He sat in the passenger seat, his bare legs sticking to the worn perforated vinyl, frayed cutoff shorts no match against the humid August heat. His father sat to his left, hands clutched at 10 and 2 on the wheel, not as a means to control the unmoving car but a desperate attempt to hold onto something familiar, something known.
The boy was eight. His 10-year-old brother sat in the back, staring out the window, hands nervously fidgeting, hair still damp with sweat from the hours just spent being a kid, playing capture-the-flag with the neighborhood posse.
That day had been one of the rare times the boy had dared to call "shotgun" and been allowed access to the privileged world of the front seat. He usually preferred to sit in the back when it was just three of them. Alone, behind the scenes, there was plenty of room to close his eyes, feel the breeze coming in from the wide open window and be swept away by the geometric designs that danced behind his eyelids as the dappled sunlight shone between the trees and telephone poles flying by. No battles to be fought over the neutral territory of the back seat outlined by the two middle seams in the vinyl. He usually lost those battles anyway and had to retreat back to his side, maintaining constant vigilance against the advancing threat of the enemy's goading, provoking fingers.
But not that day. When he had heard his father's car pull into the driveway he quickly ran outside, claiming his place. But after seeing the bowed head of his father through the bug-covered windshield, he immediately regretted his sudden burst of assertiveness.
Unsticking his legs from he seat he saw her, casserole dish in hand, walking with purpose and authority. His father shrinking further into the driver's seat. She came to his open window and handed him the dinner she had prepared for her two sons and their father, perhaps as a temporary peace offering or at least something that showed she still cared. "Heat this up at 375 for half an hour and have them home by 8." She turned and headed back to the house that had, before that moment, been the boy's refuge.
His father did not respond or turn his head. He started the car and began backing down the driveway. As he looked up at the rear-view mirror, he quickly brushed away a single tear that had tried to make its way down his flushed cheek. He had been banished, sent away from his castle for not being enough ... of something. The boy had never seen his father cry before, that moment now frozen in time. He knew from that day forward, his life would never be the same.
That day I learned not being good enough had serious, life-changing consequences. In the subconscious of my eight-year-old reality, I swore I would never make that kind of mistake. I never wanted to feel the pain I knew my father had felt. My fear narrative was written and my protective self was set loose.
What had actually transpired that day and had contributed to its inevitability doesn't really matter now and is certainly not worth addressing with my 83-year-old mother or 90-year-old father who, for the last fifty years have essentially lived separate lives. Too much dredging up of the past and too many pitfalls for perceived blame. I could ask my older brother, but he probably remembers it differently. He and I were about to spend our first night at my father's new apartment where he had moved just a few weeks before. This unwelcome but obligatory experience would cement the reality of the ending of my family as I had known it. There had been plenty of foreshadowing, but my confused and fearful mind held little true understanding. There were constant arguments. The palpable tension and resentments were all warning signs, but I had no way of knowing the potential outcome. My mother had clearly reached her limit and demanded a divorce. What did it mean? Was it my fault? Could I have done anything to prevent it? What if I had been a better son? These were questions that had no answers but planted seeds of fear and self-doubt in my developing comprehension of the world around me.
Looking back, I now understand that perhaps my mother had unrealistic expectations of what a man in a 1970s patriarchal system could do -- be provider, protector and still show up with a full range and depth of emotions. It might sound reasonable now, as these are certainly the expectations for the modern man. But half a century ago, my father was not equipped to meet my mother's vision of what a man should be and he was rejected, not only as a husband but also as a father. The collateral damage to me and my brother was massive. My mother simply wanted more from her marriage, but what I saw was a man being sent away -- the man who was supposed to show me how to be a man and how to navigate an increasingly complicated world. To my great apprehension and dread, he accepted his fate with surrender and defeat. The protective self that had been slowly growing inside of me was now forced to take over and what was left of the innocence of my childhood was gone.
That late August day, my protective self was loosed, put into service to help me through the difficult times that lay ahead. But to what end? Would it always try to do what was best for me? Unfortunately, it would not. Actor Marc Maron said the monster he created to protect the kid inside him was difficult to manage. He was spot on. My monster would go on to wreak havoc on my life, my relationships in particular. Until, after years of introspective relearning, I eventually came to understand I was safe enough, good enough. I could finally tell my protective monster I didn't need him anymore. I've been able to let him go and live a more mindful and authentically present life. He still comes back from time to time when things get rough, but I've learned to anticipate his arrival, thank him for checking in on me and remind him that I am capable of resolving my own challenges. This is true freedom.