Now What?

For 20 years I’ve grappled with the tales my parents left me with. I've considered more permutations of possible intentions than I could possibly list, but there are a few that just keep coming back. Still, they are so intertwined that I have difficulty trying to focus on just one. But that’s what I have to do. I need to think them through, one by one, and clarify for myself the possible implications. I will write them out clean and simple. And then, I think I might return the favor. On my worst days, confronting them seems to clearly be the right thing to do.

Not once in all these years have either of my parents mentioned anything relating to what they told me. No apologies, no admission of guilt, no caveats or addendums. I wonder if they think it is all water under the bridge now. I wonder if they have even allowed themselves to remember what they told me. At some level they must be in denial. If confronted would they admit to telling me the things they said? If not to me, would they admit it to each other? They left me to deal with this all on my own, and as my anger and hate festered and grew they behaved as though I was a possessed child who had absolutely no reason to treat his parents so unkind. How could I possibly be so ungrateful?

I was only being honest. I wonder how much of the truth they can handle.

Game Theory & its Parental Applications

It’s called the prisoner’s dilemma. It’s a simple problem of game theory with a remarkable number of applications, not the least of which is convincing people that mathematics does indeed have real world applications.

Consider two suspects are detained for their alleged involvement in a crime. The circumstantial evidence is sufficient to send them each to jail for two years. An eye witness account however would turn that into 10 years, so the arresting officer offers the following deal:

“Rat out your partner and we’ll let you go free; provided your partner doesn’t rat you out.” If they both rat the other out, their 10 year sentences will be commuted to 4 for ‘cooperating’ with the police.

The years of sentence vary with who’s explaining the problem, but the solution is always the same. The prisoner’s dilemma is a question of cooperation, not with their captors, but with each other. Clearly, cooperation among prisoners produces the smallest combined jail sentence. It’s the ‘right’ choice. Keep your mouth shut, and you’ll both be free in two years. The mob has been using game theory for decades; they just didn’t know why.

The problem for each prisoner however, is actually to determine what the other will do. If they’ve been separated or simply don’t trust the other, they may not know their partner’s resolve. In the absence of that knowledge, the ‘right’ thing to do changes. Tell it all. Tell them how wretched your partner is. You’ll either get 4 years, or none at all.

See any applications?

Who's to Blame pt.1 of 3

From: The Albertson College of Idaho Coyote, May 25th, 1994, p. 14.
Revised and reprinted.

I can’t really remember ever being told. Somehow I just knew. I always knew. I was different. I knew in the first grade that all I had to do was hit the ball and someone else would run the bases for me. Running the bases was the only exciting part. I don’t think I ever hit that damn ball.

I remember always being last and all the while wondering why all of my ribbons said: “participant.” The bus was the only exception. I was always first there. I even had my own exit from the building. That way was shorter.

I recall a guy named Keith who used to always stand up to anyone who bullied me. “Leave him alone,” he’d say. “He has soft feelings.” I never knew why. Keith was no bigger than me. There were a lot of things I didn’t know then.

It must have been about fifth or sixth grade that I started to use the term Cerebral Palsy. I remember when I told my best friend.

“So what’s that mean?”
“Well, that’s why I don’t run very fast, or talk right. And remember when I couldn’t walk the balance beam?”
“That’s why?”
“Yeah, my balance ain’t so good.”
“You gonna die?”
“No.”
“I thought all those people were in wheelchairs.”
“Most are. I got lucky I guess.”
“Does it make ya stupid?”
“Nah... not suppose to.”
“Cause if it did you’d have to have been a genius in the first place to still be as smart as you are.”
“Yeah.”

It made us both laugh a little, which put an end to our discussion. Clyde and I have been friends since second grade, but that was the last day we ever spoke of Cerebral Palsy. It didn’t take long however, for the rest of the school to find out. Especially when all of my peers started to finally realize that the only homework I ever turned in was math. Instead of writing book reports, or essays, I just practiced my penmanship. All of my exams were oral, and anything that was supposed to be written out, Clyde would naturally do for me.

In sixth grade I heard this kid say; “Yeah, he’s got C.P.-several problems.” I turned around immediately and found that Clyde had, as usual, taken care of things. The kid was sitting on the ground holding his mouth.

“Don’t say that again.” Clyde told him. He didn’t yell it. He just said it. That must be what friends are for, I thought.

The more assignments I got out of, the more I saw myself as being not so much different as “special.” I began to see how easy it was to simply get by. But I was in for a great awakening.

After the sixth grade my family moved to a new school district. It was the first day of seventh grade, a day I will never forget; second period, Mr. King’s class. I walked in, a little early I guess. And as I walked to a seat mid-way back against the far wall, I noticed that the teacher kept staring at me. The class filled up, and the bell soon rang. Mr. King stood up, walked towards me, pointed his finger and said: “You, go to the office.” Great I thought. He wants me to go get copies or pencils or something. I stood and he went on with his lecture. What did I miss, I thought. I stood there waiting for instructions of some kind. He turned again, “I said go to the office.”
“But, what for?”
“I’m not having any drunks in my class!”
“But, I’m not drunk... I have Cerebral Palsy.”
“What?”
“Cerebral Palsy.”
“Oh... Well sit down then.” I looked around the room and realized how alone I really was. Clyde wasn’t there. Keith wasn’t there. And I had just told thirty other kids the last thing they ever should have known. We all joke about the classic drunk driver response, but it’s not quite as funny when it’s the truth. And it’s definitely not funny when you’re twelve.

Everything became a struggle. On top of all of the normal problems an adolescent has to go through, I had to deal with this. I had to deal with teachers who would no longer let me slide by. I wasn’t “special” anymore. But everyone still knew who I was. I was the token retard.

(Jump to part 2)

Who's to Blame pt.2 of 3

From: The Albertson College of Idaho Coyote, May 25th, 1994, p. 14.
Revised and reprinted.

It took a long time to overcome that one day. The hardest part was probably convincing everyone that I wasn’t contagious. I did everything I could think of to end the stigma. I joined clubs, went to activities, and made friends with anyone who would let me. I even tried out for the wrestling team. I never got to wrestle, but I went to every practice, everyday. And not one of those days went by that every member of the team didn’t say something cruel, or so it seemed. I don’t know why I didn’t quit. Probably because my Dad told me I wouldn’t last a week. I can’t think of any other reason why anyone would submit to the kind of harassment that went on at every practice, especially when they knew they would never wrestle in an actual match.

When wrestling was over I began to realize that only the wrestlers still made fun of me. And that wasn’t so bad. They still called me a variety of pet names, mutilations of my name mostly, but no one else dared. I realized that the wrestlers were actually standing up for me. I guess that’s one of the fringe benefits of being in the great fraternity of wrestlers. In return, they were allowed to do the very thing they protected me against. It was an ironic relationship indeed.

For me junior high was filled with memories that no one should have to remember. But the only event which might compare to that first day of Mr. King’s class, would have to be the last day of P.E. of that same year. All we had to do was run a mile and a half. It sounds easy enough, but after a year of running laps I think everyone knew who would be first, and who wouldn’t. When I started on that last lap, I knew two things. I knew that the average person could walk faster than I was moving. And I knew that there was somebody behind me. It was of course the stereotypical fat guy that every P.E. class has to have.

I had it in my head that breaking my own record wasn’t enough. I had to beat him too. And I could tell he was thinking the same. The entire class was already done with their run, and they were all sitting on the bleachers which spanned that last hundred meters of the track. The fat guy was about five or ten feet behind me when we reached that last stretch. He was close enough I could hear him wheeze with every breath. As we began passing the bleachers, the entire class began to cheer. “Come on, Travis!”
“Come on, you got him.”
“Warpud, You get your ass in gear you little shit!” It actually gave me a little strength, but I still knew the fat kid was gaining on me. When he got up beside me, we both turned to look at each other. All year we had raced against each other. I’d say we were even on wins and losses, but we both knew this would be the only race we would ever remember. Then without warning, without provocation, I tripped. Just like I always did, too tired to pick up my own feet.

When I hit the ground all I could hear was the “clump...clump” of footsteps ahead of me. The class stopped cheering, and I began thinking of excuses. Somehow having an excuse made it easier to deal with, even if it was just an excuse. I could start crying, I told myself, and say I twisted my ankle. No, I did that last time.

“Hey, I’m not about to let your sorry ass quit now!” I looked at the bleachers. Everyone there was almost as afraid to talk as I was to move.

“Come on buddy let’s go!” It was one of the older wrestlers talking. Having him say that alleviated enough of my embarrassment that I did get up, and I did finish. And the class still cheered when I crossed the finish line, beating my old record. But no one cheered for the fat guy; no one clapped when he crossed the finish line. It made me wonder. Did they really want me to win, or did they just want him to lose? Or probably more realistic, was I just the basket case that the coach had told everyone to be nice to?

(Jump to part 3)

Who's to Blame pt.3 of 3

From: The Albertson College of Idaho Coyote, May 25th, 1994, p. 14. Revised and reprinted with the author's permission.

High school was pretty normal I guess. That is, normal if you can overlook the fact that anytime I ever felt second best, or did something embarrassing, or got turned down on a date, I naturally blamed it on my “condition.” All the while I wondered why my parents thought that I would overcome this better if everyone just forgot about it and pretended it didn’t exist. But the time finally came that I began to do the one thing which leaves us all in terror, at least it should I think. I began to ask questions, and I found that my condition was not the only thing in hiding.

It was a weekday evening as I recall. My parents and I never really spoke about much more than church, which made this conversation awkward from the start. But in the middle of peaceful silence I said it. “Mom, Dad... how did I get Cerebral Palsy?” They looked at one another but not at me.

“I thought we had discussed this,” Mom said.
“Well, I know stuff like... that you didn’t dilate enough. And that finally the doctors decided to do a c-section.”
“That’s right,” Mom said still not looking at me.
“And when they moved you to another table, they laid you on top of the umbilical cord, and cut off my supply of blood for ten minutes. And I know that it damaged the part of my brain that controls coordination and motor skills. But, why didn’t you dilate to begin with?”

My Dad looked at my Mom. He was giving her that look that he used to give me when I had done some terrible evil. But it was different this time. It wasn’t just an expression of anger; it had a hint of fear behind it. I can’t remember their initial answer. It was probably just the fact that I was a month premature, which, of course was another thing I had been wondering about. But that night, as I sat in my room, I heard another story. It came under the door and through the wall. I was asleep before it was over, but I still managed to hear the last thing I ever should have known. I heard the truth.

“I knew this would happen someday! You are the most deceitful woman I have ever known. It’s your own treachery that’s caused this. Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“You’re just as much to blame. You pushed me to do it.”
“Oh that’s horseshit, and you know it. You knew how I felt. You never should have lied to me in the first place.”

None of it made much sense. I listened for hours, but they never seemed to say anything else. It was one of those nights when you wonder if life is just an elaborate case study, and you’re the main subject.

The next evening Mom had to work late. I don’t recall Mom ever working late any other day, but I had decided not to ask any more questions. My fingers had been thoroughly burned already. So Dad and I went out for dinner. Despite the loss of my inquisitive mind, something told me that the subject would still find its way to the table.

“Could you hear Ilene’s T.V. this morning?” Ilene lived in the apartment above us. We could always hear her T.V.
“Yeah, I heard it.”
“You probably heard your mother and me last night too.”
“Some.”
“Well, I think it’s time we clear a few things up.” I knew already this would never be clear.
“You see, your mother and I had only planned on having two children. And after we had your brothers, your mother decided that she had to have a girl.” I noticed that he kept saying “your mother.” He never said that. It was always “Mom.” Not even “Your Mom,” just “Mom.” It made me think of when he used to say “Mary, do you know what that son of yours has done?” He went on and started leaning over the table and speaking as quietly as he could. “You see at that time your Mother was using a foam contraceptive...”

He continued by detailing their evening ritual and how one night “My Mother” didn’t use the contraceptive. He noted it at the time of course, but she assured him that everything was “taken care of.”

“During the entire pregnancy she tried to convince me that she hadn’t done it deliberately, and finally, the night before you were born, she realized that I wasn’t ever going to believe it. I remember that night she asked me if I’d rather she have a miscarriage. I said no, of course, but I knew she was up to something. You see there’s an old wives’ tale that if a woman takes castor oil during pregnancy, she’ll have a miscarriage. And... well when I got back home after you were born, the bottle of castor oil was sitting on the bathroom sink.”

I tried to figure out what Dad was telling me. It didn’t seem real that I could have been the root of a disaster like this. The shock from hearing such a thing kept me numb and docile all the way home.

Conveniently enough, Dad had to work the following Saturday, and Mom had the day off. Dad working on Saturday was pretty rare, but it did happen. Still, the timing seems just as orchestrated to me now as it did then. So it came as no surprise that Mom wanted to take me out for lunch. It started out about the same way as with Dad. I tried to act as ignorant as possible, hoping I wouldn’t have to hear another story. But she finally got to the point.

“I want you to know that your father wanted only two children. He didn’t think that we could afford any more. And your father, the whole time I was carrying you, would curse me everyday because he blamed me for your being conceived. He even threatened to hurt me a couple times. The night you were born, your father and I had a big fight, and the strain of fighting pushed me into an early labor.”

I thought at that point that I knew what it must have been like for my parents to hear two different stories from my brothers and me. Although neither of them told the same story, I find their confessions to simply be two different angles to the same truth.

I never asked Mom about any castor oil, nor did I ask Dad about cursing or threatening. I wonder sometimes if they even know what really happened. I’ll never know for sure what took place when I was born, but I do know the consequences.

Too often we direct our anger at the result of our actions, rather than the mistake which was made. We curse the traffic cop for writing our ticket and never acknowledge that we’ve actually broken the law. My parents are guilty of this. They know that something went wrong, something terrible, but they still don’t know what it was. And once in a while, when they look at me, they get a sad look in their eye. And when they turn away I get the feeling that I’m simply a terrible reminder of mistakes that were made many years ago, and I realize that they blame me for their misery.

Buck Naked

When we got home last night there was a naked little girl running around our house. Somehow her collar had come off. I asked her where it was, but she just cried. We looked all over the house for it, but I suspect Kimber had already carried it off to her secret hiding place. I know I’ll find her stockpile of pens, pencils, and Styrofoam peanuts someday. About three in the morning I heard the little ding-a-ling from the bell attached to her collar. I opened my eyes to find Kimber sitting on my pillow with her collar sitting right in front of her. She sat perfectly still while I put it back on her. Then after a kiss on the head, she ran off to play.

Disabled

I work in a library. We have three public computer terminals that, not coincidentally, sit exactly where the card catalog used to sit. For years I heard faculty complain that they couldn’t find a book because too many students were using all of our terminals to check email. I did my best to shoo people off, and they did their best to be sneaky. We put up giant signs that read ‘No Email’, and the students just started minimizing their windows so we couldn’t see what they were doing. It caused me a great deal of stress. It became the scapegoat for all my rage at the unfairness of life.

Finally, the library administrators gave in to my demands that we be allowed to block popular email sites on three of our five computers. Now they get redirected to a page that explains that email is blocked on certain computers. It’s been almost a year since the email sites have been blocked, and I’m discovering a perverse satisfaction in the results. Instead of my build up of anxiety as users approach a terminal, I find myself wagering on how many times they will try to login before giving up. The record is seven. Despite four signs encircling each monitor, the brightest of which reading ‘Email Disabled’, they somehow believe they will find a bypass. They seem so confused when they do not. My overdeveloped need for justice is appeased. Let them waste their time, as they used to waste mine.

Foggy Memory #47

I was listening to that song by Train this morning on the radio, and I heard a line I hadn’t paid attention to before. “When children have to play inside, so they don’t disappear...” It reminded me of something from my childhood. In the late 70’s and early 80’s there was a rash of child abductions in the area where I grew up. It was all over the news, and every kid in public school was getting the full dose of ‘don’t talk to strangers’. I can remember thinking how dumb these kids gotta be? Some weirdo offers you a ride home from school and you take it? My seven year old brain had it all figured out, until one day when a strange thing happened.

We lived out in the country. At that time I think we were technically only a mile outside of the city limits, but the city (if you could call it that) didn’t actually start for another mile and a half beyond that. So, out in the middle of farmland we didn’t get too many passers-by. I remember one day this big white car drove up in front of our house. The guy in the passenger’s side rolled down his window and asked me if I knew how to get to Kmart. Now, I’ve always been good with knowing directions, and I did know how to get to Kmart, but at this time in my life I didn’t even know the name of the street in front of my house, let alone the three roads you needed after that. But I did my best. “You take this road a mile, turn left at a stop sign. Go another mile to another stop sign, then turn right and you’ll see it when you get to a stop light.”

I was pretty impressed with myself, but that soon changed as the guy in the car said he couldn’t hear me. Then he opened his car door and set one foot on the ground. I remember thinking ‘you don’t need to get out of your car mister; I can walk up there’. And before I had a chance to take a single step, the door slammed shut, and the car sped off; in the wrong direction, of course.

My sadness at failing to be helpful faded quickly, as my older brother (by 7 years) started giving me the what-for. “How dumb are you? Those guys could’ve picked you up and been long gone before any of us knew you were gone. Don’t talk to people you don’t know.” It was a startling revelation. I had quite possibly been duped. I mean really, how could anybody have not known how to get to Kmart?

Every time a Star Trek episode talks about alternate realities, I wonder if there’s one where my brother didn’t walk around the corner of the house and scare those guys off. I feel a little guilty sometimes for my blind luck, and I try to convince myself that in another reality those other kids didn’t get picked up either.

The Benefits of a Walnut Sized Brain

Our kitten is a baby. At ten months old she knows two words; ‘Kimber’ and ‘treat’. She gets scared when she’s alone in a room, and now she’s a dumpster diver. Yes, she likes to tip over the garbage cans and rummage through whatever she finds, but still I forget she’s a baby.

It started in the bathroom. Twice a day we’d find it tipped over. Q-tips and cotton balls spread all over. A couple times we even found her sleeping with the top half of her body inside the can itself. So we started employing the standard options for behavior modification, redirecting with new toys, then the squirt bottle, and finally a swat on the butt. Without a doubt, we have succeeded in making her afraid to enter the bathroom.

Unfortunately, there are other garbage cans in the house. Her newest favorite is in my Wife’s office. She did it yesterday, and she got a swat. Then she did it again today, and today was not the best day to test my patience. I flipped. I called her name and she ran into the bedroom under the bed. I tried desperately to reach her under there, all the while wishing we had a smaller bed. Finally she fled to the closet hoping I wouldn’t notice. There she was trapped. This frightened little kitten, huddled in the darkest corner of the closet, made not a sound as I crawled back on all fours and picked her up by the back of her neck. I carried her into the office, stuck her head in the wastebasket and gave her a few swats. If only I had remembered, she’s just a baby.

Upon release she ran back under the bed, the only safe place in the house. It took me about ten minutes tops to finish getting ready for work. I went downstairs and put on my coat. I glanced over and saw her sitting at the bottom of the stairs, well within arm’s reach. She looked up, and gave a single quiet little meow. At that moment, I would have given just about anything to know what she said.

I’m sorry.
You’re a big fat stupid.
I won’t go in the closet ever again.
I wanna go back to the pound.
The garbage isn’t any fun when you’re watching.
Why are you so fucking cranky in the morning?
Please don’t leave.

I knelt down to say I was sorry, and she ran a few steps towards the basement. Then she turned and looked at me. I made that kissy noise which apparently is the universal word for “I’m not trying to kill you anymore”. She walked back up to me, and when I picked her up, she immediately started to purr. I hope she doesn’t remember this morning as long as I will.

Question for pet owners.

Suppose you have your choice. Your pet (and consider when they were little too) could understand perfect English from the day they were born, or they could speak perfect English but never understand a word you say. Which would you prefer?

SSA

How dumb is this? We got married in November. In December I went to the Social Security Administration to change S's name on her SS card. The new card arrived about a week later. Everthing should be peachy. I filed our taxes on Monday, and they were rejected because S's name and SS number doesn't match the IRS's records. To fix it, we have to call the SSA, check to see if they have the updated information, and then give them four weeks to send the info to the IRS.

It's a good thing I'm a little neurotic about getting taxes done early, but that's not the most irritating thing. I called the SSA to check on S's information, and they won't tell me anything. They can only tell her.

I can go to the SSA, and file a form to change my wife's name, but I can't call to make sure they sent that to the IRS. Is it me or is that really dumb?