I will never forget the day my son asked for my permission to buy a gun. Henri Bergson’s Time and Freewill was spread across my fingers. My thumb and index finger were holding the page open to my favorite quote. As my eyes darted across the page, an interruption alerted me to his presence. I was reading my favorite quote and seeking answers: “What makes hope such an intense pleasure is the fact that the future, which we dispose of to our liking, appears to us at the same time under a multitude of forms, equally attractive and equally possible. Even if the most coveted of these be-comes realized, it will be necessary to give up the others, and we shall have lost a great deal. The idea of the future, pregnant with an infinity of possibilities is why we find more charm in hope than in possession, in dreams than in reality.”
Perhaps, it was destiny that my son would come to me at a critical moment when I was contemplating the words of my favorite philosopher. I had sought out the quote during Barack Obama’s campaign. It was his first campaign at the time and there was a poster virally spreading across the internet. Our soon-to-be-president’s face was plastered in obscuring colors and the word “Hope” was etched beneath his figure. That single word – hope –elicited an unwarranted response from my being and a strong need arose. I wanted to understand why that single poster had driven me to my library.
Thus, I found myself in the library reading philosophy instead of fiction; this distinction is key. To be fair, my son wasn’t requesting a real gun. That request would have been rejected within a moment’s thought. Rather, he had chosen to request funds for a paintball gun. My family never introduced me to guns as a youth, but I had taken time to learn about them. I understood they were a tool and understanding a tool is important. Nevertheless, a hammer is a tool, but it is fundamentally more difficult to kill multiple people with a hammer in a public forum. A gun could decimate a population in the hands of a skilled user. Just like a hammer could build bookshelves for an entire village in the hands of a carpenter.
Perhaps, my son understood the book I was holding. I doubt it, because he was at the ripe age of fourteen and never read Bergson. Hormones were coursing through his impressionable body by the gallon and even unattractive women at the mall, in my view, distracted him from intellectual pursuits. He was also unaware of my experience with firearms. To pay for my education as an undergraduate, I had joined the ROTC. While most of us were just trying to get some money for tuition, others were preparing to become officers. Those officers are still my good friends and remain ever present during this ordeal. I never judged their actions but that could have been my education. Nevertheless, I had handled real firearms and understood that they could be invigorating but dangerous. The rules of handling a firearm were stitched into my heart, next to Henri’s philosophy.
Our conversation was simple and he began: “Dad, what are you reading?”
He was very sly at his young age and knew my books were important: “Henri Bergson’s Time and Freewill, one of my favorites! Would you like to borrow it?”
“No, I was just curious because I never saw you reading it.” He shrugged his shoulders. I remember seeing the black or dark red, I can’t pinpoint it exactly, but it creased at his shoulders.
“Oh, well um, if you want there are other books. You could borrow one of them but don’t write in it. I got my notes in them and don’t want to confuse my thoughts with yours. If you really want, choose one, and I will buy you your own copy.”
At this juncture I was hoping that he was interested in books. Deep in my soul, I believed that he had come to me asking for a guide. A guide that would help him travel through intellectual pursuits, my hobby. Even though my favorite quote warns the reader of hope’s pitfall, I had become hopeful. I failed to realize that my son’s possibilities may not match up with my desires.
Nonetheless, I continued down fate’s hallway and threw my teachings to the wind. I hoped that today was the day my son came to me and chose to pursue knowledge. On this day, I figured he would begin his intellectual journey that would surpass my intellect. You see, it wasn’t just my thought. Rather, I was looking at my son through a Marionian filter and Marion believed that the son was an amalgam of his father and self. However, the child would eventually surpass the father, because he would begin his endeavors with his dad’s wisdom. With the bar set high, he could began expanding and dwarfing what his father had learned during his life. Since the birth of my son, I had dreamt of this day. Either way, my hopes were dashed and the reality of the situation was brought to my attention.
“No, I don’t think I could understand those books. I see you reading them over and over and it just seems boring to me. Like, I understand they are important to you, but maybe I just need to get older or something.” That single phrase brought joy to my heart. He understood that philosophy wasn’t something that could just be read. It wasn’t like Harry Potter but something that needed a mature mind: “I want to buy an paintball gun but mom told me you needed to approve.”
“What do you mean? Why do you want a gun?”
“It isn’t a gun dad. Jeez, I knew you wouldn’t even know what I was talking about.” He pulled out some printer paper with colored images, “See dad, these are some guys that play this game. It is called paintballing and my buddies want to get into the sport.”
“Sport? Sports are soccer or football.”
“Dad, you are too old. There are like tons of sports. Did you know rock climbing has competitions and is a sport?”
“Yes, I don’t live under a rock.” My leather chair creaked as I sat forward and became more involved in our critical conversation.
“Well there are competitions for this stuff too and my buddies want to start playing. All I need is one of these guys.” He pointed to a five hundred dollar professional paintball gun: “Listen it isn’t expensive or dangerous. This is a little more expensive than the other guns but comes with eye protection, a CO2 canister, and some pads for your body. So you don’t have to worry about me shooting my eye out.” We had just watched A Christmas Story and his argument had been planned.
“Calm down. You are getting all jittery and just blindsided me with a major decision.”
“I don’t think so. Skylar’s dad was all about it and even went with him to pick out a few.”
“I am not Skylar’s dad.”
“So, I’m just trying to point out that it isn’t a major decision.”
“Too me it is.”
“Well to normal people it isn’t”
That comment cut me deep and I could feel my Irish blood begin to boil: “Calm down son.” I was repressing my natural tendencies but felt like I was failing.
“No, this is bullshit.”
“Watch your damn language.”
“Oh, here comes Mister Hypocrite swearing, but telling me I can’t”
Even at this time I thought “this escalated quickly” but didn’t heed my own warning: “Listen! Get out of my office. You come into my special time and interrupt me. Next time you want to ask me something so outlandish you can schedule a damn appointment with your mother.” He went for a rebuttal but it was too late and my chair squeaked one last time, “Don’t you dare open your mouth. Get out of my library and think about how you approached me!” Specks of spit danced in my reading lamp’s orange glow, but he retreated from the battle. I had ended our conversation with a finger to the face and my tall frame over shadowing his growing body.
It is important to note that I never hit my son. My readings stated that hitting a child exasperated the issue and wasn’t proven to stem unwanted behavior. But, I wanted to hit him. Every fiber in my being begged for release, but I pushed those feelings down. To be honest, that day may have been the day that broke me. Luckily, my son wasn’t emotionally unadapt and walked away from a precarious situation. That single choice saved me a lifelong pain of knowing my emotions couldn’t be controlled by rationality.
My vision was slightly blurred, and I breathed heavily for an unknown amount of time. No one entered the library because my voice had created a barrier. I was ashamed, because I had deviated from what I preached. Normally, I would have sat and listened to my son’s argument, because all arguments are valid. Who knew, maybe my son had thought of some argument that would convince me. For me it was important to foster a compassionate home, a safe haven, but I chose to belittle him. In a moment my vision cleared, and I was back in the leather chair reading my favorite passage. It was at that point that I realized I made a grave mistake against my two favorite philosophers.
I felt that my reaction was because of my son’s willingness to walk away from what I felt important; books. He wanted to pursue something that was different from my desires and become his own man. Perhaps I felt my hobbies were irrelevant and now my only son was slipping away from myself. There was no way to know, I am still trying to rationalize what has happened. It was a crossroads, an impasse, my son was splitting from me and becoming his own being. And that independence was crushing my hope for his future. Every time he made a decision it eliminated all his other possibilities. He had fulfilled Marion and Bergson’s philosophy in a single conversation.
A slight giggle escaped my throat which eventually crescendoed into a booming fit of insane laughter. My wife walked in with a slightly cocked head and a confused appearance. She had a small red rag over her arm and our daughter over her shoulder. I looked at that toddler and figured my chances for an intellectual child still existed, but I needed to accept my son’s interests.
“You okay dear?”
“Yes… just a minor conflict of faith.” I saw these writers as demi-gods.
“Do you need anything?”
“No, send in Michael.”
“You have feet, arms, and a voice. I am going to feed our daughter.”
With that she walked away, and I remembered why I loved her. Having no desire to leave my glass of milk, I chose to use the laziest option available and yelled for my son. I didn’t use his full name which was reserved for moments of punishment. Rather, I screamed his nickname, “Mad Mike, come back to my library.”
Like an obedient dog, he came to the two doors and wouldn’t pass into my temple, “What?”
“You can get the paintball gun.” I remembered clearly putting paintball in the sentence, “but only one. I don’t want you to have a collection of useless things. You have to promise me you will look over this pamphlet.” It was a manual for properly handling a firearm.
He was ecstatic and thrust himself past the threshold of the sanctuary. His arms were around me before I could toss Time and Freewill onto the couch. A couch I wish he had used when I was reading. That way we could discuss literature or philosophy as we both participated in the process of gathering knowledge. A smile crossed my lips because of his affection. Perhaps, all I was craving was his approval.
“Dad don’t worry, I will read it from front to back and you can even quiz me. I am going to go read it right away.”
“Why not read it here.” My bent book pointed to the cream couch.
“Oh yea, that will work!” He plopped down next to me and began searching for a light source that could cover all of the pages. It was a struggle I often experienced when I first bought the house. After we were financially stable, I made it a priority to get a lamp I could move and would always illuminate my books; I bought two.
“Son, grab that light over there and plug it in. Then just direct it where you need it.” He was inexperienced and added spots to my vision: “You are blinding me, try and angle it down more.” He obliged and the interrogation was over.
Soon after that night, he was able to recant all the important tenants of handling a firearm. I went with him to the store and purchased the gun. They read off all the warnings that the government had forced them to say. These were warnings I had voted for and ignored. Once he had the gun, our bonding moment dissipated, and he spent more time with his friends. He was truly happy and eventually begged to join tournaments.
You all must understand that I wanted him to feel supported. I began changing myself and going to their teams training sessions. The other fathers welcomed me and it was a magnificent learning experience. Before long, I had learned how the rough and tumble men handled communication. Our banter was fantastic but irrelevant. It was two months before the tournaments began, and I came home to my son laying on the couch in my study. I cracked a smile and entered the room. He was engrossed in his book and never heard the leather groan under my weight. We sat side by side in our own little worlds for an hour.
Eventually he popped up, confused, “Dad, when did you get here?”
“I have been reading here for the last hour or so. I lost track of time. What are you reading?”
“Well I read The Art of War but it didn’t really match up to much with our paintballing training. It was more for war like stuff. So I got this book.” He turned over an old hardcover book from my father: Military Maneuvers for Squad on Squad Combat: “This is awesome. I never you knew you had such badass books.”
“Language.” It never crossed my mind that my son would use reading to become a more effective soldier.
“Sorry dad, I am just super stoked about the tournament season. We will obliterate our team enemies with these tactics!” His face was beaming with excitement.
Once again, I remembered why I shouldn’t have hope. Even though he had chosen to enjoy literature it was for a nefarious purpose. He was using literacy to bolster his ability at decimating his enemies in a combat scenario. At the time, it was paintballing and not using real firearms. Either way, hope had betrayed me again, and I turned all my ambitions toward my youngest daughter.
I responded unenthusiastically, “Seems great son. I am going to get back to my book.” At that moment, I had pushed my son’s boat adrift at sea. Instead of raising him, I chose to read my books. I had chosen to let him do what he believed was right. To create his own path.
There was one issue with that, he was still too young to create his own path in the world. Instead, he began adopting the ideals of his friend’s parents. It was simple, I wanted him to be his own person, but in that process, I failed to recognize that he was too immature to develop his own concrete understanding of himself.
Two months later, we were at the tournament, and I was zealous supporter of his team. They were clearly the youngest children to play in the tournament. However, unlike their enemies, they had the luxury of parents with deep pockets, being unemployed, and an abundance of free time. These factors led the team to dominate the entire tournament. I was proud that my son took first and qualified for a tournament two states away.
The other fathers were busy and couldn’t participate in a nine hour drive. Our gas, logging, and food was paid for by the organizers of the tournament. The only thing that wasn’t provided was the transportation to the tournament. The other parents couldn’t afford to take time away from their families. So, I volunteered and took all the children to the tournament. It was there that my son demonstrated his abilities in a leadership role. He commanded his friends like troops. During the ride he had spent all nine hours discussing different strategies. These were reliant on various factors: what team they played, the scenario, and of course the environment. It was a thorough presentation and not one of his friends ignored his authority on the subject.
Eventually they made it to the finals and he came up to me in his camouflage gear, “Dad don’t worry about this. We are going to stuff them in the dirt.”
I simply forced a smile, “Go get em son.” It was the classic phrase the other fathers spouted at their offspring. I was a chameleon.
Without the intoxicating screams of the other fathers, I witnessed the “game” from a sterile state of mind. I was no longer affected by the mob’s thoughts and was myself for the first time since we began the endeavor. Disgust, that’s all I could think at the time. My son was shooting people and screaming in joy when his enemies fell before him in battle. He was too young to realize that each person he “killed” in the game would have died in real life. This child had failed to understand empathy. This wasn’t a video game were the player is separate from the actions because of an avatar. Rather, this was a game where my son was knee deep in combat and it was him personally “eliminating” his enemies. It was at that point that, I should have realized that there were only two possibilities open too my son.
That is what brings me to you all today. Those two possibilities were simple and I even wrote them in my journal: he would join the military or kill people in a rampage. I had him tested by many psychologists, but all of them believed he was sound of mind and spirit. There was still hope that one would find him mentally unstable. That would have kept him from being able to purchase a gun or join the military. This was the one time I rooted for hope, I wanted reality to close down two potential possibilities for my son.
Sitting here, today has brought great sadness to my heart. A father should never outlive his son and it is shameful that I didn’t try to stop him. Some of you agree that it would have been great if one of those psychologist had deemed him unstable. Then we wouldn’t be sitting here, but that is the problem with the past. We sit here and think that we can trace back the history of our son and what actions led them down this path. I am proud of him and am ashamed of my personal thoughts. If it wasn’t for individuals like him, my library wouldn’t exist and that leather chair wouldn’t squeak.
That is why we have joined together. We wanted to honor a man who joined the military to defend us from those that choose to oppress us. He never chose to attack our family, friends, neighbors, or anyone he didn’t know. He joined the military and quickly became an officer because of his intelligence. Some of his men are standing here, yet, I sit behind this pedestal and recount my personal thoughts. Shameful thoughts that placed a wedge between me and my son. I never set him free but I stopped raising him.
Many of you have told me about his skill at negotiating with hostile forces. He saved more lives with his voice than a gun. He always chose to avoid combat and has never had a confirmed kill. It is amazing that he turned out to be such a wonderful man. If you had seen him play paintball, you would imagine that he would have been the best in combat.
Then again, what I didn’t know about my son was he was reading books for enjoyment. You see, I discounted my son. Once I set him adrift, I never came back to see if he had matured. He had. That old military book had a clear chapter on ethics and even suggested Levinas as a good place for ethical philosophy. It explained that lives should never be sacrificed if there was a simpler way resolve a predicament.
He sacrificed his life believing what I had wanted to teach him: if one acquires knowledge, all conflicts can be solved through discourse. If that had been the case, we wouldn’t be standing before an empty casket. A week ago I received news that my son had been killed in combat, his body was burned, and the ashes thrown into the night sky. I forgive them for their ignorance. What they don’t know, is they left my son in the one place he was happiest; the battlefield. His tactics on that battlefield had matured, but it was still his favorite place.
While we stand before an empty coffin, please don’t harbor ill will towards our enemy, because it would go against my son’s goal during his time as an officer. Try to learn and understand why they choose to fight us. Hopefully, and you all know how I feel about hope, we will choose the single possibility that will lead to peace. Until we achieve diplomacy with our enemies my son’s death with be in vain. With that, let me thank you for coming by inviting you to join us in the reception hall for hors d’oeuvres.