My Mother Wants Shorter Posts

So the other day I was on the phone with my mother, and I asked her if she'd read my blog lately. She said, "Yes, I've read them. They're getting a little long, aren't they? Can't you write shorter ones?"

Well, since I'm always the dutiful son, I will soon write some shorter posts. But not just yet. How about one more long one. But I'll be nice to my mother--I'll make it one of great interest to her. It'll be about her husband (otherwise known as my father).

A few years ago, for my father's birthday, my mother asked all of her kids to write something about their Dad, which she would compile as a lovely gift. Little did my mother know that she was prepping me for a future Harvard assignment.

Two weeks ago in my Moral Development class we were asked to write about a moral mentor. I took some of the ideas and structure from the birthday writing, and spun it into a whole paper. Thanks Mom. I'll paste it below:


My Father as Moral Mentor

I learned about morality at the International House of Pancakes. I was seventeen years old, and my father and I were driving back to Chicago after a college visit to Marquette. On our way home we stopped for dinner at an IHOP that was just off the highway. We both ordered a big meal, and then sat chatting in our booth. A few minutes later the waitress came with all our food and drinks on one tray, but as she approached she tripped and sent the tray flying . . . right into my father. He tried to move out of the way, but a tidal wave of milk, sauce, grease, meat, and soup crashed into him. The waitress, visibly upset, apologized profusely and cleaned up as best she could, then scurried away in shame. Five minutes later she came back to our table with a second waitress who apologized for her, because our waitress was too upset to speak.

I would have understood if my father had been agitated. It had been a long day; we had just sat in traffic and faced miles more of it before we would be home. My father sat doused in food and drink that would be on him until he took a shower later that evening. And the IHOP décor can put anyone in a bad mood. But without hesitation, my father looked directly at the tearful waitress and told her to think no more of the incident. Accidents happen, we’re all human and we all make mistakes. It’s just food and stains wash out, and it could have happened to anyone. Watching my father as he spoke, I could tell he wasn’t just “saying” the right thing. He truly meant it. He harbored no anger, and he didn’t want the waitress to continue to feel so bad.

I’ve thought of this incident when the class discussed the issue of shame. The waitress appeared to be shameful instead of just regretful, since her reaction was so intense. If she had been merely regretful, she would have apologized, chalked it up to bad luck, and moved on with her day. But her accident seemed to access some deeper insecurity, which led to her feeling of deep shame. But my father’s response encouraged her to trade her shame for regret. When he said “accidents happen” or that “it could have happened to anyone,” he made the spilling of food a common occurance, not something that defines a self. My father knew how painful shame is, and he helped me see the obligation we all have to minimize the shame others may feel.

I also thought of this IHOP incident when the class talked about the importance of modeling morality. Professor Weisbourd spoke of how small, daily examples of moral behavior are much more effective than grandiose edicts of what’s right and what’s wrong. I cannot recall a single time that my father ever instructed me on moral behavior. But I don’t think he had to, because his moral behavior at the IHOP speaks volumes. And maybe it was better that he never told me how I was supposed to conduct myself. If he had spent my childhood talking about the importance of kindness, then forgiving the waitress would have seemed like he was trying to live up to his words. But because my father never spoke of it, when I saw him forgive the waitress, it seemed like it emerged from the core of his being, as if it was a part of his DNA. Therefore it was even more powerful, because I knew this is how he was. And because I was in the process of idealizing him, it was how I wanted to be too.

Professor Weissbourd also emphasizes the importance of appreciation, and my father helped me develop this moral capacity as well. For example, I remember one Memorial Day when I was very young, perhaps in third or fourth grade. Our suburban town was holding a fair, a parade, and other activities at one of our parks, including a cadre of local soldiers who fired rifles and cannons into the air to honor those who serve our country. During the gunfire, I remember my brother and I delighting in the booming noises we felt in our chests, and we started to run in and out of the gun smoke. But then I looked up, and I saw my father with his head down, standing silent, with his baseball hat over his heart. My father had emigrated from war-torn Yugoslavia and Germany when he was in his teens, settling in Chicago and making a life for himself that included a college degree, a successful career, and a family. As I saw him standing with his head down, I knew immediately that he was in deep appreciation of the U.S. and the chance it had given him. I often struggle with the concept of patriotism, wondering what part it plays in the narrow mindedness and war-mongering that sometimes afflicts this county. But maybe patriotism wasn’t the issue on that Memorial Day. That image of my father standing with his hat in his hand still resonates with me years later, because it helped me realize the value of deep, genuine appreciation.

I could write pages about my father as my model of morality, about how he refused to eat at a restaurant that wouldn’t serve his African-American teammate, how he put no pressure on either of his sons to continue playing sports when we lost interest, and how I truly felt free to attend any college I wanted. But I will end this essay on the soccer field. When I was young, from first grade through eighth grade, my father was the coach of our local soccer team. And he always made sure Mark Christensen played at least half of each game, even though Mark was the worst player on the team. Mark was slow, uncoordinated, and lacked fundamentals. He also suffered from severe learning disabilities and had trouble tracking the flow of the game. But my father always put him in, even if the score was close. I don’t recall any player ever getting upset—it just seemed like something that was supposed to happen. This was a good example of being committed to other people, in this case the people on your soccer team. The team would have had a better chance to win if Mark wasn’t on the field, but my father prioritized our commitments to each other over the happiness or self-esteem that comes from winning a game. A few years later, when I was in high school, I had a class with Mark. I chose to sit by him, not because I felt like he needed the charity, or that I was doing some honorable thing. I sat by him because once again he was an inextricable part of the community of the class, and he was a distinct individual that I wanted to know better. I realize now that this approach towards Mark was the same as my father’s. My moral capacity had been well developed by high school, thanks to the moral mentoring I had received. And I can only hope that my father’s influence is with me to an even greater degree as an adult.