(no subject)
Katrina Freund
P.199 Journal VIII Heroes and Guardian spirits
My father is fairly easy to spot in a crowd. Not so easy perhaps, as he was to spot in his teens (he seemed taller then and he was gangly, with hair flaming red and hanging down to his shoulders) but far from difficult nonetheless. He has a presence; he is a man who fills a room. He is calm and he listens to me without judgment, though when he becomes angry the explosion is like nothing you have ever seen. (He has only once been this sort of angry around me, this red faced and demanding sort of angry. He has never been this sort of angry at me. ) When I was little I played the violin, and he drove me to my lesson every Saturday. We stopped at Dunkin Doughnuts on the way. He ordered a large Black coffee. I had skim milks and glazed doughnuts.
“Don’t spill,” He would say as he shut my door and climbed into the drivers seat. As we drove through the city we talked. He quizzed me about the voices on the radio. I asked questions about the world and he answered them as best he could. We talked about poverty and war and politics. We discussed the state of things as I knew them to be. We talked about my privileges, and all the things I couldn’t know.
My father’s views on the world have been formed in strange corners. He is a product of the sixties, of Vietnam, and of his parents. He was knocked out by a policeman at an anti-war protest and dragged to jail. He dropped out of his high school in order to form his own. He and his friends choose their teachers and their subjects, They learned the way they wanted to learn before getting their GED’s and moving on. Kitty went on to medical school. Ira went to college for Public Relations. My father joined the communist party and tried to change the world.
I don’t always agree with him, but he has taught me to think. Questions were always given answers and materials for further research if I deemed them necessary. Arguments were welcome, for what is an opinion if it cannot stand up to argument? He showed me that the most important type of motivation is self-motivation. There is little short of a gun to the head that can make anyone do anything. People reach conclusion themselves. People choose their paths; you can help to illuminate the choices. He taught me about the value of an individual life (though sometimes the methods he’s approved contradict him. All lives have value, leaving certain methods of the French revolutionary war under question.) He taught me to help, he taught me to care, and he taught me not to trust only the opinions of others. Second hand information is often not enough, even if it is coming from him. This is how I find myself here, running my small white hand along a dark wall as I step on uneven stones toward my destination. (My bus stop in Colonia of course. Did you think I was speaking metaphorically?) I must learn about the world, see it for myself if I’m ever to understand anything. I must put the world into context a piece at a time, My Dad gave me the glasses through which I see , but he also gave me an awareness of them. The stock I hold in logic, in exploration, in education, these are things I learned from him. I also learned to help when possible, and to value people and their independence. I learned to value the power of the human mind. I learned to listen and to observe. I am here now listening and observing. Maybe I am even helping someone. I am here because of the values with which I was bestowed trying to understand the values of others, (an often they are not that different at all.)
P.199 Journal VIII Heroes and Guardian spirits
My father is fairly easy to spot in a crowd. Not so easy perhaps, as he was to spot in his teens (he seemed taller then and he was gangly, with hair flaming red and hanging down to his shoulders) but far from difficult nonetheless. He has a presence; he is a man who fills a room. He is calm and he listens to me without judgment, though when he becomes angry the explosion is like nothing you have ever seen. (He has only once been this sort of angry around me, this red faced and demanding sort of angry. He has never been this sort of angry at me. ) When I was little I played the violin, and he drove me to my lesson every Saturday. We stopped at Dunkin Doughnuts on the way. He ordered a large Black coffee. I had skim milks and glazed doughnuts.
“Don’t spill,” He would say as he shut my door and climbed into the drivers seat. As we drove through the city we talked. He quizzed me about the voices on the radio. I asked questions about the world and he answered them as best he could. We talked about poverty and war and politics. We discussed the state of things as I knew them to be. We talked about my privileges, and all the things I couldn’t know.
My father’s views on the world have been formed in strange corners. He is a product of the sixties, of Vietnam, and of his parents. He was knocked out by a policeman at an anti-war protest and dragged to jail. He dropped out of his high school in order to form his own. He and his friends choose their teachers and their subjects, They learned the way they wanted to learn before getting their GED’s and moving on. Kitty went on to medical school. Ira went to college for Public Relations. My father joined the communist party and tried to change the world.
I don’t always agree with him, but he has taught me to think. Questions were always given answers and materials for further research if I deemed them necessary. Arguments were welcome, for what is an opinion if it cannot stand up to argument? He showed me that the most important type of motivation is self-motivation. There is little short of a gun to the head that can make anyone do anything. People reach conclusion themselves. People choose their paths; you can help to illuminate the choices. He taught me about the value of an individual life (though sometimes the methods he’s approved contradict him. All lives have value, leaving certain methods of the French revolutionary war under question.) He taught me to help, he taught me to care, and he taught me not to trust only the opinions of others. Second hand information is often not enough, even if it is coming from him. This is how I find myself here, running my small white hand along a dark wall as I step on uneven stones toward my destination. (My bus stop in Colonia of course. Did you think I was speaking metaphorically?) I must learn about the world, see it for myself if I’m ever to understand anything. I must put the world into context a piece at a time, My Dad gave me the glasses through which I see , but he also gave me an awareness of them. The stock I hold in logic, in exploration, in education, these are things I learned from him. I also learned to help when possible, and to value people and their independence. I learned to value the power of the human mind. I learned to listen and to observe. I am here now listening and observing. Maybe I am even helping someone. I am here because of the values with which I was bestowed trying to understand the values of others, (an often they are not that different at all.)