More Than Kids

The Spirit of 76 - Good Cop or Bad Cop

If my father were still alive, he would have celebrated his 76th birthday today. I spent the morning with both children; I spent the evening with my son. We watched baseball and ate hot dogs. My son ate ice cream. We had a great day.

I have wondered what my father would have thought about this year's election and the recent police protests/ shootings. My father worked in law enforcement. He did not like politicians. He did not like many people, and his sense of humor was dry. I assumed that he was a "good cop," but he kept many details of his job from me. Even if he had been a good cop, I know his job was difficult.

How does someone in law enforcement do good work in a bad system?

When a police officer is asked to enforce unfair laws, can an officer be a good cop? Is it possible? Was it possible to be a good cop during slavery?  Would a fugitive slave feel better if a "good cop" apologized when arresting a fugitive slave? During legal segregation, how did the good cops arrest people who violated Jim Crow laws? How did the good cops enforce the laws the stopped black people from voting in the 1960's? What did the good cops do when women demanded the right to vote?

How do the good cops "stop and frisk?"

When I attended UCSB, my roommates and I had a poster of a UCSB protest from the early 1970's. A Bank of America was burned in Isla Vista. Law enforcement officers from neighboring jurisdictions were called to help. My father was one of those officers. If I had been a student during the Viet Nam protests, I would have been on different sides than my father. When he worked, however, he was not choosing a side. He was just doing his job. If I had joined a protest, it would have been my choice.

I think my father would have understood the police protests. He still would have gone to work, because it was his job, but he saw the inequity. (He might not have used some of the same terms that I use.) My father also saw how some communities used the law to their benefit. He knew who was more likely to hire a lawyer and fight a DUI arrest. He knew who would complain more about a speeding ticket.

This last year, white families have remained quiet while African American parents have revealed that they have "the talk" with their children. White parents have a talk too. It just sounds different. (I don't even know if white folks know that we have our own talk about how to deal with police.) What do we tell our kids about driving the speed limit? What do we tell them about obeying traffic laws? What do we tell our kids about parking tickets? What do we tell our kids if they are ever arrested? Our kids know that we are allowed to break the law, fight the police and use the system to our benefit. We teach them how to get out paying consequences.

When it comes to larger issues, we hear the Dallas Police Chief call for more support for our communities and we launch ballot initiatives against Big Soda. We aren't even willing to fight Big Cappuccino.

 

Notes to Out of The Darkeness Overnight San Francisco

I wanted my Out of the Darkness blog post to be perfect. (It's over on my other blog.) I wanted to include Robin Williams' references and links to my Brad Paisley's posts. I would hide a lucky horseshoe image with Amy Winehouse lyrics. I was going to quote Margaret Atwood (while acting as if I had always known about her Blank Page poem.) And I was going to argue for the importance of being honest.

I realize that perfection is a pretty high standard. That is part of my struggle. Even after all these years, I am still trying to make everything O.K. I made excuses for my father when he was alive and I do it know.

People have asked me if I feel guilty that my father killed himself, as if someone might have a way to help me feel less guilty if I said yes. Fortunately, I don't feel guilty that he shot himself, HOWEVER, I do feel guilty for saying that I made excuses for my father when he was alive. I still feel guilty now for admitting that I made excuses for my father. I still do. I tell my children that my father would have made an excellent grandfather. Would he? Really? He was unreliable the last few years of his live. He was unsafe. I would not have trusted my children with him.

I still love my father. I even respect him. I miss him. I wish that he had turned his life around so that he could have enjoyed his grandchildren. I wish his grandchildren could have known him, but I don't know that he would have been allowed to know them the way he had been acting the last couple years of his life.

I have been lucky to learn from my father's mistakes... at least I hope that I have learned from my father's mistakes, but sometimes I think that I over-correct. I don't always trust my instincts. I know that I am a good father. I know that my kids love me, but there are times when I am confused about this suicide thing.

I know that those of us who have been affected by suicide must talk about it (just as those with epilepsy must talk about it), but it seems as if other people do not want to listen. It feels as if other people intentionally ignore. It seems as if people do not want to engage in a conversation. With suicide, it seems as if people are afraid that they might catch it. I believe that it is important to share our experiences so that people can learn and heal, but I wonder if I am wrong.

because it seems that more people would rather tell a bad suicide joke than have a good conversation.

Another Year Being a Father

Last year I posted a story with pictures for the 10 year anniversary of being a father to my little girl Emily. You can read the pictures and words at Bryan Farley Photography.

It's been another year. Today, Emily turns eleven years old.

Yesterday a friend asked my what I see when I see God. I told her about the George Strait song that I mentioned in last year's post and how I see God in my daughter and the flower growing in concrete. I also explained that I see God in the way that I want to be as a person. God holds me to a higher standard and loves me when I fail to reach it. God is like a really good parent.

I have been reading a booklet from church called Forward Day by Day. It's filled with inspirational quotes and stories. Today's quote is from Psalm 27:11. (The corresponding story if from Maya Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Signs)

You speak in my heart and say, "Seek my face," Your face, Lord, will I seek.

Today I also photographed my neighbor's new baby. It was a present to me and all the other babies who grew up to be fathers who cry a little when they hear songs about seeing God in common spaces.

When I'm 74 - Another Birthday for a Father

My father would have turned 74 today. He died a little more than 10 years ago. Actually, he killed himself, but he is still dead.

Photo from Fathers Day 2014

 

My children never met my father. My daughter was six months old. My son is 8 now. Both of my kids know how my father died, but I did not tell them until recently. They miss my dad. They feel for me. They want to know more about my father and me.

 

Father's Day and the anniversary of my father's suicide can be difficult for me. On the ten year anniversary, I chose to be positive, but it took ten years. I wondered why people celebrated the birthdays of dead relatives. Now I know why. I did it for my kids. They wanted to celebrate my father and know the good things.

Today we went for desert first (not by plan) and then burritos. I did not eat ice cream, but I enjoyed watching my kids. Last year I could have photographed Josh Groban, who I guess is popular, but I turned down the opportunity so that I could attend my daughter's parent/teacher conference. I like celebrating this way. 

Here are a few other dad related posts.

Emily at 10

Suicide is not a good thing

Before I Die

Father's Birthday 2011

Ballet Dad

Farley at 70

Father's Day 2010

Hey Taylor

Family Photo Pilgrimage 

Many of my other blog posts and galleries are about being a parent. These have links to other posts.

 

Happy Birthday Dad

 

 

 

 

I Grieve Therefore I am - Suicide and Art as Healing

A year ago today I wrote one of my best posts ever. I think. 

(You can read the post.)

I wrote the post about my father's suicide. There are times when I am not sure that it happened. There are times when I hope that he staged it and escaped as part of a witness protection program. There are times when I wonder if I died in a car accident and this is what one goes through on the way to eternity. (It's not so bad, but definitely disorienting.)

Sometimes I hope I am part of a ten year episode of Catfish or Candid Camera. It would be a really sick episode, but maybe my father and friends' children will at least be alive.

For the most part, I am optimistic. I am hopeful. The post title is a playful remark about being introduced to Descartes philosophy at an early age. I know children whose lives were forver changed by using drugs. I probably learned about Descartes too early. "I think therefore I am." Can we prove anything else? Can anyone prove that anything is real?

Fortunately, I quit Descartes and took up art.