Patriarchy & Powerlessness (Part 1)

Rebellion & Shame

From a very young age, I sensed that my dad was different from the fathers of my friends. The word that comes to mind is "sensitive." I never saw this as softness or weakness. Much later, I learned about the violence in his own upbringing and how profoundly it had affected him. He despised all forms of violence, from war to contact sports. He was also the most opinionated person I have ever known. While he didn’t have an opinion on everything, when he did, he made it abundantly clear. If he was indifferent to a subject, he could be incredibly aloof. Depending on the topic, this could be either delightful or infuriating. In high school, he worked diligently to earn a college education and escape the violence and poverty that shaped him. This determination is one of my favorite things about my dad, and contemplating his escape often brings me to tears. His bravery still inspires me.

One of my earliest memories of school is from first grade, during the second week. I remember thinking, “Seriously? Is this what I have to do every single day? I’m going to get so bored so quickly!” For the next several years, I managed to get by. The subjects were fresh enough, and I didn’t want to cause trouble. I believe my compliance stemmed from two sources. First, my mom constantly praised me for being a "good boy," and whenever I thought she had doubts, I would seek her reassurance. Second, my dad equated education with godliness (a strange mix of Evangelical Christian and physicist). So, I did what was expected of me academically and in life. That is, until 5th grade. Toward the end of that year, I couldn’t continue with the charade. I dreaded 6th grade before it even began. Attending a private Baptist school, I faced corporal punishment for disobedience or deceit. I was bent over the knee of my gregarious principal a few times for lying about completing my homework. Interestingly, I liked her, and I remember appreciating how her spanking seemed gentle. That memory makes me smile and feel deeply sad at the same time.

Physical punishment clearly didn’t work on me. I became the thorn in my teacher’s side. I believe she was genuinely concerned and didn’t know how to handle me. I didn’t argue or act aggressively; I just absolutely refused to do my homework. I made it my daily mission to break the goddamn monotony of the classroom by making people laugh. Clever comedy became my self-appointed duty that year. The consequence for my comedic routine and “laziness” was staying inside during recess to complete my assignments. I don’t remember going outside once during 6th grade. This had profound effects on me. Bitterness crept into my heart for the first time. I began to resent all those in authority over me, as well as my dad’s love of education. I overheard many conversations between my parents and teachers debating whether I was not applying myself or just stupid. Every report card from 6th grade through high school involved three things: the overwhelming fear leading up to my dad reading them, bracing myself for his disappointment, and the weeks of gut-wrenching shame following his lectures. My teenage years didn’t revolve around the four seasons but rather my seasons of shame.

The theme of learning and education is multi-layered for me, so I may explore these layers in multiple posts. For now, let’s just say that my dad’s expressed disappointment in my grades became the primary way I practiced the cycle of rebellion and shame until it eventually became a habit. Much later, I realized that my learning style was vastly different from my dad’s. I had assumed I was unintelligent. Now, I see my unique way of learning as a gift (more on this in a future post). By my senior year of high school, I understood that the only way to please my dad was through excellent grades in science and math, subjects I had no interest in. I was interested in girls, music, and God. . . and in that order 😁. So, I consciously chose to say “fuck it” to school and pleasing him. But subconsciously, I believed that to be a good little boy for my mom, I needed to please my dad.

For the next 30 years, I unconsciously embarked on a mission to earn my parents’ love by seeking validation from a series of emotionally and verbally abusive men who were all searching for the same thing I was. Each year, I felt more like a failure, more inadequate, more powerless. Each new authority figure I placed myself under was worse than the last. In 2008, I converted to Anglicanism for many reasons, some quite beautiful. But without a doubt, my primary inner objective was to become a priest to obtain the power I believed I lacked. Little did I know that immense suffering awaited me, all so that life could graciously teach me that I already possessed all the power I would ever need within myself and didn’t need to acquire it from any man or anything outside of myself.