by Dr. Calvin Sandborn, Weekend Post Published: Saturday, June 14, 2008
'I wished he would die. And then he did'
When I was 12, he challenged my brother to a fist fight. He routinely shouted at us in front of our friends.By the time I was 13, I wished he would die. And then he did. I thought that my wish had killed him, and for the longest time I couldn't forgive myself. I was scared to death I would damage someone else. (Calvin in 1956 pictured at right)
But four decades on, I've forgiven myself for hating him. More difficult, I've somehow forgiven myself for the Dad-like fury I inflicted on my own family. To my surprise, as I became kinder to myself, I formed a more rounded picture of Dad.
His anger had its reasons. His father died young, leaving him with a stepfather who favoured his own kids. When Dad was 14, his preacher grandfather hauled him in front of the congregation and viciously denounced him for teaching other kids the Charleston. Humiliated, Dad ran away from home and joined the carnival, growing up on the road with
hardened carnies. In middle age, his sales job was crushing. He was a brilliant man with a Grade 8 education, reduced to knocking on doors and imploring merchants to buy advertising promotions like imprinted pens and squeeze coin purses. But Dad's biggest problem was that he never got in touch with his own pain, never learned how to process his feelings. Like many men, he believed the lie that "Big boys don't cry," so he refused to seek out friends and instead turned his pain into anger. The anger kept shameful sorrow at bay. Swigging vodka straight from the bottle, he forced us to cry his tears. This was the Dad I hated. (Calvin's dad pictured at right)
But a funny thing happened after I forgave him. A different Dad returned from the shadows, borne by a flood of memory. I found myself recalling the times when he didn't drink: It was evening at the river. I was five, and Dad was still young and strong. We were camping in the California Coast Range. Although I couldn't swim, I had wandered down to the river after dinner and paddled an inner tube out to the middle of the big dark pool. I lay back in the inner tube, gazing at the cliff that loomed above on the other side of the water. Suddenly I slipped through the middle of the tube, and I was in the water, struggling. I sank into the cold dark water. As I resurfaced, I could see Dad running down the beach, tearing off his shoes and plunging powerfully into the river. Then I was under again, swallowing cold water, sinking into blackness ... Then I felt myself being pushed powerfully to the surface, as Dad rose like a sea lion below me. I gasped the air, and was saved. But he had
swallowed water, too, and began to cough and struggle himself. "Dad!" I cried in a panic. He sank below me, and I again fell
back into the black waters, gulping and sputtering, stepping on his head. As we sank, the murky yellow light of the world receded into darkness, with no sound but my thundering heartbeat. I felt his hands grip my calves and place my feet firmly on his shoulders. Then, as in the game we'd often played, he drifted down and bounced back up from the river bottom, thrusting me to the surface. And then his tattooed arm was around my chest, towing me to safety. Keeping my face above thewater, he coughed, then murmured, "It's OK, Cal. It's OK." Finally we staggered on to the sandy beach. As I stood gasping, shivering and crying, he hugged me to his heaving chest. Then he went to the trailerto get a towel and wrapped it around me. Later, as he heated hot chocolate on the Coleman stove he did the unusual -- he sat me on his lap. After a while, he turned the Giants game on the radio, and we sipped hot chocolate while the sun sank behind the cliff.
At the end of his life, I think Dad, like me, had forgotten that day. He forgot his goodness. I wish that, when he ruminated on
his failures, he had been able to remember the good things. I wish that, when he thought of his years of unemployment, his bankruptcy, the jalopies he drove, his failed marriages, his destructive anger, that he had been able to recall that day on the river. Most of all, I wish he'd had a kind father to remind him of the good things about himself -- his sense of humour, his charm, his ability to spin a story for a crowd, his compassion for the unfortunate, his intelligence, his ability to make a day's outing with a young boy into an exciting adventure. I wish someone had told him that he did not have to be a Man of Steel, that it was OK to be sad. I wish he had understood that he was no different from any of us, a mixture of good and bad. I wish he had realized that he could be forgiven, and that he could forgive. The fact was, he didn't have to die alone in the Country of Resentment.
There was room for him in the Country of Love.
- Calvin Sandborn is a professor of environmental law and the legal director of the University of Victoria Environmental Law Clinic. He is the author of Becoming the Kind Father: A Son's Journey (New Society, 2007).
His anger had its reasons. His father died young, leaving him with a stepfather who favoured his own kids. When Dad was 14, his preacher grandfather hauled him in front of the congregation and viciously denounced him for teaching other kids the Charleston. Humiliated, Dad ran away from home and joined the carnival, growing up on the road with
hardened carnies. In middle age, his sales job was crushing. He was a brilliant man with a Grade 8 education, reduced to knocking on doors and imploring merchants to buy advertising promotions like imprinted pens and squeeze coin purses. But Dad's biggest problem was that he never got in touch with his own pain, never learned how to process his feelings. Like many men, he believed the lie that "Big boys don't cry," so he refused to seek out friends and instead turned his pain into anger. The anger kept shameful sorrow at bay. Swigging vodka straight from the bottle, he forced us to cry his tears. This was the Dad I hated. (Calvin's dad pictured at right)But a funny thing happened after I forgave him. A different Dad returned from the shadows, borne by a flood of memory. I found myself recalling the times when he didn't drink: It was evening at the river. I was five, and Dad was still young and strong. We were camping in the California Coast Range. Although I couldn't swim, I had wandered down to the river after dinner and paddled an inner tube out to the middle of the big dark pool. I lay back in the inner tube, gazing at the cliff that loomed above on the other side of the water. Suddenly I slipped through the middle of the tube, and I was in the water, struggling. I sank into the cold dark water. As I resurfaced, I could see Dad running down the beach, tearing off his shoes and plunging powerfully into the river. Then I was under again, swallowing cold water, sinking into blackness ... Then I felt myself being pushed powerfully to the surface, as Dad rose like a sea lion below me. I gasped the air, and was saved. But he had
swallowed water, too, and began to cough and struggle himself. "Dad!" I cried in a panic. He sank below me, and I again fell
back into the black waters, gulping and sputtering, stepping on his head. As we sank, the murky yellow light of the world receded into darkness, with no sound but my thundering heartbeat. I felt his hands grip my calves and place my feet firmly on his shoulders. Then, as in the game we'd often played, he drifted down and bounced back up from the river bottom, thrusting me to the surface. And then his tattooed arm was around my chest, towing me to safety. Keeping my face above thewater, he coughed, then murmured, "It's OK, Cal. It's OK." Finally we staggered on to the sandy beach. As I stood gasping, shivering and crying, he hugged me to his heaving chest. Then he went to the trailerto get a towel and wrapped it around me. Later, as he heated hot chocolate on the Coleman stove he did the unusual -- he sat me on his lap. After a while, he turned the Giants game on the radio, and we sipped hot chocolate while the sun sank behind the cliff.
At the end of his life, I think Dad, like me, had forgotten that day. He forgot his goodness. I wish that, when he ruminated on
his failures, he had been able to remember the good things. I wish that, when he thought of his years of unemployment, his bankruptcy, the jalopies he drove, his failed marriages, his destructive anger, that he had been able to recall that day on the river. Most of all, I wish he'd had a kind father to remind him of the good things about himself -- his sense of humour, his charm, his ability to spin a story for a crowd, his compassion for the unfortunate, his intelligence, his ability to make a day's outing with a young boy into an exciting adventure. I wish someone had told him that he did not have to be a Man of Steel, that it was OK to be sad. I wish he had understood that he was no different from any of us, a mixture of good and bad. I wish he had realized that he could be forgiven, and that he could forgive. The fact was, he didn't have to die alone in the Country of Resentment.
There was room for him in the Country of Love.
- Calvin Sandborn is a professor of environmental law and the legal director of the University of Victoria Environmental Law Clinic. He is the author of Becoming the Kind Father: A Son's Journey (New Society, 2007).
1 comment:
Dear Dr. Sandborn,
Thank you for sharing your story. I am sending the link on to my three sons. You remind us that violent and hateful people are not intended to be so. That given different circumstances even the most hurtful soul is a being reflective of love and kindness. I teach my children that all life is a manifestation of love. In the absence of love we die spiritually, emotionally, physically and mentally. It is most difficult to be kind and loving to someone who lashes out and hurts us deeply. In some cases it is also very dangerous. However to be able to forgive is a divine intervention that builds up the personal self so that we can be more present in love for those around us.
My ex-husband was from an extremely violent environment – alcohol was always in the picture. He never knew what a loving and nurturing home was like. When experiencing a nurturing environment it was foreign to him and he did not know how to react to unconditional love. For him the world of using violence to solve problems and dominating people, places, and things through abuse, threats, and destruction was normal. It was all he knew. He still does not understand and continues to blame his violent reactions on others. He has no control over himself and we know that we will never reach him in this life. I pray that his two sons can find a way to release their anger toward him and replace it with compassion. I know they can do this because they have developed kind and loving natures and I see hero-like qualities emerging in them too. They were raised in a loving environment away from their dad.
Our children were young when we split-up and divorced for the last time. The Judge told my ex-husband to get counselling for drug addictions and anger management and that he could not have access to his sons until he did. My ex-husband never sought after the help he needed. The last time I talked with him was over the phone about a year and a half ago. He was bitter, abusive, blameful, and uninterested in how his sons were doing. I no longer hope for a way for my sons to know their father. In this case having no father is better than having an abusive and hateful one. Our oldest is in his second year in medicine and his younger brother will be studying film in a few years. They are both good and loving people. By now they know that their father is not well and that at the age of 48 he has no intentions to address his issues.
However, from time to time I go through it in my mind, what it would be like if their father was healed and in control of himself. I pray for his healing and in my mind I imagine how proud he would be of his two sons, and how grateful he would be for how they were raised. If he was capable he would sit with them and listen to their thoughts, dreams and deepest desires without marring their hopes with negative comments. In my mind he is able to teach them how to be creative, fix things, go camping and deal with troubling times. I know that if my ex-husband could be truly healed from all the hurt and pain in his life he would be a loving and kind man. This is because my memories of him as a father to our two children are interspersed with at least four instances where he showed kindness and concern for us. This is my path to forgiveness that I share with my sons - to focus on these few good memories and put to rest the mind scarring ones.
Thank you for showing us your beautiful journey to forgiveness. In love, sorrow, and joy your example of healing gives strength to others.
May peace and blessings be with you always,
Christine
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