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BOOTS ON THE GROUND BY DUSK: MY TRIBUTE TO PAT TILLMAN |
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Chapter 1
A chilly breeze rustles the leaves of an old elm, whose branches hang over me like a canopy. The sound of crackling and sizzling oak logs is all I hear as I sit wrapped in a quilt staring into the fire pit in my front yard. One log splinters and falls onto another. There is a snap and a swish as tiny yellow and red sparks scatter into the darkness, as if to join the flickering stars in the distance. I light my cigarette wondering what I would do if I couldn't smoke, if I couldn't blow out my anger, frustration, and sense of crippling loss into the night. In forty-eight years I have never been a smoker, but now I am smoking to stay sane. Pulling the quilt around my shoulders, I wonder how it can be so cold tonight, when just weeks earlier I sat sweltering in a pink linen dress at my son's memorial service. It was important to me that I not wear black on that day. I wanted to wear something cheerful in celebration of his life and his spirit. However, as I sat in the intense heat listening to the whine of bagpipes, perspiration seeping through the light fabric, I felt vulnerable, exposed, as though people could see the pain of my loss through my sweat-soaked dress. Ashes from my cigarette fall onto the quilt. I toss the butt into the fire and look around at what I can see of my yard from the light of the flames. In the two weeks following my son's death, this yard had been almost constantly full of people. I remember the movement of bodies and drone of voices, but I only recall a few specific faces, and I remember almost nothing of what was said. Now the yard is empty. My family members have returned to their homes to face their own void, and our friends have gone back to lives they neglected in order to support us and to deal with the shock over the death of their friend. I feel alone and frightened, wondering how I am going to live my life without my oldest son. The fog is rolling in, obscuring the stars in the distance. I get up to place another log on the fire and stare into the blaze. My thoughts drift to another time, and I turn to look up at the elm tree behind me. My eye catches a six-inch stub, a remnant from a branch removed long ago, protruding twelve feet from the base of the sturdy trunk. A painful lump forms in my throat, and my sinuses sting as I try to hold back tears. But as my brain conjures the memory that my emotions fear to confront, a smile forms on my face, gently releasing the welling tears down my cheeks. I see my son at nineteen, standing muscled and tan on the front stoop of our house, smiling devilishly, first at me, and then in the direction of the elm twenty feet away. I watch his smile slowly fade as his eyes stare intently at something I cannot see. Suddenly, he pushes off from the stoop and takes a running leap at the tree, planting his right foot about five feet up the trunk. His momentum propels him to grab the stub jutting at least five feet above his head and to swing himself with one solid tug onto an adjacent branch. He stands up with his arms raised and smiles down on me as if to say, "Life is great!" And then we both laugh. It was under the umbrella of this big elm that my son played as a child. The house that stands before me, that holds so many memories, is where we lived when he was born. Patrick Daniel Tillman was full of life from the moment he came into the world at 9:39 on the morning of November 6, 1976, occipito-posterior, facing up -- a stargazer. He was brought home to this house, which is nestled in the rocky and wooded canyon of New Almaden, a California settlement developed in 1845 after a rich supply of quicksilver (mercury) was discovered there. Quicksilver was once a necessary component in processing gold and silver as well as in manufacturing munitions, which led President Lincoln to seize the mines in 1863, for the duration of the Civil War. From the time I was ten years old, the Civil War has fascinated me; learning that New Almaden had in fact played a crucial role in that war made me feel we had moved to the perfect place. The mines operated under private ownership until the year Pat was born, when Santa Clara County purchased the surrounding property for a county park. These four thousand acres, with their twenty miles of beautiful and rugged trails, is where I would take Pat for walks as a baby. He was not a cuddly infant. Actually, he was a little malcontent. He didn't like being swaddled and held like most babies; he preferred to be upright. I remember I would sit in a chair and hold him up so he could bounce on my knees until my arms got so tired I could no longer hold him. As an infant Pat was quite sinewy, displaying his father's quick-twitch muscles and the incredible coordination of his uncle Rich. When he was three months old, his father and I got a back carrier for him. He was really too little to sit in it properly, so I'd stuff diapers all around him so he would fit snugly. It was from the back carrier that Pat got his first exposure to Quicksilver County Park. We would hike for hours while I described the sights. Along with the birds and squirrels, it was not unusual to see wild turkeys, families of quail, wild boar, or an occasional rattlesnake. On weekends, Pat's father and I also liked to take him on walks past the reservoir two miles up the road. We loved living in this quaint secluded place, but my husband's hour-long commute to Cupertino, where he worked, was grueling. So when Pat was seven months old, we moved to Campbell, California, where our second son, Kevin, was born. About six months before Kevin's arrival, Pat went through a phase of regularly hurling himself out of his crib and onto the floor in protest of bedtime. He would crawl over to the bedroom door, put his hand through the crack underneath it, and howl, "O-o-o-u-t! O-o-o-u-t!" You could see the little pink balls of his fingers desperately seeking someone's attention. I would sit on the couch with a lump in my throat and tears rolling down my face. My pediatrician had told me I needed to let him cry, and eventually he would stop, and as a young mom, I still thought my doctor knew best. When Pat's crying stopped, his father and I would gently open the door to find him asleep, knees curled under him, diapered bottom in the air, and his hand still reaching through the space under the door. We would carefully lift him and place him back in the crib. After a week of this gut-wrenching ritual, we decided to get Pat a big-boy bed with a railing on it. Pat never really crawled in the way babies do. To get around, he would hold a plastic doughnut in each hand and push them around the floor with his legs straight, butt in the air, and knees never touching the floor. He learned to walk when he was eight and a half months old. By the time Kevin was born on January 24, 1978, fourteen-month-old Pat seemed very much a little man. Now the crib that had been so repellent to him just months before became a curiosity; it held his baby brother. Pat began climbing into the crib and carefully curling up next to Kevin, as if he had an innate sense that he could hurt the baby if he rolled over. Pat was quite pleased to have Kevin in his world and liked to help me bathe, feed, and change him. Pat did not like to nap; he hated the idea that he might miss something, but some days I needed him to take a nap, so I would sit on the floor, with Kevin in the infant seat next to me, and read aloud as Pat played. Eventually, Pat would sidle up and sit between his brother and me. Often he fell asleep holding Kevin's hand. Pat was talking all the time by twenty-two months. If you asked him his name, he would say, "Packet Daniel Tillman." He pronounced Kevin "Nubbin." As months passed, Pat learned to pronounce his own name properly, but he continued to call Kevin Nubbin or Nub. To this day, everyone close to Kevin calls him Nub. We had a nice little front yard at the triplex. My husband and I had put in a new lawn six months before Kevin was born, so the grass was thick and green. But I was nervous about the boys playing in the front yard close to the street, so I usually had them play in the back, where there was a tiny patch of grass alongside the cement parking area. My mother, Victoria Spalding, who lived twenty miles away in Fremont, often came to visit us when she wasn't working. One morning she and I took the boys to the PruneYard, an outdoor shopping mall ten minutes from our house. My youngest brother, Mike, who was around eighteen at the time, was going to come to visit in the afternoon. Time got away from us, and I was worried we wouldn't get home in time for my brother's arrival. I told the boys, "We have to hurry. Uncle Mike is coming. We don't want him to have to wait for us." I strapped Pat and Kevin into their car seats and we headed home. Pat, not wanting to keep his uncle waiting, kept saying, "Hurwe, Mom! Hurwe!" As we turned the corner onto our street, Pat unbuckled his seat belt, scrambled out of his car seat, and planted himself behind the front seats, poking his head between my mom and me. When he saw his uncle's Volkswagen parked in our driveway, his face looked grave. Concerned that his uncle had been waiting, he yelled at the top of his lungs, "Here we come, Unka Mike!" Pat was always unbuckling his car seat. In the late seventies, the car seats were easy to buckle and unbuckle. It was constant worry and aggravation. I would be driving down the freeway, glimpse in the rearview mirror, and see Pat out of his seat. I'd turn around to find him unhooking Kevin and helping him out. Both of them would start to giggle and squat behind the seats, covering their heads with their blankets. I'd have to pull over, put them back in their seats, and scold them. We would then head off down the road. Within ten minutes, Pat would be out of his seat and letting his brother loose again. It didn't matter how annoyed I got; they both seemed to think the routine was a hoot. I can't recall when this little antic stopped, but I was grateful when it did. Just before Kevin turned a year old, we moved to another location in Campbell, where we rented a white elephant of a two-story house. The beauty of it was that it had a fairly good-sized backyard. My husband hung two ropes from some beams that at one time had supported a patio roof. The boys would wear Spider-Man Underoos with Superman capes and swing from one side of the patio to the other, clearing their world of bad guys. By the time Pat was two and a half, he could hold on to both ropes and swing into a back flip. Kevin, at fourteen months, would hold on to both ropes, lift his feet in the air, and wait for his own flip to happen. He wouldn't put his feet down until his brother clapped in approval. At this stage, the boys looked very much alike. Strangers would often mistake them for twins. They both had blond hair with the same bowl cut. Firm, chubby cheeks padded faces of similar structure. Their skin was naturally a creamy pink, but a day or two in the sun turned them brown like berries and streaked their brown eyebrows with golden strands. The difference in their faces was in the eyes. When serious, Pat's deep, dark, almond-shaped eyes had an intensity and earnestness that could be startling as well as unsettling. When he laughed, they turned into horizontal black crescents that twinkled and teased playfully. Kevin had enormous blue eyes surrounded by feathery black lashes that made him look curious and surprised at the same time. For several years, I called Kevin my Tweety Bird. Within six months or so, Pat's jaw became much more angular, and once again, it was clear he was the older brother. Several months before Pat turned three, on a very windy day, he and Kevin were upstairs playing while my mom and I baked cookies in the kitchen below. At about the same moment, we looked at each other, thinking the same thing: "The boys are too quiet!" As I rounded a corner to head up the stairs, there was a knock on our front door. It was my neighbor from across the street. She told me Pat had climbed out the second-story window onto the roof of the porch. I bolted upstairs, questions racing through my mind: How had Pat unlocked a window I could barely open myself? Had I forgotten to lock it? I ran into the room and found Kevin on his tiptoes, peering outside, watching his brother. I gathered myself, my heart racing, walked to Kevin, picked him up, and handed him to my mom, who was now behind me. Kneeling down, I stuck my head outside to discover Pat had leaped from the roof to a tall, thin tree that grew about three feet from the house. He had his arms wrapped around the trunk and yelled with joy, "Here it comes!" as the wind blew the tree back and forth. I tried not to panic. Slowly, I climbed out the window and, seated on the roof, inched my way along the length of the house. I sat on the edge, nearly paralyzed with fear, coaxing Pat to grab my arm as the wind blew him toward me. On the next gust, the tree carried him in my direction, and I frantically grabbed his outstretched arm and yanked him onto my lap. He hung on tightly around my neck as we shimmied back to the open window, where I handed him off to my mom. I took Pat by the shoulders and started to scold him, but as I looked into his intense brown eyes, so full of delight and mischief, I started to cry and simply hugged him close. Only after hours passed was I calm enough to sit down and talk to him about what he had done. He promised not to do it ever again. We enjoyed living in Campbell. I took the boys all over town in the red wagon or the stroller, with Kevin riding in the seat and Pat standing in the back. Our adventures usually ate up a good part of the day, as the boys were never content to sit in the vehicle of choice for very long. They would get out to chase bugs, pick up leaves off the ground, pet dogs and cats, and climb on benches and fire hydrants. I liked taking them to John D. Morgan Park, which had a wonderful slide. The only way to get to the top was to climb up a ladder inside a giant cylinder. There were lots of swings and a net rope to climb, all in a sea of sand. When the boys got hungry, we would eat a picnic lunch of peanut butter sandwiches, raisins, carrots, and apple juice. If it was right after payday, we might have ham sandwiches, grapes, slices of cheese, and oatmeal cookies. On the way home, Pat always liked steering the wagon down the descending half of the pedestrian bridge over the expressway we had to cross to get home. Kevin would sit in front of him, and Pat would hold on to the handle and steer them down as I caught them at the bottom, bracing myself for the inevitable slam of the wagon on my shins. The joy they got from this routine was worth it. One late spring day, the boys were cranky, and I was, too. I decided it was time they learned to play baseball. I loaded them in the wagon and took them to the store to buy a Wiffle bat and ball. We went to the A&W for root beers and then home, where I taught them in the backyard how to hit a ball. Both boys were right-handed, but they naturally swung as lefties. Their dad praised me for teaching them to swing with their strong arms. Almost a week passed before I finally admitted they both instinctively hit as lefties; I had nothing to do with it. In August 1980, the house in New Almaden was once again available to rent. A new road had been built, allowing quicker access to the freeway and shortening my husband's commute. While we were preparing for our move, my father-in-law, Hank, died of lung cancer. He had been fighting the disease with tremendous dignity since before Kevin was born. His death was very difficult, even though it put an end to his suffering. I loved Hank very much; my own father had died suddenly of a heart attack when I was eighteen, so my father-in-law was important in my life. Hank's death, though, was far more painful for my husband. He had been an extremely busy young husband and father, going to work each day and law school at night, with little time left to spend with the boys and me and virtually none for his parents. He'd made as much time as he could for his dad once we learned he was ill, but it wasn't enough; there could never be enough time. Several weeks after Hank's death, we were back in New Almaden. I was five months pregnant with Richard and happy to be back in the rural setting so the boys could wake up to the sound of our neighbor's roosters and play in the country. It was also good for their dad to be in a relaxing setting at the end of the day. Richard's due date was January 6, 1981. However, that day came and went, and all I did was get bigger and more exhausted. Obviously, the doctor had miscalculated, but when you have a date in your head, it's difficult to wait any longer. On the morning of January 23, I started having contractions. Patrick and I dropped the boys off at the Fergusons', friends who had two young sons, and we drove to Kaiser Foundation Hospital in Santa Clara, about fifteen miles away. Within a half hour, we were back in the car; it was false labor. The doctor suggested we go for a long, bumpy ride. My husband bought me some ice cream to wipe the pout off my face and took me on every winding, pothole-laden road from Santa Clara to Morgan Hill. Richard was born at 2:00 a.m. on January 24, Kevin's third birthday. Patrick brought Pat and Kevin to the hospital that afternoon. I felt terrible that I had nothing with me to give Kevin for his birthday, although he was thrilled with his baby brother. I walked to an area near the elevators and handed them each a package of crackers that had come with my meal. As their dad and I stood talking, Kevin struggled to open his crackers. Suddenly, his package burst open and the crackers fell to the floor. He looked down at them with disgust and yelled, "Ah, shit!" Everyone looked at my husband, and one guy said, "Way to go, Dad." Pat and Kevin were excited to have a baby brother. They liked helping me bathe him in the sink. I would give them each a plastic cup and let them rinse off the suds. As Richard got older and started to crawl, the boys called him Goose because in his big diaper, he had a goose butt. However, by the time Richard started to walk, Pat and Kevin decided that with his blond hair, stout body, and dark brown eyes, he looked remarkably like Winnie the Pooh. From that day on, they endearingly called him Pooh, Pooh Bear, or -- when giving him a bad time as teenagers -- Shit Bear. When Richard was a baby, they didn't like to leave him alone while they played, so they took turns carrying him from room to room or from one spot in the yard to the other. We concluded that the reason Richard didn't walk until he was fifteen months old is that his brothers carried him everywhere they went. They had great fun playing in our secluded little yard, and I felt very content hanging my clothes on the clothesline on warm days as Richard crawled around on a blanket or in his playpen, and Pat and Kevin rode their Big Wheels, played cars in the dirt, or ran around in Underoos with squirt bottles hanging from their belts. In August 1981, when Pat was four, I signed him up for soccer. The team didn't have an assistant coach, so I volunteered. I knew nothing about soccer, but I figured I could learn. Soccer practice was about two and a half miles from our house. In those days we had only one car, which Patrick needed to commute to work, so the boys and I took the city bus as far as it would take us -- about two miles. Then Pat, Kevin, and I, with Richard in a back carrier, walked the last half mile to Hacienda Elementary School. Looking back, I realize that was a long way for two little guys to walk, but at the time I thought nothing of it. We did this two evenings a week. Most evenings their dad would help out with the last part of practice, and we would drive home together. On the evenings my husband had classes, the head coach drove us home. We didn't win many games that year, but we had fun. Pat wasn't sure he liked soccer. He actually would have preferred staying home to climb trees. But Kevin loved going to his brother's practice. Midseason, we bought Kevin his own cleats, shin guards, and size-three soccer ball. At Pat's practices, I would set up cones for him on the sidelines, and he would happily dribble through the cones, over and over, alongside Pat's team. We kept telling Kevin that he would get to play on a team the following year, when he turned four. That next season Pat, Kevin, and I lined up at soccer registration to sign them both up. Kevin was so excited; every time we got a step closer to the table, he would look up at me with a big smile. Finally, we stood in front of the woman taking care of registration, and she informed us that the age of eligibility had been changed to five. Pat looked at me in horror as the delighted look on Kevin's face turned to devastation, and tears formed and fell from his eyes. Pat and I tried to console him, but words and soothing gestures were useless. The three of us got into the car. From the rearview mirror I could see Pat patting Kevin's shoulder and looking at him sympathetically as Kevin mean-mugged me all the way home. The following year I signed Kevin up without a hitch. The team meetings for parents were held on the same evening, so Patrick went to Pat's meeting and I went to Kevin's. We learned that Kevin's team didn't have a head coach. After twenty minutes of banter about who would take the team, I volunteered. I figured I had been an assistant coach already, and I'd watched Pat's coach very carefully. That night, I went home and told Kevin I was going to be his coach. He looked like someone had punched him in the stomach; Pat started to laugh. Standing before me were a five-year-old and a six-year-old who could dribble circles around me. What was I thinking? Several evenings later, Patrick watched the boys while I attended my first coaches' meeting, where I got my equipment and uniforms. I also learned my team's name. The league determined that the under-six teams would be named after birds. My team was to be the Hummingbirds. Kevin would hate that name, I just knew it. I asked if the team could be called the Eagles or the Hawks or maybe the Vultures, but I was informed those names were taken. "What about the Condors?" I asked. "Does any team have that name?" "The names have been decided," the meeting coordinator said curtly. I dreaded Kevin's reaction. At home, I presented him with his new uniform and cheerily told him the team was called the Hummingbirds. His bright, happy face immediately fell. "Oh yeah, Hummingbirds," he said, dropping his uniform in a heap in front of him. Then he turned and went moping down the hall. Pat looked at me quizzically. "Did you pick that name, Mom? Poor Nub." He picked up Kevin's uniform and walked down the hall after his brother. I looked over at my husband, who was observing the scene with amusement. "Did you?" he asked as he plucked Richard out of his highchair. "Did I what?" "Did you pick that name?" he said, chuckling. "No," I said wearily. "What should I do?" "I think you should disband the team," he said with a wink. I managed a weak smile, then walked to the bookshelf and grabbed an encyclopedia. In the boys' bedroom, Pat was trying to coax Kevin to try on his uniform. I sat between them, opened the book to a picture of a hummingbird, and pointed out that they are the fastest birds. Pat glanced up at me and then watched Kevin's reaction. Kevin stared at the picture for a few seconds, then walked away with all the dignity a five-year-old can muster. Two days before the first practice, Pat and Kevin went outside to play, and Pat saw a hummingbird hovering around the bottlebrush plant at the side of the door. I heard him say, "Nub, look. That's a hummingbird. Look how fast it moves." I peeked around the door and watched them observe the bird as it darted around the bush. Once it flew off, the boys went about their play, but when they came into the house an hour or so later, Kevin said, "Mom, our team will be really fast." He skipped down the hall and put on his new uniform. Pat walked in the door and smiled at me, then followed his brother down the hall, happy that once again, Kevin was excited about playing soccer. At the first practice, I gathered the kids and told them the name of the team. They -- and several of the parents -- all looked at me the same way Kevin had days before. I told them hummingbirds are the fastest birds: "They can flap their wings fifty times a second." I considered telling them that they flap their wings up to two hundred times a second during courtship, but thought better of it. Kevin helped me out by telling everyone that we would be the fastest team. With a lot of practice, encouragement, creative substitution, and stickers -- lots of stickers handed out for good playing -- we won every game that year. Like Kevin, several of the kids on the team had older siblings they had watched for several years. Those kids were the engine of the team. They taught the others through example, while I looked important wearing my whistle. I was excited for Kevin and so proud of him. He ran around the soccer field, dribbling with abandon and passing like an expert. Two seasons of watching games and practicing on the sidelines had paid off. The first several games, I watched him through eyes welled with tears. He was so happy to be out there. When Pat's games didn't coincide with his, Pat was able to watch him play. Two years of watching his big brother, and now it was his turn. He got a look of ecstatic delight whenever he heard his brother yell at the top of his lungs, "Way to go, Nub!" Three years later, I would coach Richard's team, again called the Hummingbirds. No longer was Richard the little tyke sucking orange slices on the sidelines and running onto the field at inappropriate times. He was an ominously big five-year-old who could move the ball with surprising grace and had the ability to score a goal from midfield. Because he had watched and played soccer with his brothers for so long, he had an amazing perspective and feel for the game. And so did Matt Kline, the younger brother of a friend of Pat. He had curly brown hair, dark brown eyes that shot tears like a cartoon character when he was upset, and little short legs with calves the size of coconuts with which he could dribble around three people before they knew he was coming. The rest of the kids on the team learned quickly from Richard's and Matt's example. That year, the Hummingbirds had another undefeated season. I framed the banner and hung it in the back room of our house; I was getting a big head. A year later, I helped my husband coach Richard's team, the Gorillas. Patrick missed many practices because of his work, so I would conduct the practices, and he would coach the games. By the start of the last game of the season, we had won every game. Maybe, I thought, we would have another undefeated season. But it wasn't in the cards. My husband decided to make a substitution the last quarter of the game. One of the kids didn't get his fair share of playing time. I was all for the child playing, but a straight substitution was too risky. "What are you doing? You have to move some players around. He can't play that position," I protested to Patrick between gritted teeth so as not to be heard by the parents. But by the time my objection was voiced, the other team had scored. We couldn't answer back. Only a few of the kids were disappointed; most of them couldn't have cared less if the game was won. They were just happy to exchange stickers and have their juice and treat. I was the grief-stricken one -- my winning record was ruined. I tried to hide my disappointment; I knew full well how ridiculous it was. My husband and sons laughed and chided me for being a poor loser. I hung up my coaching whistle after that, though I continued to be excessively proud of my coaching success and all too frequently told people about my two undefeated teams and the season that got away. Any time the boys overheard me start to tell someone I coached soccer, they would get sly little grins on their faces and say, "Oh, don't forget to talk about the Hummingbirds and your undefeated seasons." When the boys weren't busy playing soccer, they were occupied with school. Graystone Elementary School had a system of reward and punishment that Pat took very seriously. The school made it clear: There were good behaviors and bad behaviors, and if you were bad, you got a pink slip. Pat did not want to get a pink slip. By second grade, he was almost obsessed with it. That same year, Kevin started kindergarten, and one day the three of us were talking after school and Kevin said excitedly, "Today I got a warm fuzzy." "You got what?" I asked, perplexed. "A warm fuzzy," he said. Pat, as if trying to ease my concern, said, "It's a good thing. It's better than a cold prickly." "A cold prickly!" I said, laughing. "Yes, you get them for being bad," they both explained. Patrick and I liked the idea that the kids received recognition for good deeds and behavior, but the pink slips and cold pricklies seemed to be causing a lot of anxiety, especially for Pat. That evening, their dad sat with them and told them it was okay to break a rule now and then. Pat decided to test his father's advice; at some point, he broke a rule, and lightning didn't strike. He started coming home with pink slips for walking up the slide the wrong way, walking briskly on the blacktop, and getting a drink after the bell. After so many infractions, he decided he better use the slide properly. Unfortunately, he did so by cutting in front of people on the ladder. I got a call one day that he had cut in front of someone, and the kid bit him on the butt. Both boys were suspended for two days. Pat never cut in line again, but testing the limits continued. By the time he got out of fifth grade, we could have wallpapered our bathroom in pink slips. Middle school was a fun time for Pat. He had terrific friends and conscientious, dedicated teachers, and he thrived on the more sophisticated environment for learning. He liked having different teachers for different classes, and each subject was stimulating to him; it was so much more interesting than staying in the same room all day with one teacher. Pat loved learning new things and discussing ideas, concepts, and opinions. I know several teachers were nearly driven mad by his constant questions, but most of them welcomed his enthusiasm and tenacity. Since he had started school, he was very conscientious about his class work and homework; he particularly liked doing presentations, projects, and essays. In sixth grade, Pat had to do a presentation on George S. Patton. He worked for several weeks gathering information on note cards. One particularly cold night, he sat by the wall heater in the hall, methodically sorting through his index cards outlining his oral presentation. The next evening he practiced his speech in front of his brothers and me three or four times, and again when his dad got home. He then asked his dad to tie his tie for him so it would be ready to slip on the next day. He got up early the following morning and put on black slacks, a white shirt, and the tie his dad had prepared for him. Kevin and Richard, who were still in elementary school, wished Pat luck and raced down the driveway to catch their bus. Pat ate breakfast then gathered his things. I wished him luck, and then watched as he crossed the yard and headed down the driveway to catch the city bus. He looked so grown up. He walked with assurance, knowing he was prepared; I was proud of him. That afternoon, while Kevin and Richard were changing for soccer practice, we heard Pat's bus stop on the road below. We opened the door and watched him run up the driveway, laughing and swinging his tie over his head. When he got to the door he said excitedly, "Mom, I got a B+ over A." It always amused me that Pat, even in grade school, would question his grades. I would chuckle to myself when I went through his schoolwork and found papers with comments that he had written to the teachers: "What's wrong with it?" "What don't you like?" "Please read it again." Many adults who worked with Pat weren't comfortable with his inclination to question authority, but his dad and I respected and often encouraged it. We didn't want our boys to be disrespectful, but we also didn't want them to be afraid to question or to obey blindly. This was a lesson I'd learned during six years of Catholic school, when I was exposed to some remarkably gifted, kind, understanding, and dedicated nuns, but also nuns who were unhappy and hateful, who expected unconditional obedience. In the early 1960s, it was not unusual for nuns to slap us, hit our hands with rulers, or otherwise humiliate us by calling us stupid, dumb, or slow. My first-grade teacher at Saint Michael's in Montpelier, Vermont, was about four foot eight, and I think she hated me for being nearly as tall as she was. One day, she kept yelling at me during phonics because I repeatedly mispronounced a vowel sound. I finally yelled back, so she stuck me in the broom closet all morning. I remember twisting my neck like a contortionist as I tried to peer through slats that angled down in order to see what was going on. By the time I was in third grade, we'd moved to New Cumberland, Pennsylvania. While the students were filing into the pews for Wednesday morning mass, I watched in horror as a nun slapped my seven-year-old brother, Richard, in the face for not wearing a sweater in accordance with our uniform. I ran up to him, grabbed him by the hand, and walked him out of the church and four blocks to our house, tears streaming down my cheeks. I was angry about what the nun had done to my brother and frightened as to what would happen to me. My dad went to our school the next day and firmly admonished the nun who had slapped my brother and her superior who allowed her to get away with it. He also made sure I was not reproached when I returned to school. I learned from those experiences that adults should not be blindly obeyed or automatically trusted. My husband and I tried to instill politeness and respect in our boys, but we also wanted them to be able to voice their needs and opinions and establish boundaries for those who were not respectful in return. We also made it clear to the boys that if anyone tried to hurt them or make them do something they didn't want to do, they must stand up for themselves. I don't recall getting any phone calls about Pat's conduct in the classroom during middle school -- he was generally well behaved in class -- but I was consistently called about his roughhousing between periods. He was getting referrals for chasing people, wrestling in the quad, climbing on the bleachers, and talking while walking to assembly. The administrators were perplexed that a boy so conscientious about learning and generally well behaved in class could be so rambunctious outside the classroom. I remember that the last referral he got at middle school was at the last Bronco Night, the monthly school dance. It seems that Pat turned over his ticket, got his hand stamped, then proceeded to get a running start and slide all the way across the dance floor on his stomach. Swiveling on his pelvis, he stood up dramatically, only to face his principal. Just as I got home after dropping him off, the phone rang for me to come and get him. Pat had slid himself right out of the last schoolwide dance. Where has that life gone? A chill comes over me. I'm suddenly aware that I'm staring into dying embers. |