Sitting here on a fine Monday morning, feeling quite small in the grand scheme of things, a not-so-freshly mown stem in this vast haystack. Sharing thoughts as best a mere stem can, knowing daylight plans to take a catnap in a matter of hours.
Writing last week about plunging into darkness wasn’t done in anticipation of the coming solar eclipse, wasn’t thinking that far ahead. Now that it’s nearly upon us, thoughts oddly turn to fatherhood.
Strange how something so important, so impactful, can be undertaken with so little preparation, so few requirements. No training, no credentials, no equivalent of the Hippocratic Oath—first, do no harm—that medical professionals swear. All that’s needed is the motivation and ability to act on natural urges, and a willing partner similarly inspired and equipped.
As light is obscured in our nation’s politics, two men and their fathers come to mind. Both men were traumatized as children to one degree or another, both are damaged beyond repair. Both wish to be president; one already was and longs to be again. Each in his own way personifies America’s maimed political culture.
Donald Trump is the son of a ruthless, cruel and greedy man, a man described by his own granddaughter as a “high-functioning sociopath.” That granddaughter, a clinical psychologist, wrote: “Financial worth was the same as self-worth, monetary value was human value. The more Fred Trump had, the better he was. If he gave something to someone else, that person would be worth more and he less.”
Little wonder his son turned out to be ruthless, cruel and greedy. No surprise that, in the words of conservative commentator Jonah Goldberg, the “dream of a capitalist outsider who would run government like a business delivered a man who ran the government like it was in the business of promoting and enriching him.”
Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is the son of a slain American royal, accomplished in life, idealized in death. In his own quest for the White House, RFK Jr. frequently invokes the memory of his late father and the legendary uncle who also died at an assassin’s hand, but he is nothing like them. The wounds sustained in childhood left him deeply scarred. Embittered and paranoid, he presents as a crank, compulsively and almost comically conspiratorial. He trades in dangerous falsehoods.
Though I have sympathy, neither the sins of the one father nor the tragic fate of the other absolves either son of responsibility for their own actions. The thought of either of them anywhere near the Oval Office makes me shudder for my country.
Maybe I have some sympathy because I myself am a father. Anyone who knows me knows that I am not eager to dispense parenting advice or do much questioning of the decisions of other parents. Parenting is hard and it is humbling. As I’ve written before, Peace Corps’ motto used to be “the toughest job you’ll ever love.” I’ve served in the Peace Corps, and it’s not. There’s no tougher job than parenting and no task I’ve ever loved more.
Mine has been a charmed life, guided by treasured role models, enriched by a bounty of dear friends, blessed with amazing professional opportunities and rewarding adventures. But no role I’ve played or position I’ve held has come close to producing the joy I’ve experienced being a husband and father. I am lucky and eternally grateful that my wife chose to make room for me in her life, and I am immensely proud of our son. Not so much because of what he has accomplished so far in life, which is impressive itself, but especially because of the kind of young man he is . . . kind, thoughtful, outgoing, hardworking, caring.
Although I am a mixture of thrilled and relieved that my parenting journey has gone as well as it has, I do have my regrets. For one, I regret beginning so many sentences with “when I was your age.” I’ve come to understand that I’ve never been my son’s age, not really. We blew out the same number of candles at different points in time. The world he grew up in is not the same as the world I grew up in. That makes his journey different than mine. I can’t fully fathom his, as if there’s an object—time, place, circumstance—blocking my view.
Happily, eclipses don’t last forever. Light returns. Son becomes the teacher, father the student. One of the perks of parenthood.
I am so proud of my son, who sounds much like yours. I don't know how he rose above a single mom with a drug addiction, a step-father who was emotionally abusive, and financial difficulties. I think it was 3 men who made a difference. His father, my father and his football coach. The research says that it only takes 1 caring adult to make children feel good about themselves. That probably explains my son and Mary Trump.