Postcard to My Son—Behind the Story

One of the surprises that awaited me as a new parent many years ago was just how much of a head game this job can be.  There are a thousand choices that we make—some clear cut and others much less so—that influence who our children become.  Additionally, the child as a proxy for yourself is more frustrating and disturbing than I would have guessed, but also much more rewarding.

A short while ago I proposed to my brother a human dichotomy, that people can be divided into two categories based on their memories.  In the first group are those for whom the positive always rises to the surface and the failures, missteps, and injuries are forgotten.  The second is just the reverse, those who reflect on their lives and most vividly see the negative, while the positive fade from memory.

Our narrator in today’s piece falls into the second category.

When I talked to some of the early readers about this piece, we didn’t always take away the same messages.  I am fine with this.  But since you are reading this, one of my themes was self-forgiveness.  A number of the incidents the narrator mentions are most likely not things his son remembers, even subconsciously.  In part, the narrator carries around a weight and burden that exists only for him.  Do we all carry around some of these thoughts?  Can we work on letting them go?  Is it sometimes easier to forgive others than it is to forgive ourselves?

Back to my original premise.  If correct, both outlooks are equally unhealthy.  On the one hand, you have an insufferable person who ignores their shortcomings and on the other you have someone who likely is fairly miserable.  (I am reminded of Billy Joel’s line in “Vienna” where he tells a type-A young person, “Though you can see when you’re wrong/You know you can’t always see when you’re right.”)

Fortunately, my brother wisely proposed an alternative.  We don’t remember more of one than the other; what sticks out in our memories are the extremes, the best of time and the worst of times.  As a math teacher, I think of them as the tails of the bell curve that stick out, while the other 95.45% of memories bunched up in the middle tend to fade into the background.

A last thought.  That middle section isn’t really the vanilla in life, sometimes it’s the cream and is worth remembering.  As some very wise people once said to me, to help these memories stay alive, take the photo and buy the t-shirt.  It’s good advice.