.

But what about Connie Culp? She's a mother for Christ’s sake. She has a son and a daughter and two grandsons.

I still love my husband. I forgave him the day he did it. I have to.

By the grace of God. I don’t know if I could do it. Actually, I know I couldn’t. I can't and won't speak for my mother, however.

Not the uplifting Mother’s Day post I still plan on writing this weekend, but one that weighs heavy on my heart.

This is for all the mothers out there who have been abused. God bless you and your children.

I’m so happy my wife and daughter are joining me tomorrow for the Human Race.

This is for you, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.

***

And Happy Fatherhood Friday as well. It’s a hip place at Dad-Blogs.com for dads and moms to share stories, ideas, photos and movies with one topic in mind – fatherhood. Good times.

Be part of the Human Race. Help prevent domestic violence.

For you are fearfully and wonderfully made…

Psalms 139

That’s one of the first things you read in the uplifting children’s book On the Night You Were Born by Nancy Tillman, which is currently in our Bea reading rotation.

I think about that day a lot and the months and years leading up to the birth of Beatrice.

The other morning I held my daughter close while we looked out into the backyard together. A hummingbird flitted then floated above our blooming flowers. We both watched in wonder while the sun cast light on spring’s life renewal. The Japanese maple that Amy had bought for me after we met almost 12 years ago grows strong and vibrant, a tribute to our family’s love.

I’m one of the good guys, I whispered in her ear. You and Mama are too.

Later, after returning to work, my Google Alerts “child abuse” and “domestic violence” stopped me cold.

Everyday they come in – one vile example after another of broken people doing horrible things.

Why don’t I stop them? Because it’s my growing cause TO stop them. Literally. I’ve never been motivated to help on such a specific cause, even though I’ve lived it, but now that I’m a father, everything’s changed.

And keeps changing. Now that I’m a father. We’re the good guys, Bea.

There are examples of hope in those news alerts – various organizations that educate and help make a difference.

One of those is local Santa Cruz County non-profit, Women's Crisis Support ~ Defensa de Mujeres, whose mission is to end domestic violence and sexual assault by providing intervention and prevention services in a culturally-sensitive way.

On May 9, 2009 I will be participating in the 2009 Human Race in Santa Cruz, CA, supporting this organization.

The Human Race is a nationwide community fundraising event for nonprofit organizations, schools, and faith based organizations. This race is the Central Coast's largest collaborative community fundraiser, and features a fun run and walk beginning at Natural Bridges State Park and winding along one of our most beautiful natural resources – West Cliff Drive. Organizations and businesses recruit walkers/runners/pledge-gatherers to raise funds. Participating nonprofit organizations receive at least 75% of monies collected and the Volunteer Center receives the remaining percentage to coordinate and stage the event.

To make this fundraising event a success I am asking others to partner with me in raising $1,000 to benefit Women's Crisis Support (in honor of my mother, a survivor of domestic violence).

I’ve only raised $210 to date, of which I thank my friends and family. And that’s okay, because I’m raising awareness as well and will not stop talking about the issues of domestic violence and child abuse.

Whether you help me directly and Follow This Link to visit my personal Human Race web page, or donate/volunteer in your own communities, I commend you – especially you fathers out there taking responsibility for yourselves and your families. It’s even National Volunteer Week this week.

If you know of anyone who’s in an abusive relationship – physically and/or psychologically – adult and/or child – please get them help.

Be part of the Human Race. Help prevent domestic violence.

A Brief Tale of Blue Genes

It's time once again for Fatherhood Friday. Fatherhood Friday is hip place at Dad-Blogs.com for dads and moms to share stories, ideas, photos and movies with one topic in mind – fatherhood.

***

It’s four in the morning and as I lay in bed tossing and turning over a million different things, one of those being that someday Bea will ask me what happened with my father.

Not the man I call Dad today but the man I share genes with, my birth father. She’ll come across something I’ve written, an old photograph, and then she’ll ask questions about him, why I don’t talk about him, where he lives now, what happened to him, to us.

She’ll ask and I’ll tell her a brief tale of blue genes.

***

The last time I saw my birth father I was 13 years old, my sister 11. It was visitation day; I don’t remember what time of the year together. I only know it wasn’t hot or cold. He came to our front door dressed in a faded flannel shirt and blue jeans. He might have worn a cowboy hat. I’m not exactly sure, but I see it on his head. He held a grocery bag full of dirty carrots pulled from his garden.

Eternity. My sister stood slightly behind me, one hand on my shirt. I don’t remember what I said, if anything.

Then he said, “So, you don’t want to see me anymore?”

I nodded slowly. My sister pulled on my shirt. I must have said something to prompt his question, but I was too scared to even think.

He pushed his cowboy hat back, set the bag of carrots down and said:

“Goodbye kids.”

And then he left. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.

***

My childhood memories of my father aren’t pleasant. He drank a lot. Smoked a lot. Beat my mother a lot. Fooled around with other women a lot. Ignored my sister and I a lot.

Although he never touched us, we feared his violence; my sister and I would hide in my room while he ranted, boozed and abused my mother. Twelve years my mother lived that hell, nine of it with us in tow.

I raged quietly, impotent, nothing I could do to stop it. I only had the fantasy of heroic intervention – the skinny, asthmatic, bookworm, introverted nine-year-old boy beating his dad to a pulp.

There were less than a handful of quintessential father-son moments: the building of my tree house, the actual building I only recall through photographs; the watching him build his alcohol-powered planes, constructed with balsa wood, tissue paper and the paint sealer called dope; the day I took my training wheels off my sweet purple bike with the banana seat and he pushed me up and down the street.

There were also the fleeting moments of forgiveness when he’d apologize to us all and say he would change, but never did. Alcoholism became the disease that justified the abuse.

Even after we left him, he did have visitation rights for a few years and those were almost as unbearable as living with him. Those visits always felt forced, as if he were doing someone he didn’t like a favor of watching us for a few hours, sometimes for the night. We had nothing to talk about, nothing to share, nothing in common.

Except for blue genes.

***

(The following segment is from a previous post last year titled Daddy K takes the long road home)

The road to fatherhood began abysmally for me – from abusive biological father, to abusive first step-father, to self-abusive anxiety-ridden depressive teenager (me), to self-abusive anxiety-ridden depressive young adult (again, yours truly), to self-abusive anxiety-ridden depressive angry resentful deceptive longed to be liked poor excuse for a contradictive man and husband (marriage #1), to brooding on the brink of finally mastering control of my life with a pre-Mama A saying stand up and get it together or get out.

Stand up and get it together. Get off the ground. Let go the legacy of anger and fear. Have hope. Have faith.

(No worries, I've always had a good heart, there were good times along the way, and I had good father I'll talk about in one of my next postings).

Which is why The Road by Cormac McCarthy had such a profound effect on me last year when we listened to the audio book during our Southwest trip (and I just found out it's going to be a move this year). It was one of those defining moments that filled our hearts with choice.

WARNING - For those of you who haven't read it and plan to, do not read on because I've got a spoiler coming.

The Road is a post-apocalyptic story of a father and young son trying to survive a horrific world gone mad while traveling on a road to the coast, a road of hope. Sadly when they reach the coast and can't find any civilized civilization to speak of, hope is all but lost. The father is very ill and dies, leaving the boy alone.

Then, out of the darkness, a man offers his help to the boy. The man tells the boy he needs to come with them, because they can help him. The boy is resistant; he doesn't want to leave his dead father and he's unsure of the man's motives.

"Are you one of the good guys?" The boy asks.

"Yes, I'm one of the good guys," the man answers.

The boy takes his hand and they walk off.

Stand up and get it together. Get off the ground. Let go the legacy of anger and fear. Have hope. Have faith.

Be one of the good guys.

***

Three decades have gone by. A week ago I learned my birth father has lung cancer. He’s in treatment but his prognosis isn’t good.

Apathy, contrasted with my ghostly childhood memories, filled me with a contradictory sense of inaction and empathy.

It’s a surreal feeling – not really caring or motivated to do anything but understanding the shadow world you share with your father – the blue genes.

Unconditional forgiveness portends remorseful reciprocity. In other words, you have to own it and own up to it in order to find redemption and solace with those you’ve wronged.

My birth father didn’t do that with me, and although I didn’t have to do that with him, my conditional forgiveness was given.

That was enough for me to heal and live my life and finally become the father he never was.

Jesus washed the feet of his betrayers, but I will not wash the feet of my father.

He should make peace with his.

Bea may never understand why I feel this way, but if we bring her up her as well as we plan on doing, then that’s not such a bad thing after all.

Maybe tonight I'll sleep better.

Rise from the ashes – A blaze of everyday glory

In the house where nobody laughs

And nobody sleeps

In the house where love lies dying

And the shadows creep

A little girl hides, shaking,

With her hands on her ears

Pushing back the tears, 'til the pain disappears

Mama says some ugly words

Daddy pounds the wall

They can fight about their little girl later

Right now they don't care at all

No matter what they say...

No matter what they say...

--Everyday Glory, Neil Peart (Rush)

It's time once again for Fatherhood Friday. Fatherhood Friday is hip place at Dad-Blogs.com for dads and moms to share stories, ideas, photos and movies with one topic in mind – fatherhood.

This week I'm back on a serious and somber topic: domestic violence. I wrote a few weeks ago about my own personal experiences in the light of the Rihanna-Chris Brown case.

As I read and watch the sad stories of struggling families losing their jobs and homes, I know the violence has escalated. One of the number one reasons couples fight is over finances, and even sadder, the children are part of that monetary equation – all to be used as punitive control by the abuser over the abused.

I know from my own experience growing up that my birth father was the sole breadwinner, which he pointed out many times before and after beating her, and it was painfully clear to my mom that we had no other means by which to flee – at least not until she found the strength and courage to do so without much economic means.

I found an article from AOL's BlackVoices titled Domestic Violence & Economic Abuse Increase as Economy Goes South that pulled some examples and stats together on this subject. Sadly the media isn't highlighting this enough.

The National Domestic Violence Hotline conducted a survey from November 12 to December 31 last year, asking nearly 8,000 callers about the connection between financial issues and the level of violence in their household:

"54% answered yes to the question, 'Has there been a change in your household's financial situation in the last year?'; and 64% also answered the second question affirmatively, which was, 'Do you believe the abusive behavior has increased in the past year?'," reports the survey.

Affirmative indeed.

The Allstate Foundation Domestic Violence Program says that economic abuse is a tactic used to control relationships and maintain power by preventing access to money and/or other financial resources. To combat economic abuse, the Allstate Foundation Domestic Violence Program has set up a website to provide resources, knowledge and skills to help victims.

Here are some economic abuse examples, via BlackVoices:

• Controlling victims' paychecks and bank accounts, and determining how they spend money, where they work and what property they buy;
  
• Using victims' credit cards without permission and destroying their credit rating;
  
• Putting all financial contracts (lease, credit cards, utilities, etc) in a victim's name and then failing to make payments, destroying the victim's credit rating;
  
• Forcing low-income victims or victims with disabilities to turn over government benefit payments;
  
• Undermining victim's opportunities to become economically independent by not allowing the to work, forcing them to work in family businesses for little or no pay, or calling and harassing them in the workplace to such an extent that they lose their jobs;
  
• Refusing to pay spousal or child support to a survivor who has left an abusive partner; and
  
• Forcing a victim to cash in, sell, or sign over any financial assets or inheritance (e.g., bonds, stocks or property).
  

Not only did my birth father do some of these things, my abusive first step-father did some of this crap as well. It sickens me that men behave this way – that fathers behave this way.

Mothers are abused, maimed and killed all over the world by their spouses/mates. We should be outraged; this madness has to stop. I broke the cycle of violence in my family and my daughter will not grow up it that hell as my sister and I did.

I'm running The Human Race this year in support of a local Women's Crisis Support center. The Human Race is a nationwide community fundraising event for nonprofit organizations.

Annually, WCS~DdM provides approximately 1,300 crisis intervention services to victims of domestic violence and sexual assault. Individual counseling services are provided to approximately 600 women, and support group sessions for over 200 women. Legal assistance is provided for over 450 women, over 100 restraining order applications are filed, and about 125 women are accompanied to court proceedings. The confidential emergency shelter provides nearly 2,000 shelter bed nights to women and children in imminent danger from domestic violence or sexual assault. Children's individual counseling sessions are provided for over 100 children, and an average of 25 children and youth attend group sessions each week. Prevention programs provide educational services, information and referrals to approximately 150 families.

Help me support Women's Crisis Support whose mission is to end domestic violence and sexual assault - http://bit.ly/dvadS. Help those who need safe harbor and a new beginning.

Everyday people

Everyday shame

Everyday promise

Shot down in flames

Everyday sunrise

Another every story

Rise from the ashes--

A blaze of everyday glory

Daddy K takes the long road home

The road to fatherhood began abysmally for me – from abusive biological father, to abusive first step-father, to self-abusive anxiety-ridden depressive teenager (me), to self-abusive anxiety-ridden depressive young adult (again, yours truly), to self-abusive anxiety-ridden depressive angry resentful deceptive longed to be liked poor excuse for a contradictive man and husband (marriage #1), to brooding on the brink of finally mastering control of my life with a pre-Mama A saying stand up and get it together or get out.

Stand up and get it together. Get off the ground. Let go the legacy of anger and fear. Have hope. Have faith.

(No worries, I've always had a good heart, there were good times along the way, and I had good father I'll talk about in one of my next postings).

Which is why The Road by Cormac McCarthy had such a profound effect on me last year when we listened to the audio book during our Southwest trip (and I just found out it's going to be a move this year). It was one of those defining moments that filled our hearts with choice.

WARNING - For those of you who haven't read it and plan to, do not read on because I've got a spoiler coming.

The Road is a post-apocalyptic story of a father and young son trying to survive a horrific world gone mad while traveling on a road to the coast, a road of hope. Sadly when they reach the coast and can't find any civilized civilization to speak of, hope is all but lost. The father is very ill and dies, leaving the boy alone.

Then, out of the darkness, a man offers his help to the boy. The man tells the boy he needs to come with them, because they can help him. The boy is resistant; he doesn't want to leave his dead father and he's unsure of the man's motives.

"Are you one of the good guys?" The boy asks.

"Yes, I'm one of the good guys," the man answers.

The boy takes his hand and they walk off.

Stand up and get it together. Get off the ground. Let go the legacy of anger and fear. Have hope. Have faith.

Be one of the good guys.