Life: It Ain't Easy

"I'm calling your mother, young man! You are in BIG trouble." That was Delores. She ran the little store about five blocks from my house. I was eight years old and I had just been caught shoplifting. I was purchasing something small, but had a 'yen' for a popsicle, too. I thought it would help cover my tracks if I bought something at the same time that I was stealing something. It obviously did not work very well. When I got home, I was summarily punished. But the stealing didn't stop. When I was a few years older, I was visiting a neighborhood friend. We were playing with our baseball cards, trading and just doing what boys did in 1960. When Steve left his room, I pocketed a few of his silver dollars. I thought he had enough that he would not notice if two or three went missing. His mother called my mother (they were friends) and I was taken right back and directed to return the dollars and to apologize. And when I got home, I was summarily punished. Over and over this happened in my life. I stole from anyone I could. I stole from large grocery stores, friends, school and neighbors. I even stole from my own mother's purse (though she never had very much money). To top it all off, I once stole well over $400.00 from my church!! Most people who know me now are gasping with disbelief as they read this. I am certainly not proud of this little bit of personal history and really didn't want to share it. But it keeps coming back to me and I have been trying to discover the source of this complete lack of respect for the property of others. My parents never advocated dishonesty. I never saw them steal. In most ways they were forthright--at least when I was quite young. Just what was it that caused this nice young boy to turn to a life of theft? Was it because we were poor? And had nothing? Maybe. My parents worked; they had jobs that they went to EVERY day. They never stayed home sick and they never got vacation until I was in high school. My father, who was Hispanic, had no education past the eighth grade. When he quit school he went to work to support his mother. She was "old country" Mexican and had even less education than my dad. There was no father in his life, either. He never had the chance to play much; no Boy Scouts, no Little League, no band or choir in school, no art, no fun, really, of any kind. It always stood to reason that he would try to deny me those same activities. He always put me to work--that was all he knew. His job was his whole life and he expected work to be the same for me. But why did I steal? Attention? Maybe. My mother was my only REAL parent. She paid attention to me, taught me, read to me, shared with me, corrected me, etc. She was the one who taught me about baseball; the rules, famous players, how to keep a score-sheet,and so forth. She took me to see the Seattle Rainiers many times. She taught me about girls and honesty and hard work and the importance of school. She made sure that I had clothes (when there was any money) and she always was the one who attended my school conferences. But perhaps she gave up "a little" the day I came home from the sixth grade and told her that I was supposed to have her bring me to the police station.I had been caught stealing again. I can only imagine her feeling of betrayal and her great disappointment, to say nothing of her embarrassment. No charges were brought and everything was worked out with the person whom I had offended. But why? Why would I continue to steal? Although I really do not blame him, I truly think it has to do with having a father who was pretty much absent in my life. The culture of his youth and the culture of my youth were just too many worlds apart. He didn't understand how to relate. He didn't ever have the experience of being a son and seeing how a father does what a father is supposed to do. He never told me he was proud of me, although he often told others. He never initiated any kind of play or recreational time with me. He took me to one baseball game---1969, New York Yankees at Seattle Pilots. I was almost nineteen and we had a pretty good time. But he had no idea who Roger Maris, Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Tony Kubek, or 'Moose' Skowron were. He had no idea of the rules of the game. He didn't know what it meant to be "up at bat" or what an "error" or a "hit" was. He just knew that I liked it and my mom made him take me as a high school graduation present. These all are old memories and they are still very painful. And I am still wondering why I became a thief at the age of eight and didn't stop until I was nearly twenty. But I do know this. My dad did what he could do. It wasn't good. It wasn't what I wanted nor what I needed. He was often a nasty tyrant. Both of my younger sisters and I were always scared of him. But you know----I learned a great deal from him. All positive. I learned about the kind of father I would be. I would play with my kids. I would hug them, tell them they were loved, lovingly discipline them, always stand my ground, and lead them. I would teach them to laugh, to understand that people are more important than things, that hard work is how we get what we want in life, but play and leisure are important, too. I had seen what a world without these things looked like. I wasn't going to continue the unhappiness. I feel pretty good about the outcome of my "once-upon-a-time" determination. Our kids are respectful, hard-working, well-educated, kind, caring and loving. They make many mistakes, but they admit them and learn from them. They give a great deal to life and they get a great deal from life. They both have made a huge difference in the lives of many others. And the best part of all---they love coming home. When we are all together, there is always laughing, teasing and joy all around. So I guess some might say that I hate my dad. But I don't, not really. Like I said, he did what he could do; he did what he knew. He was a good man, just not a good father. And I learned a lot from him. And you know what, I think I miss him.