My father died in 1951. I was six years old. We buried him in the
San Joaquin Valley National Cemetery in February of 2007. Freud said
that no one could be a man until his father had died. Jung said “yes,
but that death could take place symbolically,” but that is another
story.
A year or two
later I told my first lie. To be clear, it was early in 1953. There
was a quart bottle of root beer in the refrigerator. Someone had
pried off the lid, drank a bit, then put the lid back on thinking no
one would notice. There were three suspects. The other two were my
sisters. One was three years older than me and one four years
younger. Linda was barely four so she seemed an unlikely suspect.
This was long before we had twist off soda bottles. Popping the top
off one of those hard metal caps without bending it was not a trivial
task. Putting that top back on was even more difficult. It took a
sharp hit at just the right angle and even then, the bottle had to be
placed on a stable surface so the blow was not dissipated by movement
away from the fulcrum of force.
Doubtfully, I
failed to consider all of these parameters at the time. Yet even at
seven, it was fairly obvious to me that among the suspects Linda was
not a prime choice. I had one other bit of information that may not
have been obvious to everyone in the room. I knew that I had not done
it. To me it seemed likely that the situation left only me and
Sharron as the actual suspects. Yet mom was speaking to all of us as
if Linda was included. As the lecture continued into the third or
forth iteration, mom agreed to not spank us if only one of us would
actually confess to the crime.
With the usual
fatal turn, the lecture would eventually give way to a more
threatening stance; the introduction of a possibility for corporal
punishment. At length, Linda would be lead into the next room. All
attempts toward reconciliation would have been exhausted. As I
watched us working toward this moment I suddenly solved the entire
mystery.
This was because I
recognized a pattern. I realized that this was not an isolated
experience. I had been here before. We were reentering an infinite
loop. To a seven year old it does not really take that many
iterations to make a loop appear infinite, but you get the idea. In
short, this was a repeating drama that was occurring over and over. I
knew end from the beginning. What was going to happen next was that
Linda would be punished first. It would be something of a token
spanking. I could always tell because her crying was not very
sincere. Certainly not the sort of frantic sounds one would expect to
be emitted upon the administration of actual pain. Next I would be
lead into the next room and receive my punishment.
Finally, Sharron
would be taken into the next room. She would struggle mightily so
spanking her was not an easy task. For several eternal minutes I
would hear her pulling away from mom in several directions but she
would be prevented from escape being held prisoner by a single wrist.
The struggle would be accompanied by a continual pleading for mercy.
At length, Sharron would run out of energy and realize her doom was
assured. She could not resist forever.
At this point
destiny took control and fate appeared to be inevitable. But then the
strategy would change. Now came confession and repentance. Sorrow and
remorse became central. The struggle somehow changed from physical to
verbal. In the midst of all the anguish another argument would
eventually emerge. Crying and confession turned at last from total
sorrow.
Eventually a spark
of hope would be introduced. Sharron would remind mom that mercy had
been offered if only confession was made. If only the guilty party
would admit to the error. To me this argument did not seem
convincing. At least not under these circumstances. Yet I could
already hear in my minds eye, or perhaps in my minds ear, Sharron’s
soft weak claim that she had indeed confessed, followed by a now a
pleading voice, “you said you would not spank me if I confessed.”
I already knew to expect an eventual pensive admission, “well, yes.
I did say that.” This would be followed by a litany of remorse
interspersed with repeated admission of guilt, and promises of a
better world. Eventually, each of us had to be true our word. Honesty
was highly revered in our home. The promise of non-punishment in
exchange for confession would take on the cloak of the inevitable.
But this time was
different. This time I recognized the pattern. I realized what was
happening. I was like god. I knew the end from the beginning. I was
not that concerned with the immediate situation. It was the pattern
that bothered me. I could take my licks and life would go on. What
bothered me was that my mother was my hero. She was my god. She was
smarter than me, and much more experienced. My solution to the
problem was very simple. Just reverse the order of punishment. Why
must we work toward a double spanking, one of which was a token, and
finally end with a confession? It seemed to me that everyone in the
room should realize that this simple change would simplify this
painful process and avoid the usual results. Well, maybe Linda didn’t
realize at that moment.
In the absence of
enough courage to suggest my punishment reversal solution, I settled
instead on telling a lie. I confessed to a crime I had not committed.
I said I had done it. Time stood still as I realized the pattern had
been broken. I had no further plan. I did not know what to expect. No
one had ever done this before. I could only wait and observe as I
entered a new phase of life. Looking back I now realize my mother was
left with few reasonable options, and other than this pattern,
whatever it represents, she was typically quite reasonable. It was
like entering another dimension as I waited to see the outcome of my
breaking out of the pattern. I was in a new and unpredictable world.
To my surprise my confession was accepted and life was allowed to
return to normal. The emergency had been resolved. The ugly pattern
was resolved. At least for that day.
Yet, I did not bury
my mother symbolically on that day. It would be another sixteen years
before I would even attempt to do so. In retrospect I have no regrets
about that sixteen years. It was the right thing to do. For sixteen
years I avoided another lie. For sixteen years I tried to be a
perfect son. For sixteen years I tried to be the father my sisters
needed. At seven years old my mother was my god. She was my life
line. That meant that for sixteen years someone had to replace my
god. I tried to become that someone. Thankfully my sisters accepted
my efforts. They made it worthwhile. So this about covers my
existence for the first twenty three years or so. In a way, for all
my years. Next year I will be seventy seven, but in important ways I
am still one eleventh of that. At seven I became a man, at least for
the next sixteen years.
The problem now
seems to be the difficulty in finding another cause; another reason
to be so noble. Only one of my sisters is still alive and she seems
to be doing fine. My life program is one of resolving emergencies by
the recognition of pattern. In the absence of stress I am like an
emergency vehicle between emergencies. Not really that useful. I just
sit and ponder, read and think, but it is hard to get myself going
unless there is some real stress; unless someone needs me the way my
mother and sisters did. If I had been able to figure out how to
interact with my mother to avoid that first lie I may have written a
different program for myself. I might be able to reach out rather
than withdraw. I might be social instead of introverted. I might be a
better person. Instead I am left trying to figure out a few more
subroutines that might make my world a better place to live while I
wait for the next emergency. So I think I will go take a nap now.