Christine writes: A flashback to a conversation with Dad about applyingto college…“You have to apply to LaSalle.” This wasnon-negotiable.“You have to apply for a scholarship.” This was alsonon-negotiable, but seemed absurd to myseventeen-year-old ears.“Why? If I went, I’d get free tuition. If I got thescholarship, I’d be taking the money away from anotherkid. And anyway, you’re on the faculty, it mightseemed rigged.”
This was why my father wanted me to be a lawyer. I had a well-reasoned argument on hand every time I was too lazy to do something. Writing a scholarship essay was not on the top of my to-do list. Finding out where the warehouse parties in West Philadelphia would be next was way more intriguing to me.
That said, it was also the scholarship question. It was something like, “Why would you be a good LaSalle student?” 1000 words on why I was super. I was pretty sure I wasn’t super. In fact, I’m pretty sure that even my dad didn’t find me all that super at seventeen. In addition to noting that I excelled at arguing, my Dad also took note of my extreme bull-shitting skills. I could look at the back of a book, skim a chapter or two, and pretend I read it. He gave me an article from, I think the NYT with winning college essays and suggested that I find inspiration there. There was one in which a student wrote a play about why he would make a great addition to the college. I had a brief “why-didn’t-think-of-this?” moment and then dismissed the idea. Any knock-off would run the risk of simply being plagiarism.
Then I went to visit the school I hoped to go to: St. Johns College in Annapolis. St. Johns, for the uninitiated, is a “great books” school. Undaunted by the fact that they expect the students to actuallyread the books (not just the blurb and a few straysentences) I went took the train to Maryland fully planning to fall in love.
Before the visit, I was to read Plato’s Republic. During the visit, I was expected to attend a class in which it would bediscussed. The visit didn’t go that well. I was at a party and in a minor car accident the night before and fellasleep during the class. All was not lost, though. On the way back from Annapolis, I had an idea. A play was out, but why not write a Platonic dialogue about why I was the perfect student?
I showed my dad a draft. He liked the idea, but thought I misunderstood a few points. We discussedand I reread the part of The Republic to which hereferred me. Then I revised my piece. Clever, he said, but a few more misunderstandings. More discussion, more rereading, more revising.
In the end, I didn’t apply to St. Johns. The essay was too long and I wasn’t sure if I would (or should) get in after the falling asleep in class debacle. I also won’t share whether or not I got the scholarship. But I will share that I had fun –with my Dad - which was more than a novelty during my teen years. Still, this experience was more than fun. It provided a window into who my dad was - what he did and how he thought. It also sparked my interest in philosophy –and in reading more than just the back of the book.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
In Bruges
Little Mike writes: Mom and I went to see "In Bruges" last Saturday for sentimental reasons. Why would a son take his mother to see a gory, bloody, dark comedy filled with expletive-ridden dialogue?
It's because Bruge lay at the far end of a pilgrimmage Dad made to intellectual Europe just two years before he died. Though Dad didn't know it at the time, the trip offered a European intellectual bookend.
Mom and I joined a few dozen other matinee goers in the dark theater on a breezy afternoon just as the days were getting longer. "In Bruges" quickly followed its protagonists from the Brussels train down into the charming canals and cobblestoned streets of Old Bruges.
It was this same train that Dad hurried out to catch one morning in the summer of 2005 when he and Mom were staying in Brussels. He wore his country cap and carried a notebook and a camera--Dad doesn't carry cameras but he carried one on that summer day in 2005.
Why was this trip so special that it merited a camera? Yet another European city had lured Dad with the promise of a philosophical connection. This time the philosopher was Maurice Blondel, a man ownknown to most modern-day theologians and philosophers, but a star of the Roman Catholic modernism movement. To the extent Dad, a proud jack-of-all-trades and master-of-none, could focus on one individual philosopher, Blondel had been his man for most of the past decade. What made Blondel special? Action, the same Action I wrote of in an earlier blog.
More on Blondel's writings to come, but this entry is about Dad's insatiable drive to see, touch, and smell the places that made the philosophers he studied. Over the years, Dad led our family on philosophical landmark detours... to Port Jervis, New York to see the home of Charles Saunders Pierce, the American Modernist philosopher and a sort of secular philosophical cousin to Blondel; to the hills above Utica, New York to try to hunt down the grave of Brother Azarias, one of the greatest philosophical thinkers of the history of the Christian Brothers; and that same summer of the Bruges trainline, to the small town in Germany where Karl Marx was born and where Chinese tourists made real pilgrimmages--Dad would claim his was an historical, not an emotional, visit.
The Maurice Blondel archives lay two thirds of the way West of Brussels on the Bruge line at Louvain University. Louvain was long considered among the top Catholic universities in Europe--Dad almost went there instead of to the Gregorian in Rome, and, ironically, had Dad chosen Louvain, he may have never met Father Peter Henrici, the Gregorian professor who convinced him to study Blondel.
Now Blondel led Dad back to Louvain. That's because the university held the official Maurice Blondel Archives. Dad met with the chief Blondel archivist, reviewed some old letters and manuscripts and took notes for a handful of Blondel projects he was juggling. But his trip down the Bruges line really came to life when we looked at the pictures he took that day. There it was, a picture of the keep-a-low-profile Philadelphia philosopher sitting in Maurice Blondel's century-old chair in front of Blondel's century old desk. Dad was smiling, wearing his tourist short-sleeved collared shirt, with a sweaty hat in hand.
Even after seeing the picture, I don't think we comprehended how much the little pilgrimmage meant to Dad. But then he explained. He looked at Mom and said, "I felt like I was back in Europe as a young doctoral student all over again." But the way Dad looked at Mom suggested this was a powerful, emotional connection to a formative time, but also to a time whose value was as a stepping stone to the present, to being a husband and a father.
It's because Bruge lay at the far end of a pilgrimmage Dad made to intellectual Europe just two years before he died. Though Dad didn't know it at the time, the trip offered a European intellectual bookend.
Mom and I joined a few dozen other matinee goers in the dark theater on a breezy afternoon just as the days were getting longer. "In Bruges" quickly followed its protagonists from the Brussels train down into the charming canals and cobblestoned streets of Old Bruges.
It was this same train that Dad hurried out to catch one morning in the summer of 2005 when he and Mom were staying in Brussels. He wore his country cap and carried a notebook and a camera--Dad doesn't carry cameras but he carried one on that summer day in 2005.
Why was this trip so special that it merited a camera? Yet another European city had lured Dad with the promise of a philosophical connection. This time the philosopher was Maurice Blondel, a man ownknown to most modern-day theologians and philosophers, but a star of the Roman Catholic modernism movement. To the extent Dad, a proud jack-of-all-trades and master-of-none, could focus on one individual philosopher, Blondel had been his man for most of the past decade. What made Blondel special? Action, the same Action I wrote of in an earlier blog.
More on Blondel's writings to come, but this entry is about Dad's insatiable drive to see, touch, and smell the places that made the philosophers he studied. Over the years, Dad led our family on philosophical landmark detours... to Port Jervis, New York to see the home of Charles Saunders Pierce, the American Modernist philosopher and a sort of secular philosophical cousin to Blondel; to the hills above Utica, New York to try to hunt down the grave of Brother Azarias, one of the greatest philosophical thinkers of the history of the Christian Brothers; and that same summer of the Bruges trainline, to the small town in Germany where Karl Marx was born and where Chinese tourists made real pilgrimmages--Dad would claim his was an historical, not an emotional, visit.
The Maurice Blondel archives lay two thirds of the way West of Brussels on the Bruge line at Louvain University. Louvain was long considered among the top Catholic universities in Europe--Dad almost went there instead of to the Gregorian in Rome, and, ironically, had Dad chosen Louvain, he may have never met Father Peter Henrici, the Gregorian professor who convinced him to study Blondel.
Now Blondel led Dad back to Louvain. That's because the university held the official Maurice Blondel Archives. Dad met with the chief Blondel archivist, reviewed some old letters and manuscripts and took notes for a handful of Blondel projects he was juggling. But his trip down the Bruges line really came to life when we looked at the pictures he took that day. There it was, a picture of the keep-a-low-profile Philadelphia philosopher sitting in Maurice Blondel's century-old chair in front of Blondel's century old desk. Dad was smiling, wearing his tourist short-sleeved collared shirt, with a sweaty hat in hand.
Even after seeing the picture, I don't think we comprehended how much the little pilgrimmage meant to Dad. But then he explained. He looked at Mom and said, "I felt like I was back in Europe as a young doctoral student all over again." But the way Dad looked at Mom suggested this was a powerful, emotional connection to a formative time, but also to a time whose value was as a stepping stone to the present, to being a husband and a father.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Lawyers, guns, and life
Last Wednesday, I convinced my coworkers to take a detour between meetings.
"Can you take us to the Supreme Court?" I asked the taxi driver. I was not a tourist, however. I had specific business to attend to. I wanted to see (and ideally join) the rallies unfolding on the front steps of the Supreme Court as it debated whether to uphold Washington, DC's handgun ban or order the ban reversed. For the justices, the public, and me, everything rested on interpretations of the Second Amendment. At least on the surface. Deep down, it was more personal, for me and for everyone.
A close friend of mine lost a loved one to a DC handgun shooting. And I didn't like the fact that Republicans could own the pro-gun and also pro-life agendas. I shy away from abortion debates, but I honor and respect the pro-life movement. I have no patience for the pro-gun movement. So as my colleagues and I approached the Supreme Court, high on a hill above the U.S. Capitol building, I conjured up a sign that I'd hold on the court's steps. It would read, "Gun Control is Pro-Life."
But as we reached the Supreme Court, Dad got into my head. His former student Bill Sullivan had helped Dad into my head for occasions like this. He knew exactly what Dad would have done if placed in my shoes. That's because, back in the late 1960s, Bill had tried to convince his philosophy professor, Dad, to join in a student protest against the Vietnam War. Dad politely declined, with a wry smile, and the words, "I am a theoretical person."
Theoretical? Dad, people are getting killed on the streets of DC! Dad may have been more theoretical than activist about his ethical positions, but he didn't hide them from his friends and loved ones. And he certainly didn't hide them from himself, particularly in the area of life issues. As Mom and I were cleaning out Dad's office, we found some journal notes he had written during the five minute period he gave students each class to write their own philosophical journals. There, again in Dad's staccato handwriting, unchanged from his postcards home from Rome, we read, "I would not support stem cell research. Not even if it would cure my Leukemia. That would still not justify the unjust deed."
There it was. Dad speaking unequivocally on a heated topic. Dad also made a point of telling every Democratic fundraiser and pollster who called the home that "I plan to vote Democratic but I don't like the way the party is handling the abortion issue." On life issues, Dad didn't stop at stem cell research and abortion. He often said that it caused him great pain to eat meat and to think that living things were killed to put this food on his table. The line was drawn somewhere on this side of the vegetarian issue, since Dad persisted throughout his entire life as a lover of hamburgers and scrapple, Philadelphia's mysterious pork delicacy.
And it's fairly clear where Dad would have stood on the handgun issue. He'd have listened to the arguments of the pro-gun crowd, read up on the Second Amendment, and come to an even handed conclusion that the handgun ban in DC was a good thing. But it would have all been measured and methodical, not knee jerk, even if the deep-seated feelings bubbled with far more passion than Dad's rhetoric.
So Dad would probably have told me, "Mike, you're silly to be off protesting. Write an op-ed article about the Supreme Court handgun ban case, and get back to work." But deep down, I think he would have liked my "Gun Control is Pro Life" slogan, maybe told some colleagues about it, and winced each time he learned about a shooting down in Washington, DC where his son lived.
"Can you take us to the Supreme Court?" I asked the taxi driver. I was not a tourist, however. I had specific business to attend to. I wanted to see (and ideally join) the rallies unfolding on the front steps of the Supreme Court as it debated whether to uphold Washington, DC's handgun ban or order the ban reversed. For the justices, the public, and me, everything rested on interpretations of the Second Amendment. At least on the surface. Deep down, it was more personal, for me and for everyone.
A close friend of mine lost a loved one to a DC handgun shooting. And I didn't like the fact that Republicans could own the pro-gun and also pro-life agendas. I shy away from abortion debates, but I honor and respect the pro-life movement. I have no patience for the pro-gun movement. So as my colleagues and I approached the Supreme Court, high on a hill above the U.S. Capitol building, I conjured up a sign that I'd hold on the court's steps. It would read, "Gun Control is Pro-Life."
But as we reached the Supreme Court, Dad got into my head. His former student Bill Sullivan had helped Dad into my head for occasions like this. He knew exactly what Dad would have done if placed in my shoes. That's because, back in the late 1960s, Bill had tried to convince his philosophy professor, Dad, to join in a student protest against the Vietnam War. Dad politely declined, with a wry smile, and the words, "I am a theoretical person."
Theoretical? Dad, people are getting killed on the streets of DC! Dad may have been more theoretical than activist about his ethical positions, but he didn't hide them from his friends and loved ones. And he certainly didn't hide them from himself, particularly in the area of life issues. As Mom and I were cleaning out Dad's office, we found some journal notes he had written during the five minute period he gave students each class to write their own philosophical journals. There, again in Dad's staccato handwriting, unchanged from his postcards home from Rome, we read, "I would not support stem cell research. Not even if it would cure my Leukemia. That would still not justify the unjust deed."
There it was. Dad speaking unequivocally on a heated topic. Dad also made a point of telling every Democratic fundraiser and pollster who called the home that "I plan to vote Democratic but I don't like the way the party is handling the abortion issue." On life issues, Dad didn't stop at stem cell research and abortion. He often said that it caused him great pain to eat meat and to think that living things were killed to put this food on his table. The line was drawn somewhere on this side of the vegetarian issue, since Dad persisted throughout his entire life as a lover of hamburgers and scrapple, Philadelphia's mysterious pork delicacy.
And it's fairly clear where Dad would have stood on the handgun issue. He'd have listened to the arguments of the pro-gun crowd, read up on the Second Amendment, and come to an even handed conclusion that the handgun ban in DC was a good thing. But it would have all been measured and methodical, not knee jerk, even if the deep-seated feelings bubbled with far more passion than Dad's rhetoric.
So Dad would probably have told me, "Mike, you're silly to be off protesting. Write an op-ed article about the Supreme Court handgun ban case, and get back to work." But deep down, I think he would have liked my "Gun Control is Pro Life" slogan, maybe told some colleagues about it, and winced each time he learned about a shooting down in Washington, DC where his son lived.
Of Faith, Hope, and Action
Little Mike writes: Father V. stood before the congregation at St. Phillip Neri Church and clutched the thick red Bible as he paced like a Protestant preacher. His voice rose and fell, quickened and slowed, unhampered by the lecturn or a written sermon. First he took on the Christmas and Easter Catholics. It was Easter Sunday, so Father V. knew the Church was full of them.
"Catholicism isn't a religion for the faint of heart," he said. "This isn't the kind of religion you sit back and admire. You have a choice to make today. Is Christ risen for you? IS HE?"
What would Dad have thought Father V. challenged all of us, the once every three weeks churchgoers like me and the true Christmas and Easter Catholics, to start acting like Catholics? Dad probably would have found the tone a bit heavy handed, the fire and brimstone uncalled for in a church full of children.
But Father V. made two subtle points that would have resonated with Dad.
First, he acknowledged that faith was tough. "If you don't believe," he said, "then invest the time in putting yourself in the presence of God." This brings us back to Dad's "Hokey Pokey" theory on religion and life--"you put your whole self in." Apparently, Dad would actually occasionally surprise his students with a quick Hokey Pokey dance during this lesson. Dad never knew anything for sure, he acknowledged not being fully secure in his faith, but he "hoped" and he "trusted" and he went to Church, and to Confession, and tried to keep us his Catholic traditions because those traditions helped him to hope and to trust more. For a man who was driven as an adolescent into the Christian Brothers due partly to his fear of dying, hope and trust ended up sufficing for Dad. The week before he died, he said, "You know all those questions I used to worry about. I feel peaceful about them now." Dad did not say that he had answers. And that is the mystery of our quest to follow Dad's quest. How could he reach peace with his questions about life and death even if he never fully answered those questions?
Father V.'s second point might help us get at another source of the peace. Again, clutching the big red Bible, his left arm straining under its weight, Father V. spoke: "Catholicism is not a religion of the mind. No, it is a religion of the hands, the feet, and the voice." Then he paused and said, "It is a religion of action."
Dad the adolescent, Dad the teenager, and Dad the young man was a cerebral person. This didn't mean he was a hermit or a withdrawn, brooding type. But it did mean that he wrestled his faith questions in his head. The interior struggles pushed him into anxious pondering as a young Christian Brother. But, as Dad read on, fighting the intellectual fight for faith, he stumbled upon some Catholic philosophers who claimed that faith was as much about action as about thinking.
A few years before he died, Dad traveled up to Boston. He had his eye on an obscure set of correspondence between one well-known philosopher and another philosopher little-known among secular American philosophers but well-known among European Catholics. The duo: William James, the American Pragmatist, and Maurice Blondel, the Belgian Catholic Modernist. What on earth did these two men have to say to one another? A lot. Pragmatism, as I understand it [caveat that Little Mike is a philosophical lay person] is all about finding the truth through action, through living, and sharing our world with six billion people. This way of thinking resonated with Blondel and his friends in the Roman Catholic Modernism movement. They were trying to make Catholicism more relevant for modern life.
So is a life, busy with good deeds and light on contemplation, the right path for the rest of us to reach the peace that Dad gained with his faith questions? No. And that's why Dad was a Blondel scholar. Because Blondel, who called his most famous work "Action," defined action broadly. Included under the umbrella of Action was, among other things, Prayer. But even prayer was as action-oriented as it was contemplative, for Dad.
In a presentation to his fellow Christian Brothers on prayer, Dad once said,
“The building up of the world and the founding of the new future depend on my activity and on my cooperation with all who work in that same direction. My commitment to God and to the world in Christ is thus an act of hope arising from faith and flowing into action.”
There it is: hope, faith, and action, all together, without the fire and brimstone, but with a bit of urgent inspiration, Dad sytle.
"Catholicism isn't a religion for the faint of heart," he said. "This isn't the kind of religion you sit back and admire. You have a choice to make today. Is Christ risen for you? IS HE?"
What would Dad have thought Father V. challenged all of us, the once every three weeks churchgoers like me and the true Christmas and Easter Catholics, to start acting like Catholics? Dad probably would have found the tone a bit heavy handed, the fire and brimstone uncalled for in a church full of children.
But Father V. made two subtle points that would have resonated with Dad.
First, he acknowledged that faith was tough. "If you don't believe," he said, "then invest the time in putting yourself in the presence of God." This brings us back to Dad's "Hokey Pokey" theory on religion and life--"you put your whole self in." Apparently, Dad would actually occasionally surprise his students with a quick Hokey Pokey dance during this lesson. Dad never knew anything for sure, he acknowledged not being fully secure in his faith, but he "hoped" and he "trusted" and he went to Church, and to Confession, and tried to keep us his Catholic traditions because those traditions helped him to hope and to trust more. For a man who was driven as an adolescent into the Christian Brothers due partly to his fear of dying, hope and trust ended up sufficing for Dad. The week before he died, he said, "You know all those questions I used to worry about. I feel peaceful about them now." Dad did not say that he had answers. And that is the mystery of our quest to follow Dad's quest. How could he reach peace with his questions about life and death even if he never fully answered those questions?
Father V.'s second point might help us get at another source of the peace. Again, clutching the big red Bible, his left arm straining under its weight, Father V. spoke: "Catholicism is not a religion of the mind. No, it is a religion of the hands, the feet, and the voice." Then he paused and said, "It is a religion of action."
Dad the adolescent, Dad the teenager, and Dad the young man was a cerebral person. This didn't mean he was a hermit or a withdrawn, brooding type. But it did mean that he wrestled his faith questions in his head. The interior struggles pushed him into anxious pondering as a young Christian Brother. But, as Dad read on, fighting the intellectual fight for faith, he stumbled upon some Catholic philosophers who claimed that faith was as much about action as about thinking.
A few years before he died, Dad traveled up to Boston. He had his eye on an obscure set of correspondence between one well-known philosopher and another philosopher little-known among secular American philosophers but well-known among European Catholics. The duo: William James, the American Pragmatist, and Maurice Blondel, the Belgian Catholic Modernist. What on earth did these two men have to say to one another? A lot. Pragmatism, as I understand it [caveat that Little Mike is a philosophical lay person] is all about finding the truth through action, through living, and sharing our world with six billion people. This way of thinking resonated with Blondel and his friends in the Roman Catholic Modernism movement. They were trying to make Catholicism more relevant for modern life.
So is a life, busy with good deeds and light on contemplation, the right path for the rest of us to reach the peace that Dad gained with his faith questions? No. And that's why Dad was a Blondel scholar. Because Blondel, who called his most famous work "Action," defined action broadly. Included under the umbrella of Action was, among other things, Prayer. But even prayer was as action-oriented as it was contemplative, for Dad.
In a presentation to his fellow Christian Brothers on prayer, Dad once said,
“The building up of the world and the founding of the new future depend on my activity and on my cooperation with all who work in that same direction. My commitment to God and to the world in Christ is thus an act of hope arising from faith and flowing into action.”
There it is: hope, faith, and action, all together, without the fire and brimstone, but with a bit of urgent inspiration, Dad sytle.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Greetings from Everywhere
Aunt Mary Theresa, Dad's sister, has doggedly helped us chase Dad's history. She'll supply stories from her steel trap memory and phone numbers for distant relatives from her well-worn address book. Once she heard we were working on following Dad's quest for truth, Aunt Mary also became the leading archivist of this project. She began showing up for family gatherings armed with old letters and photos. One of the biggest treasures she hung on to was a collection of all of the post cards that Dad sent home from his four years in Europe.
The post cards sit on 45-year-old photo album pages. By the 1960s, album-makers had begun lathering their pages with adhesive, simplifying the task of the album creator, but (I now know) complicating the task of the family historian. So strong was the adhesive that I have been unable to detach a beautiful postcard of central Rome (perhaps the first Dad sent) without shredding the surface of the postcard and destroying Dad's words. So, today, I work with what postcards I can, and leave myself and our readers in suspense until I can find the right scraping knife.
Even some of the postcards that I can detach leave a fossil in blue ink, like the shroud of Turin, of Dad's staccato handwriting. As I look at the fossil, I realize that Dad wrote his notes sideways, or at least sideways from what I expected. He obviously would turn the postcard ninety degrees. Then he'd start his notes at the line in the middle of the postcard and then write all the way down to the left side of the postcard. Was this an artistic flourish, standard postcard format in the 1960s, or a "common sense philosopher's" way to give himself more writing space?
I will transcribe the postcards as I read them, letting Dad's words stand for themselves.
1963
Brothers of the Christian Schools
Villa S. Maria
Bassano del Grappa
"Dear Mom, Dad, and Mary,
My present home! The mountain in the background is Monte Grappa, where the Germans and Italians fought each other at the end of WWI. I was on the top this morning to visit the military cemetary. I am glad to hear that Uncle John is a little better. I have asked the boys here to pray for him. Another week, and I'll be in Rome. Prayers.
Love, Mickey"
1963
Casa Divin Maestro (house of the divine teacher)
per Esercizi Spirituali (for spiritual exercise)
ARICCIA (Roma)
"Dear Mom, Dad, Mary and Ann,
The correction material was waiting for me when I returned from our retreat at Lake Albano--directly across the lake from Castel Gondalfo, the Pope's summer home. Many thanks--though I don't think the air mail was really necessary. I'm sure it's going to be useful though. The stay at Lake Albano was wonderful--beautiful country, quiet, excellent talks, etc. But do continue to pray for me.
Your loving son and brother, Mickey"
[Little Mike's quick note: I believe by "correction material" that Dad meant correction tape/White Out that he must have asked his family to send over for him to save him from the cross-outs and type-overs that he said often plagued his essays.]
1964
Casa Divin Maestro (house of the divine teacher)
per Esercizi Spirituali (for spiritual exercise)
ARICCIA (Roma)
"Dear Ann,
Happy Easter a little late from Rome. I'm just back from a Holy Week Retreat made in the vicinity of Castel Gandolfo. Natureally a better man.... I met your Mother General last week. Cheers, Ann, and pray for me.
Love, Mickey"
1964
Paulus PP VI (Pope Paul VI)
"Dear Mom, Dad, and Mary,
Another week with nothing in particular to talk about. Lovely weather, exam preparations, a trip to the etruscan cemetaries (800-500B.C.) somewhat north of Rome. Well, Mary, I've been present at Masses said by both Pope John and Pope Paul (to assist is to be present), but I've never been a server, or altar boy. Did you notice in the papers that the son of James Roosevelt has entered the Brothers novitiate in California?
Love, Mickey
Keep well, prayers"
[Quick note from Little Mike: In this postcard, Dad was clearing up a rumor that had spread through Irish Southwest Philadelphia that Dad had been an altar boy at a mass said by Pope John XXIII. The confusion? Dad translated "asistir" (to attend or be present) literally from the Italian and everyone at home had begun spreading the exciting news Dad had indeed assisted the Pope as an alter boy.]
Vienna- The Belvedere Castle
"Dear Aunt Betty,
Hello from Vienna! The palace on the front of the card is one of the many "sights" in this beautiful and quiet city. I hope you have been well. My first year in Rome finished well, and at the moment German is my business.
Prayers.
Love, Mickey"
[Like detectives interpreting the slightest pieces of evidence, Christine and I have to scour Dad's words for any hint insight. Note how he refers to Vienna as "quiet." I doubt that quiet would have been a typical tour book adjective for Vienna, but this may tell us a bit about how Dad found Rome. This was Dad's first extended time away after a year in the crowded, chaotic Italian capital.]
1964
City of the Vatican - Government Palace
"Dear Mom, Dad, and Mary,
Naturally you'll excuse me this week for being so brief. My first big exam comes up Friday. Then two weeks free to prepare for the next one. I hope my mother's day card finally arrived. Keep well.
Love, Mickey"
Blick vom Schauinsland (Schwarzwald 1266 m) [Dad translates as "view from 'looking island,' Black Forest]
auf Koopler- und Rheintal
Freiburg, Germany
"Dear Mom, Dad, and Mary,
A view from one bery beautiful part of Schwarzwald (the Black Forest). Two other Brothers were here today from Rome, and we took an afternoon's trip to the mountains.
Love, Mickey"
Verlag Erwin Burda, Freiburg im Brelsgau
"Dear Mom, Dad, and Mary,
A little something from my home for the next five weeks. The hills you see are part of the Black Forest. The country here is charming. Soon, I'll send a letter to tell you about my life in Freiburg.
Love, Mickey"
Souvenir de Strasbourg, France
"Dear Mary,
Greetings from the train on the way back to Freiburg after a day in Strasburg (France). Don't feel to bad about not driving--I can't either. Most big brothers feel that their little sisters shouldn't drive anyhow.
Love, Mickey"
OK, back to Little Mike. That's all the postcards for now. I just made an attempt at the one that is stuck, and almost irreparably damaged the postcard. Half of Dad's writing is now fixed to the adhesive of the photo album page. The quest thickens....
The post cards sit on 45-year-old photo album pages. By the 1960s, album-makers had begun lathering their pages with adhesive, simplifying the task of the album creator, but (I now know) complicating the task of the family historian. So strong was the adhesive that I have been unable to detach a beautiful postcard of central Rome (perhaps the first Dad sent) without shredding the surface of the postcard and destroying Dad's words. So, today, I work with what postcards I can, and leave myself and our readers in suspense until I can find the right scraping knife.
Even some of the postcards that I can detach leave a fossil in blue ink, like the shroud of Turin, of Dad's staccato handwriting. As I look at the fossil, I realize that Dad wrote his notes sideways, or at least sideways from what I expected. He obviously would turn the postcard ninety degrees. Then he'd start his notes at the line in the middle of the postcard and then write all the way down to the left side of the postcard. Was this an artistic flourish, standard postcard format in the 1960s, or a "common sense philosopher's" way to give himself more writing space?
I will transcribe the postcards as I read them, letting Dad's words stand for themselves.
1963
Brothers of the Christian Schools
Villa S. Maria
Bassano del Grappa
"Dear Mom, Dad, and Mary,
My present home! The mountain in the background is Monte Grappa, where the Germans and Italians fought each other at the end of WWI. I was on the top this morning to visit the military cemetary. I am glad to hear that Uncle John is a little better. I have asked the boys here to pray for him. Another week, and I'll be in Rome. Prayers.
Love, Mickey"
1963
Casa Divin Maestro (house of the divine teacher)
per Esercizi Spirituali (for spiritual exercise)
ARICCIA (Roma)
"Dear Mom, Dad, Mary and Ann,
The correction material was waiting for me when I returned from our retreat at Lake Albano--directly across the lake from Castel Gondalfo, the Pope's summer home. Many thanks--though I don't think the air mail was really necessary. I'm sure it's going to be useful though. The stay at Lake Albano was wonderful--beautiful country, quiet, excellent talks, etc. But do continue to pray for me.
Your loving son and brother, Mickey"
[Little Mike's quick note: I believe by "correction material" that Dad meant correction tape/White Out that he must have asked his family to send over for him to save him from the cross-outs and type-overs that he said often plagued his essays.]
1964
Casa Divin Maestro (house of the divine teacher)
per Esercizi Spirituali (for spiritual exercise)
ARICCIA (Roma)
"Dear Ann,
Happy Easter a little late from Rome. I'm just back from a Holy Week Retreat made in the vicinity of Castel Gandolfo. Natureally a better man.... I met your Mother General last week. Cheers, Ann, and pray for me.
Love, Mickey"
1964
Paulus PP VI (Pope Paul VI)
"Dear Mom, Dad, and Mary,
Another week with nothing in particular to talk about. Lovely weather, exam preparations, a trip to the etruscan cemetaries (800-500B.C.) somewhat north of Rome. Well, Mary, I've been present at Masses said by both Pope John and Pope Paul (to assist is to be present), but I've never been a server, or altar boy. Did you notice in the papers that the son of James Roosevelt has entered the Brothers novitiate in California?
Love, Mickey
Keep well, prayers"
[Quick note from Little Mike: In this postcard, Dad was clearing up a rumor that had spread through Irish Southwest Philadelphia that Dad had been an altar boy at a mass said by Pope John XXIII. The confusion? Dad translated "asistir" (to attend or be present) literally from the Italian and everyone at home had begun spreading the exciting news Dad had indeed assisted the Pope as an alter boy.]
Vienna- The Belvedere Castle
"Dear Aunt Betty,
Hello from Vienna! The palace on the front of the card is one of the many "sights" in this beautiful and quiet city. I hope you have been well. My first year in Rome finished well, and at the moment German is my business.
Prayers.
Love, Mickey"
[Like detectives interpreting the slightest pieces of evidence, Christine and I have to scour Dad's words for any hint insight. Note how he refers to Vienna as "quiet." I doubt that quiet would have been a typical tour book adjective for Vienna, but this may tell us a bit about how Dad found Rome. This was Dad's first extended time away after a year in the crowded, chaotic Italian capital.]
1964
City of the Vatican - Government Palace
"Dear Mom, Dad, and Mary,
Naturally you'll excuse me this week for being so brief. My first big exam comes up Friday. Then two weeks free to prepare for the next one. I hope my mother's day card finally arrived. Keep well.
Love, Mickey"
Blick vom Schauinsland (Schwarzwald 1266 m) [Dad translates as "view from 'looking island,' Black Forest]
auf Koopler- und Rheintal
Freiburg, Germany
"Dear Mom, Dad, and Mary,
A view from one bery beautiful part of Schwarzwald (the Black Forest). Two other Brothers were here today from Rome, and we took an afternoon's trip to the mountains.
Love, Mickey"
Verlag Erwin Burda, Freiburg im Brelsgau
"Dear Mom, Dad, and Mary,
A little something from my home for the next five weeks. The hills you see are part of the Black Forest. The country here is charming. Soon, I'll send a letter to tell you about my life in Freiburg.
Love, Mickey"
Souvenir de Strasbourg, France
"Dear Mary,
Greetings from the train on the way back to Freiburg after a day in Strasburg (France). Don't feel to bad about not driving--I can't either. Most big brothers feel that their little sisters shouldn't drive anyhow.
Love, Mickey"
OK, back to Little Mike. That's all the postcards for now. I just made an attempt at the one that is stuck, and almost irreparably damaged the postcard. Half of Dad's writing is now fixed to the adhesive of the photo album page. The quest thickens....
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Name, rank, and serial number
Christine writes: Dad had a habit that we found mortifying.
Whenever he told a story about someone, he identified
the person in question with a series of
characteristics – some we were pretty sure we weren’t
even meant to notice. Conversations could easily go
something like this…
"How was you day, Dad?"
"Well, something interesting happened. I was talking
to a Black woman from Zimbabwe with four boys who had
considered converting to Judaism."
"Dad!" We would exclaim (or whisper aggressively,
depending on the setting). We were raised in one of
those white suburbs in which ignoring race and
religion was the way we showed how not racist we were.
"What?" He would feign shock at our response.
"It’s just that…well, that’s just not…I mean, is any
of that information relevant to the story your about
to tell?"
"Yes, just listen to the story." In the end, the story
or the person’s role in the story rarely had anything
to do with the identifying characteristics Dad led
with. The story about the woman from Zimbabwe could
have been about the frozen yogurt machine breaking
down while they were in line or a new
class-registration procedure at LaSalle. I often
thought of these as "name, rank, and serial number"
conversations.
While Dad was a patient at HUP, he got to know his
nurses and doctors well. His stories varied little
from day-to-day. In fact, he had few stories – at
least few he chose to share. So instead he just told
us about his doctors and nurses. Conversations could
easily go like this…
"How was today?"
"More of the same. Although, there’s a new doctor.
Her last name is Xavier. People never know how to
pronounce it." Over the next few minutes, Dad would
share how he pronounced it, how doctor Xavier’s
Brazilian husband probably pronounced it, how many
children she had, when she planned to travel next to
Brazil and so on.
In time, we knew that several of his nurses had
attended the same all-girls Catholic high school in
Northeast Philadelphia. We knew that one was a
marathon runner. Another had recently moved here from
South Asia. We knew which ones had children, which
ones were in school, which ones were younger, which
ones were older. We often knew their ethnicity and
their religious affiliation.
It became clear that Dad valued every person with whom
he came in contact. He truly wanted to know all there
was to know about them – perhaps so that he could
better understand them and their viewpoint in later
conversations about ideas, life, and death. Or simply
so that he could better understand the people who make
up the world – his world.
In the process we felt like we learned a lot about the
people who took such compassionate care of our father.
What we really learned, though, was that the most
important part of those "name, rank and serial number"
conversations was the story he hadn’t told us – the
story of getting to know a person and the things that
mattered to them.
Whenever he told a story about someone, he identified
the person in question with a series of
characteristics – some we were pretty sure we weren’t
even meant to notice. Conversations could easily go
something like this…
"How was you day, Dad?"
"Well, something interesting happened. I was talking
to a Black woman from Zimbabwe with four boys who had
considered converting to Judaism."
"Dad!" We would exclaim (or whisper aggressively,
depending on the setting). We were raised in one of
those white suburbs in which ignoring race and
religion was the way we showed how not racist we were.
"What?" He would feign shock at our response.
"It’s just that…well, that’s just not…I mean, is any
of that information relevant to the story your about
to tell?"
"Yes, just listen to the story." In the end, the story
or the person’s role in the story rarely had anything
to do with the identifying characteristics Dad led
with. The story about the woman from Zimbabwe could
have been about the frozen yogurt machine breaking
down while they were in line or a new
class-registration procedure at LaSalle. I often
thought of these as "name, rank, and serial number"
conversations.
While Dad was a patient at HUP, he got to know his
nurses and doctors well. His stories varied little
from day-to-day. In fact, he had few stories – at
least few he chose to share. So instead he just told
us about his doctors and nurses. Conversations could
easily go like this…
"How was today?"
"More of the same. Although, there’s a new doctor.
Her last name is Xavier. People never know how to
pronounce it." Over the next few minutes, Dad would
share how he pronounced it, how doctor Xavier’s
Brazilian husband probably pronounced it, how many
children she had, when she planned to travel next to
Brazil and so on.
In time, we knew that several of his nurses had
attended the same all-girls Catholic high school in
Northeast Philadelphia. We knew that one was a
marathon runner. Another had recently moved here from
South Asia. We knew which ones had children, which
ones were in school, which ones were younger, which
ones were older. We often knew their ethnicity and
their religious affiliation.
It became clear that Dad valued every person with whom
he came in contact. He truly wanted to know all there
was to know about them – perhaps so that he could
better understand them and their viewpoint in later
conversations about ideas, life, and death. Or simply
so that he could better understand the people who make
up the world – his world.
In the process we felt like we learned a lot about the
people who took such compassionate care of our father.
What we really learned, though, was that the most
important part of those "name, rank and serial number"
conversations was the story he hadn’t told us – the
story of getting to know a person and the things that
mattered to them.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Good Guys from Iran meet the Philosopher
Christine writes: My conversations with Dad about
Iran began a long time ago. We had a little kitchen
that was shaped like an L. There was a small radio on
the countertop near the window. Mom and Dad listened
to “All Things Considered” on NPR nightly while they
made us dinner. We would hang out, waiting
impatiently for our food.
I don’t think I paid much attention to the radio
programming, but two stories caught my interest at the
time – the leak on Three Mile Island and the Iran-Iraq
War (called the “EYE-RAN, “EYE-RACK” War at the time).
I had questions about both. TMI, Dad assured me, was
not a problem for us, but pointed to the dangers of
all things nuclear. That was easy enough to accept.
When I asked Dad who the “good guys” and the “bad
guys” in the Iran-Iraq War were, however, his answer
was much less satisfying. Dad told me that although
the U.S. government supported Iraq, war was always too
complicated to be looked at from a “good guys/bad
guys” vantage point. While it was tempting to say
that the Iranians were the bad guys, Dad explained, it
was never that simple.
Although I was frustrated by Dad’s response at the
time, I am deeply thankful today for the approach he
took to that question. When I met my husband some
twenty years later, the fact that he was Iranian set
off no red flags. He had no “bad guy” image to
overcome. I realize this sounds nuts. Do educated
people really harbor these stereotypes?
You bet they do. Since I have been with Kayvan, I
have had no fewer than five people ask me if “Not
Without My Daughter” hadn’t caused me to worry about
our relationship- a midwife, a school principal in
Boston, and a few others. An old friend who also dated
Kayvan at another time told me that her brothers
fondly referred to him as “the terrorist.” She and
her brothers were no less educated than we were and
arguably may have been better people, yet their
experiences caused them to see Kayvan quite
differently. But it wasn’t just that Dad’s words kept
me from developing a “bad guys” stance on Iranians,
they also have helped me be open to and understand the
differences between our cultures and manage the
challenges that these present.
I introduced Kayvan to my parents at a small
celebration for my mom’s birthday at a little
restaurant in his neighborhood. I was apprehensive in
the way that Michael and I always are when unleashing
the fam-en-masse around a person of interest. When
Dad met Kayvan, he bombarded him with questions. Not
questions the questions I expected about Kayvan’s
intentions towards his daughter, but questions about
the hostage crisis and the war. Dad wanted to know
about the everyday Iranian experience during these
times that we experienced through our radios and TVs.
Dad explained during this early dinner, that he’d
never met an Iranian who actually lived in Iran
through both periods of time. It was as if he had a
file folder of questions ready to go the moment he had
the opportunity to ask them. Dad was impressed by the
stories Kayvan shared about his life, although perhaps
mostly because of the strength of spirit and character
these stories showed – traits dad felt would be
essential to managing a lifetime with me!
I was struck by the fact that my dad’s questions were
so clearly about the human experience – not about
opinion or fact, but about being. Could they go to
the movies? Were Kayvan’s parents worried about him
when he was out of sight? What did they do during the
bombings (played backgammon by candlelight)? I think
it was this human interest, this human connection that
Dad established everywhere that caused him to worry so
much about the relationship between the U.S. and Iran.
What would happen to Kayvan’s mother if there was
another war – or even the stress caused by the threat
of attack? What would the impact of the conflict be
on Kayvan’s relationship with his mother? Would he
still be able to visit? To call? Would Kayvan’s mom
ever meet the grandchild that had brought him so much
joy?
Ultimately, it seemed that Dad was tremendously
frustrated by the conflict of irrational and inhumane
egomaniacs and the potential toll it might have on
real people and their families.
Iran began a long time ago. We had a little kitchen
that was shaped like an L. There was a small radio on
the countertop near the window. Mom and Dad listened
to “All Things Considered” on NPR nightly while they
made us dinner. We would hang out, waiting
impatiently for our food.
I don’t think I paid much attention to the radio
programming, but two stories caught my interest at the
time – the leak on Three Mile Island and the Iran-Iraq
War (called the “EYE-RAN, “EYE-RACK” War at the time).
I had questions about both. TMI, Dad assured me, was
not a problem for us, but pointed to the dangers of
all things nuclear. That was easy enough to accept.
When I asked Dad who the “good guys” and the “bad
guys” in the Iran-Iraq War were, however, his answer
was much less satisfying. Dad told me that although
the U.S. government supported Iraq, war was always too
complicated to be looked at from a “good guys/bad
guys” vantage point. While it was tempting to say
that the Iranians were the bad guys, Dad explained, it
was never that simple.
Although I was frustrated by Dad’s response at the
time, I am deeply thankful today for the approach he
took to that question. When I met my husband some
twenty years later, the fact that he was Iranian set
off no red flags. He had no “bad guy” image to
overcome. I realize this sounds nuts. Do educated
people really harbor these stereotypes?
You bet they do. Since I have been with Kayvan, I
have had no fewer than five people ask me if “Not
Without My Daughter” hadn’t caused me to worry about
our relationship- a midwife, a school principal in
Boston, and a few others. An old friend who also dated
Kayvan at another time told me that her brothers
fondly referred to him as “the terrorist.” She and
her brothers were no less educated than we were and
arguably may have been better people, yet their
experiences caused them to see Kayvan quite
differently. But it wasn’t just that Dad’s words kept
me from developing a “bad guys” stance on Iranians,
they also have helped me be open to and understand the
differences between our cultures and manage the
challenges that these present.
I introduced Kayvan to my parents at a small
celebration for my mom’s birthday at a little
restaurant in his neighborhood. I was apprehensive in
the way that Michael and I always are when unleashing
the fam-en-masse around a person of interest. When
Dad met Kayvan, he bombarded him with questions. Not
questions the questions I expected about Kayvan’s
intentions towards his daughter, but questions about
the hostage crisis and the war. Dad wanted to know
about the everyday Iranian experience during these
times that we experienced through our radios and TVs.
Dad explained during this early dinner, that he’d
never met an Iranian who actually lived in Iran
through both periods of time. It was as if he had a
file folder of questions ready to go the moment he had
the opportunity to ask them. Dad was impressed by the
stories Kayvan shared about his life, although perhaps
mostly because of the strength of spirit and character
these stories showed – traits dad felt would be
essential to managing a lifetime with me!
I was struck by the fact that my dad’s questions were
so clearly about the human experience – not about
opinion or fact, but about being. Could they go to
the movies? Were Kayvan’s parents worried about him
when he was out of sight? What did they do during the
bombings (played backgammon by candlelight)? I think
it was this human interest, this human connection that
Dad established everywhere that caused him to worry so
much about the relationship between the U.S. and Iran.
What would happen to Kayvan’s mother if there was
another war – or even the stress caused by the threat
of attack? What would the impact of the conflict be
on Kayvan’s relationship with his mother? Would he
still be able to visit? To call? Would Kayvan’s mom
ever meet the grandchild that had brought him so much
joy?
Ultimately, it seemed that Dad was tremendously
frustrated by the conflict of irrational and inhumane
egomaniacs and the potential toll it might have on
real people and their families.
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