Monthly Archives: June 2020

A Graduation

Our grandson, David, one of five grandchildren we are blessed to have—the only boy among four girls, his two sisters and two cousins—has graduated high school.  Because of the pandemic currently assailing the world, he, like so many others, was deprived of the formal commencement he would otherwise have enjoyed.

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And so—undeterred by the Covid-constraints, but mindful of the necessary precautions—fifteen of us gathered recently for a by-invitation-only, less-formal ceremony to honour his achievement.  Three generations of family attended—four grandparents, two parents, two pairs of aunts and uncles, and his sisters and cousins.

Oh, and one rambunctious dog!

For Nana and me, he is the second of our grandchildren to graduate, his older cousin having done so last year.  But for his paternal grandparents, he is the first.  It was a joyous celebration, properly socially-distanced, held outdoors on the grounds of their expansive home on a glorious, sunlit afternoon.  The dress was summer-casual, no caps and gowns to be seen, but the sense of occasion was as high as it would have been in the most somber, traditional commencement exercise.

Our families have always prized education and lifelong learning, a value that has, to our immense satisfaction, been assimilated by the youngest among us.

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Almost everyone took the opportunity to address the graduate, commending him for his achievement.  But it was I who was granted the honour of delivering the more formal remarks, a task I gladly embraced.  Given the relaxed setting, I wanted to find a suitable mix of lightness and seriousness, of witticism and import, something that might be enjoyed at the time and remembered long after.

And of course, I did not want to ramble on too long, knowing that once the dog lost interest, so, too, might the rest of my audience.

 I began by welcoming the graduate to an exclusive club—

If we trace a straight line to you from Granddad and Grandma, from Nana and me, through your parents, you are the seventh member to join this exclusive club of high school graduates.

There are other high school grads here today, of course, but none of them runs down that same line of succession as you.  There are no secret handshakes for this club, no secret passwords, no class ring; but there is one mandatory ritual to which you must adhere, now that you are a member—namely, whenever one of the older members wants a hug, you must stand and deliver.

A few chuckles greeted this opening, along with a smile and nod from our grandson.  Hugs have always been popular in our extended family.

After describing and commending him for his scholastic achievements, graduating with high honours, I spoke about his parents—

I want to mention two people who have reason to be prouder than any of us today—your Dad and your Mum.  You’re drawing from a pretty amazing genetic pool, as I’m sure you know, and you are blessed to have them as parents.  

If I had a magic wand, and if I could wave it over all the children in the world, my wish would be that every one of them could have a father like your Dad and a mother like your Mum.

I dared not look at either of them at this point, for fear of choking up myself, and I managed to continue—

Long before Granddad, Grandma, Nana, and I were grandparents, we were parents.  And so, we have a pretty good understanding of how your Dad and Mum feel about you because we have had the same feelings for our own children.  For as long as your parents live, you will be their pride and joy because, just as you are blessed, so, too, are you a blessing to them—and to all of us in your extended family.

I went on to spend a few moments talking about that extended family, because I believe it is important for this young man to appreciate his heritage—

David, you bear a very proud name—Whittington.  And you carry in equal measure the names of three other proud families—Wigglesworth, Eaton, Burt.  You are the sole, male iteration of these four families going forward.  For the rest of your life, you will carry all of us within you.

Another reason for including that was to recognize the contributions made by all four families to the person he has become.  His four grandparents do not delude ourselves into believing we deserve the credit; that goes rightly to his parents and to the young man himself.  But the nurturing of extended family does count for something, after all.

I concluded my remarks by telling the graduate what we, his family members, expect of him as he steps into the next phase of his life—

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With that in mind, I have two thoughts to leave you with, and I hope I can speak for all four families.  First, we expect you—we expect you—to conduct yourself always with honour—honouring our families, honouring your parents and your sisters, and honouring yourself. 

To paraphrase the poet, Gibran, we do not seek to make you like us, for life goes not backward, nor tarries with yesterday. But if past is prologue, we are confident you will forever justify our faith in you.

Fusce honorem omnium!  Choose honour above all!

By this time, my eyes were more than moist and my throat was closing up with emotion, but I managed to choke out my final words—

Second, perhaps most importantly, we want you to know this, to remember this—wherever you go, whatever paths you choose to follow, whatever you do with your life, if ever there comes a time when you need help or support:  All of us, w’ve got your back. We’ve got your back!

We love you, David!  Congratulations!

A ripple of applause and an echoing chorus of congratulations washed over us as we touched elbows—no hug, unfortunately, during this pandemic period.  The noise woke the dog—who, apparently, had been less-than-inspired by my address—and his rollicking antics quickly dissolved the formality of the moment into the shambolic ambiance that is more typical of our family gatherings.

And he got all the hugs!

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It has been almost sixty years since my own high school graduation, and I confess I have no memory of the commencement ceremony I must have attended.  But I harbour the hope that our grandson will long remember his, not for my speech, but for the love his family has for him, the love that brought us all together to honour him.

Carpe diem!

Another Father’s Day

Two years ago, I published this post to mark the onset of another Father’s Day.  The sentiments expressed are even more true today, so I re-post it, slightly adapted, in hope that all of us who are fathers will enjoy it.

I came across an arresting picture on the internet recently, one that caused me to give some serious thought to what it takes to be a father.

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At first, I didn’t fully understand the symbolism inherent in the picture.  In fact, my first thought was that the son was systematically dismantling his father in order to complete himself.  Selfish, no?

But after a bit, I came to think the artist’s intent was more likely to show how much fathers give of themselves for their sons, even to the point of depleting their very being.  Selfless, right?

Still, I had difficulty coming to terms with either of those representations of fatherhood.  In the first place, I don’t have a son.  For the past forty-eight years I’ve been father to two wonderful daughters, so the picture didn’t truly portray me.

More importantly, though, I discovered I had a problem with the notion that fathers must become diminished in order that their children might thrive.  It’s true, of course, that any nurturing father will freely give of himself to help his children—so, in that sense, the picture of the fractured father did make some sense.

But it’s been my experience with my daughters that, the more I gave, the more I got in return.  And it wasn’t even an equal exchange!  What came back to me from the girls was infinitely more than I could possibly have given.

Dad, Tara, Megan 2

As they progressed from infancy to girlhood, I used to tell them all the time how much I loved them, and I tried to mirror my words through my behaviours.  But with them, it was the reverse.  The loving attention they lavished on me—their hugs and kisses, their squeals of delight when I’d arrive home—made it unnecessary that they say anything.  They filled my heart every time I held them.

It was after each of them was born that I learned I didn’t have to carve out a chunk from my love for my wife in order to find love for them.  Love builds upon itself, I discovered; it multiplies and is unending.  So, each time I passed along one of those chunks of love, I was not depleted like the father in the picture; rather I was made even more complete.

Through their teenage years and into young womanhood, I came to realize the importance of letting them go bit by bit, even as I continued to hug them close.  And when they would come to me for advice, or even just for a sympathetic ear, our conversations were honest, sincere, and loving.  Even when I pretended to be the sage passing along my accumulated wisdom, I found I learned more from them—about their world, about the challenges and opportunities confronting them, and about the persons they were becoming.  Any chunks of insight I gave were repaid tenfold, and I was not at all diminished.

Tara and Megan 3

As mothers now, their first priority is to their husbands and children.  I don’t see them as often as once I did, but our get-togethers are all the more enjoyable for that.  I’ve tried to let both girls know that, although they long ago stopped being children, I’ve never stopped being a father.  They understand that and still go out of their way to make me feel valued and loved—supplemented even now, not depleted; relevant, not sidelined.

There’s an old saying that we have to give a little to get a little.  Well, when all is said and done, I gave what I could as a father, and I got so much more in return.  With another Father’s Day fast upon us, I give thanks anew for the great privilege I’ve had with such children.

If I had a picture similar to the one of that father and his son, there would be two daughters, complete and whole, and a father—double their size, swollen with the love and honour they’ve lavished on me.

Bursting, in fact.

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The Laggard

Near the end of the first semester of my second year in grade eleven, during which time I was seventeen, discouraged, and not faring particularly well, my parents came home from an interview with my history teacher, in just his second year of teaching at the time.

“He told us you’re no ball of fire,” my mother said.

“He said you’re something of a laggard,” my father said.

A laggard!

There’s no question I was floundering in his class.  But rather than explaining for my parents what I was doing wrong, suggesting how I might do better, or proposing how he might more effectively help me, he resorted to affixing me with a label.

Laggard!

I was angry with that teacher for a long time.  And I was stung by the disappointment in my parents’ eyes.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Seventeen years later, at the age of thirty-four, I was a first-year principal in the same school district.  At a principals’ association meeting during the winter semester, I was with a number of colleagues in the men’s room, washing up after our business meeting.  As we stood at the urinals and wash-basins, one of our number told an off-colour joke, the details of which I forget.  But it involved people of colour, and was not flattering to them.  Several people laughed heartily.

As the laughter abated, and before someone else could tell another joke, one veteran principal—small in stature, fiery by nature—angrily tore a wad of paper towel from the dispenser.

“I’m sorry!” he snapped as he slammed the paper into the wastebasket.  “I make it a practice never to laugh at racist jokes!”

In the ensuing, abashed silence, I stared at myself in the mirror over the sink—glad I had not been one of those who’d laughed, somewhat ashamed I had not spoken up as my colleague had.

Pausing at the door, the man added, “I’m not saying all of you are racist.  But somebody told that joke, and a lot of you laughed!”

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I approached him near the bar a few moments later, introduced myself, and thanked him.

“For what?” he said, looking up at me, his eyes a piercing blue.

“For what you said in the men’s room,” I answered.  “I wish I’d had the courage to say that.”

“Did you laugh at the joke, son?” he asked.

“No.”

“Well, that’s good,” he said.  “Can I buy you a beer?”

We stood off to one side, no one else apparently eager to engage with him just then.  And in his short, sharp manner of speaking, he proceeded to help me learn some valuable lessons.

“It never makes things better when you accuse people of being racists,” he said.  “Never helps!  Doesn’t help to accuse them of being misogynists, either, or xenophobes.  Accusations only lead to denials.”

I nodded and sipped.

“Labels are easy to deny,” he continued.  “Labelling never works!  But you know what’s harder to deny?”

“What?” I asked.

“When you describe people’s behaviour to them.  When you tell them what you’ve seen them doing.  They’ll recognize it.  And telling them what you’ve heard them saying.  They’ll remember their own words.  And maybe, just maybe, they’ll start to realize what they’re doing or saying is inappropriate.”

“Like referencing the laughter in the men’s room,” I said.

“Exactly!”

I waited, hoping for more.

“It’s the same thing I encourage my teachers to do,” he said.  “Don’t label your students! Describe their strengths and needs, describe their accomplishments and shortcomings.  Describe for them the things they need to do in order to succeed.  By doing that, you’ll know better how to help each of them take the next step.  Labelling kids never helps.  Labelling anybody never helps!”

We were called to dinner about then, and went off to our respective tables.  I encountered him many more times over the years, of course, but I never forgot the things he said on that first occasion.  He was the first man I ever knew who didn’t just profess to be anti-racist; he demonstrated his true colours through his actions and words.  And he did it fearlessly.  To use a common phrase, he walked the talk.

I’ve been thinking about him over these past couple of weeks of racial turmoil, here in Canada and especially south of the border, wondering what advice he’d have for me.  As I watch TV and read news accounts online, I’m struck by the ferocity of the back-and-forth arguments and name-calling between those accusing others of racism and those others denying it.

Racist!  Terrorist!  Fascist!  Leftist!  Boogaloo!  Antifa! 

I search, often in vain, for factual descriptions of what is actually happening—what people are doing, how people are behaving—so that I might determine for myself how they could take a next step toward reconciliation.

And I applaud those who propose concrete steps toward that end, most of which will require a good deal of time and hard work to achieve.  To paraphrase Martin Luther King, Jr., the ultimate measure of people is not where they stand in moments of comfort and convenience, but where they stand at times of challenge and controversy.

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My principal colleague was one such person.  He believed that leadership and learning are indispensable to each other.  He believed that good teachers tell; average teachers explain; superior teachers demonstrate; and great teachers inspire.

He certainly inspired me.

Accusations and labelling never work.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

A coda:  At the age of forty-nine, thirty-two years after that history teacher labelled me a laggard, I met him again.  He was retiring from the classroom, and I—by then CEO of the school district for which he now worked—was presiding at a ceremony to honour our retiring employees.  I shook hands with every one of them, most of whom did not know me personally, of course.  But that teacher remembered.

“I guess I was wrong about you,” he had the temerity to say, more sheepish than apologetic.

Being only human, I had to stifle that long-ago, seventeen-year-old boy within me, who wanted to reply, “Thirty-five years and still a classroom teacher, eh?  Who’s the laggard now?”  Vengeful.

Instead, I said, “Thirty-five years as a classroom teacher!  You’ve certainly affected a lot of kids over all that time.”  Serene.

“For better or worse,” he said, smiling at his own wit.

“Indeed!” I said, and moved on.

The Benighted States of America

As a boy and young man, I was fascinated by tales of derring-do and feats of glory by heroes, both real and fictional.  Among the earliest of these were the stories of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table; to this day, I can name my favourites without a fact-check—Sir Kay, Sir Gawain, Sir Bedivere, Sir Tristan, Sir Lancelot, Sir Galahad.

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Arthur and his knights, according to Le Morte d’Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory—one of many writers who wrote of their exploits—swore to uphold a code of chivalry, which included:

– never to assault or murder,

– never to commit treason, and

– to provide succor to those in need.

I was too young, of course, to understand the clashes that arose between Arthur and Sir Lancelot, and later between Arthur and his son, Sir Mordred, which stemmed from their illicit love for the faithless Queen Guinevere.  Those led ultimately to the death of Arthur and the end of his glorious reign, and I mourned their failed quest.

A lasting effect of this Arthurian fascination was a propensity as I grew older to favour the underdog in any conflict, to root for those attempting seemingly-impossible pursuits—the Don Quixotes of the world, engaged in Sisyphean tasks to which they would not surrender.  I was an incurable romantic.

So it was unsurprising, I suppose, that a major focus for me in university would be Russian and American history—to wit, the demise of the Romanov dynasty in 1917, and especially the U.S. Civil War from 1861-1865.  In both cases, I found myself on the side of the lost causes—the Czarist regime and the Confederacy—despite knowing the outcome for both.  And like my younger self, who didn’t understand the Arthurian contradictions until much later, it took a long time for me to realize the root causes and lasting implications of those cataclysmic events.

The Civil War, in particular, captivated me.  I read as many as I could of the chroniclers of the period—Bruce Catton, Allan Nevins, Doris Kearns Goodwin, Shelby Foote, Douglas Southall Freeman, Henry Steele Commager.  I favoured the gallant Confederate commanders—Lee, Jackson, Stuart—seeing them as descendants of the Arthurian knights of old.  I was taken by their tales of heroism, their masterful military maneuverings, and dismayed as the tide turned inexorably against them.

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Even still, the names of the battlefields (hallowed grounds for both sides) strike a chord—Manassas, Shiloh, Antietam, Chancellorsville, and of course, Gettysburg.

As I sit here now, however, I have long since come to view things differently.  The young man I was had absolutely no concept of the evils of slavery, the forced subjugation of an entire race of people; the unfettered privilege of landed, white, male gentry, determined to maintain their autocratic position; the venality of elected politicians (again, all male and white) who put their personal interests and the fate of their political party ahead of their vision of a nation of freedom for all.

That young man, the beneficiary of white privilege, had no idea what being white and privileged meant, either for him, or for those to whom it was denied.

But as I said, I have come to view things differently.  And following the killing of yet another unarmed black person in the poor Benighted States of America, it is impossible not to cry, “Enough!”

In a post on this blog a few years ago, On Being White, I wrote:

White privilege explains power structures inherent in our society that benefit white people disproportionately, while putting people of colour at a disadvantage. 

White nationalists believe white identity should be the organizing principle of Western civilization.

White supremacists believe the white race is inherently superior to other races, and that white people should have control over people of other races.

In another post, Of the People, I wrote (quoting Joseph de Maistre, a nineteenth-century writer and diplomat):

 [Such] false opinions are like false money, struck first of all by guilty men and thereafter circulated by honest people who perpetuate the crime without knowing what they are doing.

And to that I added:

Many of us, alas, have no idea of the origin or veracity of the so-called truths we champion.  We simply echo them, as if truth can be created through the repetition of a lie…

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I realize now that, because that young man I was did not understand the roots from which sprouted those underdog causes he once supported, he accepted at face-value their false opinions.  It was only as I began over time to see them through the eyes of those who were suppressed that I realized their falsity.

Although I decry violence and vandalism, I endorse the legitimate protests of a people who (to excerpt a song from Les Misérables) declare they will not be slaves again.  It has almost always been so, that the downtrodden and oppressed will eventually rise up and seize what they have not been granted, their freedom.

In one of those previous posts, I also wrote:

…[sometimes] we decide not to act, thereby abrogating our democratic opportunity to choose the [society] we prefer.  And when we do that, we leave the right to choose in the hands of others—others whose opinions and beliefs we may not agree with. 

When those others are entrenched in their high positions, they are never eager to surrender their privilege.  But a righteous cause cannot forever be stifled, and many of the American people are deciding in front of our eyes, not to refrain from acting, but to take action to bring about change, despite the decades-long reluctance of those in power to do so.

It will be interesting, indeed, to see what emerges from this latest round of justifiable insurrection against the white bastion of entrenched power and privilege.

History is watching.