The Keys to My Heart

Happy Anniversary, Sweetheart.

Good thing FB reminded me of the post I'd written two years ago. How interesting that what stood out about our wedding was the fact that the limo never arrived to pick us up. I remember turning to my dad and saying, "What if this is a sign?" "What kind of sign?" he wanted to know. "What if I'm not supposed to marry him?"

On our honeymoon, you rented that motorcycle to get around Corfu. We tooled around and had a blast. That was my first time on a motorcycle. What a wild ride, I thought. Until you tried to out-run a truck on that windy dirt road and we wound up in a ditch. I got so banged up I could hardly walk and wondered if I had internal bleeding. We barely saw Athens because I was so hurt. And again I wondered what I was getting myself into?

Over the years, I've had issues with your driving. That time you made a sudden left from the right-hand lane in Hoboken. My life literally flashed before my eyes as a huge dump truck came within feet of crushing me. And that time I was 8 months pregnant with Markham and we drove up and down these unmarked roadways, bumping over logs and rock outcroppings looking for Tom's camp but never did find it? Or the times, the many, many times we ran out of gas, our car just suddenly died or we sank in mud well past the car's axles? And remember that trip going to one of our Cultural Survival sales when you got three speeding tickets in three different states?

But I do remember times when I should give you credit for your driving. Like your amazing parallel parking! And driving to the Neversink, down the former logging road, we barely fit, with one side of the car a cliff-face and the other a mountainside. Not a scratch on the car. And more recently, the hours of switchback roads you drove in-and-out of Mendocino. One stretch went 22 miles! Whew!

If we mapped the many trips we've taken, from Hoboken or Manhattan every weekend to our parents houses, back and forth to go fly-fishing to the Catskills or Pennsylvania, up and back to visit Macallan in Syracuse and now Markham in Plattsburgh, and your always too frigging long commute to work, no matter where we lived and what job you had, you've probably circled the globe several times over. And still I am anxious sitting shot-gun. I clutch the dashboard. I grab the handle. I slam my right foot onto my imaginary brakes. I scream, "Watch Out!" when only 10% of the time is there ever anything to be watchful of.

I don't know why. We've never been in a serious accident. We have never gotten hurt (except for our honeymoon in Greece in 1986). I'm not even really sure why I had to have "happy pills" for our long Botswana road trips. I slept during the stretches where you drove 120mph!

But it seems significant. It seems like that's symbolic of our marriage. You driving us. You are the reason we went places - to Florida, to Botswana, and here I was, just going for the ride.

But while that's how I remember it, that's not the case, is it? We've taken these 31 years together. Sometimes you're the driver, deciding not only where we're going but how fast we'll go. Sometimes, you're driving me to places I need to go. And sometimes, I've spurred you on to look for new fishing spots, hiking trails or new breweries to keep things from getting too stale and to fulfill both our need to explore.

We're at a frustrating and difficult time right now. At a time when we're essentially empty nesters but you still have to work, further exasperated when we have big unforeseen expenses, like the two major repairs on the cars. Just when we think we've got it all figured out, a budget we can live with and plans for the future, something goes wrong and sets us back.

We were coasting and then all of a sudden, there's not enough gas or road or the brakes have gone out! "What are we going to do?" Or we're coasting and we want to gain momentum. We're looking for a gas station to fill up or we found gas but the it's too expensive, "What to do?"

And sometimes, there isn't a "What to do?" as much as, "What do I do now? " or "What do I want to do?" coz you're bored or you're empty inside.

I've been questioning us lately. Not because there's something wrong, but more that there's nothing wrong. I make conversation. I prod. I poke. But maybe, I should just let you drive. I should trust that you'll get us there and you'll get us there safe and sound. Not a scratch on us.

Because I'm not just the passenger, going along for the ride. You aren't always the driver who knows where we're going. Sometimes, you're there just to get me to the destination I need. Sometimes, you take me on a wild and crazy ride.

That's what our love is. It's a journey we're taking together. I'm not sure where we'll wind up, but after 31 years, I should trust that no matter what, you'll be right by my side. You're not going anywhere, I know that now. You're not going anywhere ... unless it's with me.

On Being a Mom to Graduating Seniors

My kids are graduating - one from high school, the other from college. I can hardly believe it. Where did the time go? And where will my kids wind up?

It seems like only yesterday I was breastfeeding, potty training, reading to them, and watching them learn to read for themselves.

Over the years we set rules: Don't climb the stairs without holding our hand; Don't leave the perimeter of our farm; Tell me where you're going, when you get there, who you're with.

And learned from our mistakes: Don't cross the street without an adult; Don't leave him alone with matches; and Be sure to apologize to your kids after yelling at them over something minor because your editor set an ungodly deadline and you feel like a failure all the way around.

There were times when I caught myself saying, When is he going to learn to feed himself? I can't wait for you to drive. You can have that when you can pay for it yourself.

But now that they're so independent, I ache to make him dinner, to spend more than a few hours at a time with her, to sit on the couch and watch "A Knight's Tale" or "Princess Bride" from start to finish with each of us reciting our favorite line. "It's called a lance!" "As you wish."

Now, they're graduating. Moving up, moving on and our home will never be the same again. No loose Lego pieces to impale our feet, no more animals to care for (except for the ones we already have and the ones I can't help but bring home), no overpowering scent of hair or body products, and no boys splayed out on the floor of the kitchen, catching me up on the gossip at school, as I happily make them a snack.

Graduating for them is an exciting, scary, promising endeavor. As it should be for me, I keep telling myself. Because now, I don't HAVE to take care of them, I GET to care about them.

I, too, graduate - from nursing to nurturing. Sure, I wish they could have stayed a certain age longer. You know, like if they could have stayed five-years-old for three years? But alas, that can't be. So, I guess, I'll go and grow with them.

I'll take mending that broken heart over that busted knee. I'll dole out the cash for fast food over slaving over a hot stove. I guess I'll take the "Good Morning" text over having to get them up for school, any day.

Yup, when you look at it that way, we're all graduating. Taking that next step in our lives.

Because no matter how old they get, they'll still need their mother (and father). I'm so thankful that I get to see them grow up, grow older, and truly see how my 'momming' has paid off.

So here's to my graduating seniors! Go on. Go off. Go take your place in this world...I'll be watching,  cheering, and waiting for you to come "home".

And in our family, who knows where or what "home" will be, but as long as I am living, that home is me.

Birthday Lunches, Failed Get Togethers and Good Byes

Just around the new year, I start thinking about my birthday. I’ve had some pretty awful celebrations but I can’t remember one. Recalling recent years, my sister threw me an impromptu party at her home. I’ve celebrated in various cities, Hudson being one of my favorites. And several times now, my family has taken over Purple Yam where Chef Romy has made us special dishes based on my favorite foods!  

For a number of years, while I was working at Scholastic, I shared my birthday with a few co-workers. We were all born a few days and an undisclosed number of years apart. We never planned it. It was always a casual thing. “Hey, let’s go out for our birthdays,” Jackie would say. And off we went. 

Over the past few years, I hadn’t celebrated with my co-workers. I lost touch with one of them, although I can see she is doing well from the FB posts of friends we share. And while I hadn’t spoken, emailed, texted, or pm'd the other, I knew if I reached out, she’d be there. 

"Why don't you come out to Brooklyn?" "Let me know next time you come into the City." One time she and our former editorial director surprised me and stopped by my shop in Cold Spring. Just after we moved back from Botswana, a Scholastic reunion of sorts came together, bringing many of us from "the old days" to one of our favorite hang outs in the Village. "When can we do that again?" was a catch phrase one or more of us would utter half-heartedly on social media. There always seemed to be a better time, a next time..."Next time I'm downtown." "Next time I've got a sitter." "Not this time because I can't get away from the store, but definitely next time." I’m not sure when the last time was. Could it really have been 13 years? 

I'm sorry I took our time together for granted. I was overwhelmed when I learned of her death. I didn’t know the Cancer had come back. 

I didn’t know. 

But over the years, why didn’t I call her? Why didn’t I make an effort to go see her? Why? 

And now I’m facing another birthday and she just missed hers. We won't have that birthday lunch. We don't get to plan an alternate date. I don’t get to say, "Happy Birthday". And most importantly, I also didn't get to say "Good-Bye". 

A Good Good-Bye

Mac spent the summer as lead horse-wrangler at a ranch in Colorado. 

"I'm glad she's gone." I told myself. "I am happy she left."

This is how I rationalized not having her home during the summer. Our 21-year-old daughter had found herself a job in Colorado as a horse wrangler. She would be home for only three days the entire summer, the rest taken up by a summer job out West, then her usual gig at the Dutchess County Fair as an animal handler for friends in the Fish and Game pavilion. 

But I said, good. I was OK with it. 

After all, she is a senior this upcoming year. Over the course of her college career, she's spent less and less time at home. Spring break that freshman year in Costa Rica. Last year she spent eight weeks at her school's biological field station, required coursework for Environmental Conservation Biology majors. She learned to identify every tree in NYS, the intricate life cycles of mosses, and theorized about how temperature effects snapping turtle eggs. She was in her element. How do you begrudge her that?

I don't. I am happy for her. She most definitely makes the most of her life and the opportunities that arise. When I comment on her perhaps overdoing it, her answer is that she takes after me. OK. I'll give her that.

So, while I am happy for her (if I say it often enough, will it be true? hahaha!) I'm not saying I don't miss her. Don't get me started on the fact that 18 years is not enough time to spend with your kids, especially those of them we really like.

No. I miss her terribly. 

We enjoy each other's company. We finish each other's sentences. We text and like each other's posts on FB and Instagram even when we're sitting in the same room!

For nearly two years, she texted me good morning and good night with only a missed text if she had no cell coverage like at Cranberry Lake. After that, the cycle was broken. She now only texts on occasion. Not nearly as regularly and I was OK with that too.

While she was in Colorado, we PM'd each other much more frequently. Nearly every day, actually. She shared this new life she was living with me. She PM'd me when she got to ride a new horse. When she learned to drive a horse-drawn wagon. When she got tips. That she got food poisoning in Denver and had to keep pulling off the rode to throw up on her three-hour drive back to the ranch. That she was lonely. That she loved Steamboat Springs. And asked if she took this job again after she graduated from school, a full time job where she was paid well and they provided her housing, would that count as having a job upon graduating? "Hell yeah!" I wrote her!

And that's when it struck me.

For the first time in my life, someone left me and it was OK. I wasn't abandoned. She did not abandon me. She was still there for me. And (how many parents can say this?) I know she relied on me being there for her too. She sought me out. Without obligations, she came to me. She wanted me. On that long drive while she was sick to her stomach, she wanted her mommy.

When I had my kids, I felt that. That feeling of being whole, feeling wanted, feeling needed and vice-versa. As they grew up, I wondered how much they really liked me, you know, verses needed their mommy. But, I never really wondered because it was evident in the fact that both kids would plop themselves down on my bed when they got home from school and tell me about their day. It was obvious when Macallan would hang out with her boyfriend on the couch in the living while we all watched TV. It was apparent when my son and his friends would keep me company in the kitchen, sitting on the floor, in my way, as I made them snacks, made dinner or some dessert. "Can I help you with anything, Mrs. Durkin?" one of Markham's friends is known to ask just about every time he comes over. But you still wonder when the bottom will fall out and they go months without seeing you or calling.

I think about how little time I spent with my parents growing up. And how much they must have worried when I went off to college. And they should have worried. God knows I did plenty to make them scared for me...I have no idea how I survived the '80's!

And here I am. With a high school senior and senior in college to show for it.

The Big Aha!
And this summer, when Macallan was 3,000 miles away, I realized something significant. I felt something I had never felt before. Even though she was gone, she never truly left me.

Sounds so simple right? But coming from a place of abandonment, I have never felt that before. Because, unlike with Peter, for most of our life together, I felt like whenever he would go fishing or hunting, he was going because he didn't want to be with me. I thought he did it to get away from me. But I've slowly realized, that's not the case. For Peter, fishing is a very important outlet, something he had to do, like with me and writing. If he didn't do it, he would explode. I didn't get that until recently. I didn't know.

Can you imagine, I'm 50+ years old, Peter and I will celebrate our 30th Wedding Anniversary next month, and it's only starting to sinking in? Maybe one day, on our 50th Wedding Anniversary, maybe then, I'll believe he won't leave me, but for now, the verdict is still out...

But with Macallan this summer, it was clear. It was like a loud resounding bell. She may be away, which is something I think I better get used to, but she loves me and will always love me. I'm her mom, after all and I'd like to think I've earned that. But I also can't tell you how profoundly I felt that love when I realized how much I meant to her.

I believe abandonment issues are the core of my being. A personality trait for me. A quirky accent. A swagger. A signature smirk that makes me, me.

But this summer, with Macallan's help, this abandoned daughter came full circle. With the unwavering conviction of my own daughter's love, I came that much closer to ridding myself of this burden, this abandonment albatross.

I truly never thought I'd be saying this, but I really am so glad she left. It certainly was a good, good-bye.

Black and White and read all over

First Cousins

As a journalist, I try not to express an opinion when I don't know all of the facts. But as a journalist, I am more and more appalled at the bullshit that bombards us to fill news shows, to get ratings, to sell ad space. And that makes me scared. Because I am the aunt of a dark-skinned teenager. And when news like that of the last few days reaches me, I have to say something.

I'm sickened by the fact that none of our lives matter when it comes to news coverage: dead dogs, sobbing sons, aggrieved grandparents. It doesn't seem to matter. There doesn't seem to be any privacy, compassion...or for that matter, actual news.

Speculation that falsely names shooters, out-and-out lies to benefit candidates, hashing and rehashing non-stories about emails diverting attention from actual issues.
Please stop.
Stop writing them. Stop publishing them. Stop reading them.
Stop. It has to stop.

The headlines sensationalize actual occurrences to play to their perceived lowest common denominator. Why did I click on an article about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie? Why do I have to see insipid pics of media grubbing K-clan in "respectable" news feeds? (You can do better, #NPR!) And with the latest shootings of civilians and police officers, I have to ask why?

Why is this country still so deeply rooted in racism? I know you all know we spent time in Africa. Sorry. But I gotta go there. We saw a racism that I had never experienced before. I knew white women who wanted blacks obliterated from the planet. It was shocking.

But it's not as if I've never seen prejudice. As a female from the Philippines, I can vividly replay and still dredge up feelings from racist, sexist words and actions I've experienced in my life.

My family moved to the United States in 1966. We were called Japs, Chinks, associated with Vietnam and Korea. Most of the people who hurled profanity had no idea where the Philippines were or that Filipinos fought alongside the US in WWII.

There were times where I felt physically threatened, but not because I was someone from Asian descent, but because I was female. A female tourist in Turkey. I had been awoken from a deep sleep as our boat was ready to disembark. I wore a black sleeveless dress to sleep knowing we'd have to get up at some point to leave the ship. Under my dress, I wore bicycle shorts that came to my knees and men, offended by my clothing tried to corral me into a corner, tried to separate me from Peter. I believe they would have beaten me had ship attendants not come to intervene.

Our son had experienced reverse racism in Botswana. A drunk black man harassed him to hand over money. Our son was only 4-years-old. He didn't have any so the man picked him up, shook him and was strangling him when other children tried to get the man to stop. Finally an adult pulled our son free.

I don't know what my nephew has experienced. We don't talk about it. But the news of a young man walking through a neighborhood being shot, makes me stop and think. The many, too many other incidents where young men and women are killed because someone was afraid and overreacted. The man just the other day who had a license to carry his gun but was killed nonetheless. I have to think, what is going on? Why these senseless killings?

Both Snowboard, play video games, are really
into cars, and share countless similarities
because they are first cousins. But out in the
world will they be treated the same?

And the answer is the media. The news markets create fear, hatred, misunderstanding and are responsible for the quick, lethal, defensive actions that cause these unjust killings.
Sure, I agree that there needs to be more screenings of police officers, training, better this, more effective that. There needs to be more diversity on TV, in movies and books so that the bad guys aren't always those of color. There needs to be more empathy, understanding, exposure...yes, yes, yes.

And as a journalist, I say, let it start with the news. Stop glorifying guns. Stop victimizing whites. Stop demonizing blacks. I say, it's all on you, media outlets, it's all you.

As the aunt of a young man of color, I need to do what I can to stop the insecurity that plagues our nation and makes us hate, fear, kill. I need to do it before those headlines become something more than something I read.

I never want to be on the other end of the bi-line. Because while I don't know all of the facts in those other cases, when it comes to my nephew, there will never be a reason for anyone to use deadly force. Never.

What I Learned From Hating My Father

Just before he left for his residency
in New Jersey circa 1966.

I hated my father. Not all of my life, I have to say, I was a bit of a daddy’s girl for a while there. Trying to please him, I often participated in his heavy-handed terms of engagement. Driving to Florida from New Jersey with the entire family in the car, he would have us do math problems. “If the odometer read 25,985 when we left the house and now it reads, 30, 012, how many miles did we travel?” My older brother, Ron would just roll his eyes. Our younger sister, Carolina was too young, she would shrug and continue playing with her doll. Our little brother, Rem Jr, was only a toddler. Besides he could barely hear what was going on since he sat in the way way back. But I would eagerly do the calculations. Pen and paper at the ready, and when I was done, I would shout out the answer. Ron would only participate after I did by correcting me or saying something mean like, “Took you long enough” if I got it right.

From as long as I could remember, my brother and father were at odds. As an adult, I attributed their friction to our abandonment as young children. Our parents had left the three oldest of us in the Philippines while they set up our new home in the United States. Ron was four-years-old, I was three and Carolina was only one. After we were reunited, my brother would continue to mistrusted our father. Because he and I were only 11 months apart, we were always very close. After the year seperation, he acted as my protector. He and I were allies. Our sister was so young, she was watched over and cared for, she was an infant, after all. The youngest of us would be born in the US. He was so much younger, in many ways, he was raised as an only child. But Ron and I, we had to bond. He always had my back. 

One of my favorite pictures of my brother and me.
While he wasn't always nice to me, I thought the
world of him (and I always will.)

So of course, when we came to the US, he still wanted to protect me, but me being the middle child and the oldest daughter, I wanted to make sure our parents never left us again. I took on the role of placating them no matter what. That meant my means-to-an-end was very different from that of my brother’s. As a result, instead of an outward closeness, he showed his love through dominance. As little kids, in his eyes, I had sided with the enemy, our dad. 

That’s the psycho-babble I’ve used to come to terms with our family dynamic. As children, Ron felt betrayed that I would favor our dad. As we got older, the power struggle between father and son worsened. 

Our father was an excellent provider. A little too good. We were spoiled rotten and acted that way toward him (and our mom). Our father was a doctor and worked his way up through the ranks to finally become head of the laboratory. He had a definite “God” complex. And why not? On top of and because of being an MD, he made far more than anyone else I knew. Yet, he rarely spent his earnings on himself. He bought a large house with an in-ground pool and a pool table so that we could entertain our extended family and friends. 

When my brother was still in High School, our dad bought him a brand new Trans Am for no apparent reason. I was such a brat that when I was old enough to drive, I actually complained about inheriting our dad’s Limited Edition Mercury Marquis. My boyfriend at the time reminded me that there were plenty of kids who had to buy their own cars. My dad said "This way if you hit something, I know you’ll survive.“ Hrumph! I folded my arms across my chest and stormed out of the room.

At some point, our father bought a van and later an RV in the hopes we would all take trips together. But as happens even in families who enjoy each other’s company, unlike mine, the kids grow up and don’t want to do anything with their parents, much less travel in a Suped-Up van with shag carpeting and bucket seats. 

Ron spent his life not giving our father his due. In college, he went from pre-med to business. According to Ron, being a doctor was not his dream, but our dad’s dream for him. I personally thought he would have made a great doctor, but no, he claims that’s not something he ever wanted. 

He graduated from business school and tried to find ways to make the money our father seemed to make so easily. It was tough to do. But Ron did find a job with a large brokerage firm. He handled the accounts of several large portfolio clients. A group of brothers had an inheritance that he managed. He literally would go and hand them their “allowance”. The relationship with those men became friendships; one invited my brother and his wife to Vermont to stay at his Inn, the other would call with every little problem associated with his small lawn mower repair business. I thought it was a good gig. 

At the same time, our father was extending his generosity, something he did often, where it wasn’t wanted. He had petitioned for his youngest brother and his family to come to the USA. As had been the case with our mother’s family, they were staying with us for the time being. Thinking he’d want to retire to be a businessman, our father bought a 7-11 for his brother to manage. It didn’t take long for our uncle to realize this isn’t for him. He and his family relocated to California, leaving our father with no one to run the store. Ron stepped in. “I’m doing this shit job to protect our future.” He said to me once after he complained about how much he hated managing minimum wage workers, the stream of drunks and drug addicts particularly in the late and early parts of the day, the thievery, and then there was our dad. He’d bring his friends in acting like a big shot. “Go, take what you want. It’s on the house.” He would say. My brother would grumble that it wasn’t free, but my dad’s generosity overrode Ron’s authority time and again. 

For nearly a year, Ron was struggling with a particular employee. This guy Ron thought of as a friend, turned out to be dealing drugs from the store. My brother fired him as soon as he found out. The guy was indignant. He would show up and make trouble. After a few altercations where police had to get involved, the guy resorted to threats. “I know where your son goes to pre-school.” A note said. And a message on their home answering machine said, “I know where you live.” It was scary. It got scarier. That’s when Ron bought a gun for protection. “You should thank me.” He said. I did. I also said for him to quit. For my dad to get someone else. For my dad to sell the fucking store. 

First day as a dad and he had no idea what
to do. The smile on his face said it all. 

My brother said, no. In some ways it was good, he reassured me, because he could spend more time with his family. Get home at a reasonable hour to play with his then 3-year-old son. Have dinner with them, bragging that his high school sweetheart of a wife was an excellent cook. And he was able to play golf, go skiing and spend time with their friends. He was always a homebody, feeling happier in the town we grew up than working in Manhattan.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to get out of Poughkeepsie. My husband, Peter and I were living in NYC, and I was working my dream job as Associate Editor at Scholastic. I was also 7 months pregnant with our first child. Peter and Ron were not just brother-in-laws, they were good friends. A few weeks prior, Peter had gone snowboarding with Ron and they talked about being dads. The last time I saw him with Anne, Ron had encouraged her to give me some of her pregnancy clothes. Unlike when we were growing up, we now had a very good relationship. As adults we wound up vacationing together, seeing each other on weekends and sharing a lot of our lives together. He still tried to take care of me. He still had my back. 

Then, on December 18, 1994, all that would change. As we learned the course of events, rage welled up inside me. In the early morning hours, Ron had let all of his employees go home. For a short window, he was alone. Our father was first alerted by the fire department that the store was on fire. As our dad, mom and Anne rushed over, they wondered where was Ron? They insisted he must be inside, so the fire department went back in. 

Their biggest fear was realized. The thief or thieves had used Ron's gun to kill him and then set the shop ablaze. There was money missing from the vault. The footage from the security cameras were worthless. Eventually, the 7-11 would revoked the franchise. Our parents lost their oldest son AND the reason he was working there in the first place. 

I found it difficult to be in the same room as my father. I blamed him, in my mind, in my heart and to his fucking face, I blamed him for the death of my brother. 

And he blamed himself, in his mind, in his heart until the day he died. It would be five years after Ron’s murder and still no resolution. Our father was on life support, in a coma, and I continued to hate him. 

While my sister and I said our final good byes, I looked at him and raged. “We only wanted to love you!” I shouted at him.  “Why didn’t you let us love you?” In my mind, my brother wouldn't have agreed to manage the 7-11 if our father had shown him some love. In my state of mind, I believed my brother would still be alive if my father only showed him the approval that Ron so desperately wanted.

On the verge of another Father’s Day, here’s what I learned from hating my dad:

1.) Hating him didn’t make me stronger, hating him made me weaker. By hating him, I thought I was standing up for my brother, but in reality, I was just keeping love away, making sure I couldn’t get hurt again.

2.) He didn’t hate me or my siblings. He loved us so much that he worked hard, made money, and worried constantly about supporting us at the expense of being absent or being distract and irritable when he was home.
3.) He loved us more than he loved himself, which he proved over and again when he earned money to buy us things he thought we needed; when he surrounded us in a home that was welcoming, drawing loved ones around us.
4.) Hating him, didn’t bring my brother back, what it did was remind me of my vulnerability, made me missing Ron that much more.
5.) Something I wouldn’t know until I had kids of my own, nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing is more devastating than losing your child. And I’m so sorry I didn’t understand that at the time. Instead of rejecting my father, I should have been there for him. My brother, his oldest son, killed largely due to a decision he made. How much more heart wrenching could his life be?

I only wish all of the grandkids could
have experienced his love. 

6.) Even though he wasn't the father I wanted, he made a really good grandfather. He was able to show his love to his grandkids, his way of directing his love toward us.

7.) After finally accepting that he loved me, I am reassured daily that he still takes care of me, even from beyond.

 8.) And because I know he is near, I know there is someone watching over us, caring for us and loving us. With that faith, I can be strong, take risks, give fully and live with abandon.
9.) The greatest, most important thing I’ve learned after hating my dad, is how much I love and miss him. That’s a gift in and of itself, and one only I can give myself.
10.) If I could tell anyone who would listen, 
I would say, don’t live in the hate, in the anger, in the resentment, or the regret. Live in the laughter, understanding, empathy and the love.

11.) And after hating my dad, I can fully understand how really hard it is to be a good one. I learned the hard way what truly makes a great parent.

12.) And with that said, I can appreciate how great a dad my husband is. I can't imagine our kids ever having cause to hate him.

Our son need never try to
measure up to expectations.

We make choices: to emigrate to the United States, to leave children behind, to work long hours, to buy a 7-11, to buy a 7-11 for a brother who has not asked for it, to guilt a son into running it…we all make choices. We hope they are the right ones. Our father did not buy that 7-11 in the hopes my brother would be killed. It happened. It could have just as logically happened in the Philippines. 

Choices. We make them all day, every day. After years of hating my dad, me, I'm choosing a different sentiment. On this Father’s Day, I choose to think of him with love and understanding. I could choose to hate him all of my life, but 15 years after his death, I choose love. 

Maverick, Writing, Fear and the Undeniability of Beautiful Days

It’s a beautiful day. I know because I’ve gotten up out of my upholstered chair, out from behind my laptop, and actually stood underneath the front porch of my house. I didn’t go out to enjoy the day, however. No, I’m too busy writing my memoir to spend time outdoors.

I went out to coax our English Setter, Maverick out. For some reason, he fears crossing the threshold of our front door, but he needs to go outside to “do his business”. Unless I drag him out there, he won’t go on his own. Well, no, that’s not true. If I go outside, he’ll follow me, but once I step back inside, in he comes right beside me. He’s too fast for me, ugh!

But I digress. It’s a beautiful day and I know, because I went outside today. I’m not so unlike Maverick. I too have to be coaxed outdoors. Not sure why, it’s lovely out there. Today, in particular, the sky is blue with billowy clouds and the sun is out for all of us to see. Even the air temperature is lovely. I was glad to be able to experience the day, all-be-it briefly.

I say this because I worked on my book all day. Well, most of the day. I have been trying to limit my FB time and the time I spend on emails. I need to be more diligent, but I’m making progress. I didn’t do the laundry, sweep the hall, decide suddenly that I needed to sort my sock drawer.

My concentration paid off. I came up with a rough table of contents. If Peter were to look at it at this stage, he’d say, “Looks the same.” But it’s not. What people (substitute Peter for people) don’t realize, I think, is that books, “even” memoirs, are crafted. It’s not just putting to paper a list of events that occurred. While there is a lot to write, not every detail needs to be included. I’m actually tempted to write “essence” pieces where a stand-alone story will represent an editorial commentary. But I think that wouldn’t suffice. I have a lot to say. To tell one story to encapsulate a broad insight would be cheap and easy. I am not that.

I think readers (again, substitute Peter) think a chronological way of presenting a story is the most effective. I think it depends on what message you’d like to give. If the impact of the book is not at the end of the story, maybe the story shouldn’t be told that way. I think I need to jump around and even put in flashbacks because some pretty powerful realizations come well after the initial action takes place.

Like, it would take me until I was 32 year old before our father very casually would say, “But we didn’t mean to leave you there for a year.” My older brother, younger sister and I literally wheeled around to glare at him. This was the first time he had ever responded to me blaming my shortcoming to my life-long abandonment syndrome. On this day, he explained, “After all these years, you should get over it already. We only planned to leave you in the Philippines for two weeks. Your Lolo Ador wouldn’t bring you to us in the States. We called. Your mom cried. Finally, she said she was coming for you. That’s the only reason your Lolo agreed.” That’s a pretty significant piece of information our parents never shared with us. For me to have known that earlier in life, would surely have saved me several friendships, boyfriends, and some failing grades. By this time, I had been married nearly ten years and this information would have made all the difference in our relationship, not to mention the hundreds of thousands of dollars in psychotherapy. It serves quite an impact as a flashback in the book.

But what to leave in, elaborate on and what to leave out, now, that’s tricky? How much do you slant your story to prove your point? And if you leave out too much, will that border on falsehood? I grapple with this as well.

But my biggest problem, I have to say, is the message. Our family’s story can be told several ways and with very different outcomes. I keep a journal of just the kinds of meanings I’d like the readers to walk away with. You’ve read the book, finished the last line, closed the book and now what? What ‘aha’ moment did you have? What feeling stirred within you? What question about yourself will you now explore?

Every other day, I have a new perspective. I discuss these ideas with Peter. He nods. He thinks I’m saying the same thing over and again. I think I spent the day and have a nuance that’s brand new. He doesn’t see it.

I feel this need to have him understand what I’m trying to say and concur that it’s a good message, a new theme, a genuine outcome knowing the series of events I’m sharing with my readers.

I vacillate between making the story about me, after all it is my memoir, and about our family’s experience. I had asked my friend Caitlyn, a famous and well-respected book editor what she thought of a He said/She said type of book. Trite and hokey, is what I recall her saying. Then, I thought, I’d interview each one of us and from the interviews, using each person’s own words, I’d tell an excerpt of our life through the eyes of my family members. Another day I thought, I would start it as a young girl in the Philippines. Or, I planned, I’d have it read like we were telling stores over drinks in a bar. Recently, I started to write that each chapter would start with an excerpt from Peter’s letters to me while he was in the Peace Corps.

But today, today, I decided to write a storyline that formed organically. And because it took it’s own voice, flowed, and easily went down on “paper” I will go with it. In actuality, I’ve already written the stories. The book is bound and ready sitting right next to me at this very moment. It is written. It’s how I want it to be published, that needs work.

I realized today that it’s been here all along. Kind of like the happiness I feel when I think of where our life had been, how it progressed, and where we are now. Like Maverick, I’m a little wary crossing that threshold. I’m not sure what I’m afraid of or why I’m afraid. But with a little coaxing, I’ll step out into the sunshine. Yesterday, it took me a text to Peter at work. “Tell me you love me and everything will be OK.” He called me right away, “What’s up?” And all was better. Yesterday, Macallan texted me while she was out in Colorado. “I think I got food poisoning. I’m driving back to the ranch from Denver and I’ve had to pull over to throw up and my head hurts and I want my mommado.” Then, nothing. I felt like she was fine, just didn’t have cell service, but I couldn’t be sure until I’d hear from her. The next day she called. Relief washed over me. All was good in the world. And then, just now, my son texted me to say he’d lost his wallet. No sooner had he told me, when a stranger rang our doorbell and presented me my son’s lost billfold. “Thank you!” I said after the man told me he’d found it on the ground at a garage sale. He looked inside for an address and used GPS to find our home. He brought it right over before we could cancel the card. What a nice person! As suddenly as he appeared, he disappeared, before I could thank him properly and give him a reward.

What a day, I can say as I stand in the front door of my life looking out. What a beautiful day!