Author: frankisemptiness

June 27th, 2023

Our youngest son, Stefan, comes over to our house usually once a week. Sometimes he comes because my wife and I need his help with something. I used to fix things at home, but since Karin and I became fulltime caregivers for our toddler grandson, I never get around to repairing anything. The little boy, Asher, keeps us running. Stefan has an intuitive understanding of how things are supposed to work, so he can mend something far more efficiently than I could, even if I had the time to do so.

Stefan sometimes comes here to use his tools. Stefan is a journeyman in the Ironworkers Union, and he is a skilled welder. All of his personal welding equipment is in our garage, along with several massive tool chests, and his air compressor, and his grinder, and a plethora of things he needs for working on his pickup truck. He does carpentry projects while he’s here. He works on his motorcycle. He is busy when he visits with us.

Stefan sometimes stops by just to hang out with Asher. Stefan is the boy’s godfather, and he has taken a strong interest in the lad. He will look at Asher and smile. He greets him with a hearty,

“Hey punk!”

Then he will pick up Asher, who squirms in his arms. Stefan says to him,

“Remember that I’m tougher than you are…for now.”

Stefan likes to show Asher how to use tools. Asher has often been in the garage with Stefan, while Stefan works on a project. Asher adores his uncle.

Stefan speaks bluntly. When he talks with me, he pulls no punches. He is definitely not one to flatter others. He has no qualms about giving me shit about things. He can be sarcastic, and he has a cocky attitude. The f-word falls from lips quite often, and he keeps encouraging Asher to use it.

Stefan did not give me card on Father’s Day. He has many talents, but he doesn’t like to write. It was a surprise to me when, a week after Father’s Day, he silently handed me an envelope with my name on it. He had also written “no response needed” on the envelope. I wondered what the hell this was all about.

I opened the envelope after Stefan went to work in the garage. There was scrap of notebook paper inside of it. On the paper he had scrawled a message. It read as follows:

“Hi Dad, 

Growing up I didn’t understand why sometimes you would be angry after work or easily set off. As I get older, I see so much of you in myself, and understand the sacrifices and effort it took to provide for us…

This world is harsh and takes so much sometimes. There are days I would almost give in to the weight that “being a man” takes. But I don’t because I think about how you would do what it takes to push through and do what’s needed. 

You created me and guided me to be the man I am becoming. 

I AM grateful for that…and for everything else you’ve done for me as a great father.

Love you.”

I haven’t talked to Stefan about the note. No response needed.

June 23rd, 2023

Many years ago, at least a half century or more, there was a boy in my class whose parents were divorced. I would never have known this except that the teacher was confused about the student’s last name. Apparently, after the divorce, the mother had gone back to using her maiden name. The boy was embarrassed by the teacher’s questions, and some of his classmates, including myself, were shocked by this situation. I had never met a kid before who had divorced parents.

I told my parents about the student, and they told me to stay away from him, as if he had a communicable disease. They made it clear to me that divorce was a shameful thing, and this boy was probably trouble. They were trying to keep me from moral contamination.

Fast forward.

In the 1990’s and the 2000’s, I used to volunteer with a nonprofit organization that helped troubled teenagers and their families. By that time, divorce and blended families were common. The families that we tried to assist had grandparents in the mix, along with boyfriends, girlfriends, aunts, uncles, and whoever. My team of do-gooders defined a family as “a group of people who live together and love each other”. We dealt with an eclectic population. I got used to that.

Even so, once in a while, I would be surprised by the types of families we served. One time we assisted a lesbian couple raising a teenage boy. They had a host of issues that caused stress in their family. Honestly, I did not know how to work with them because, at that time, I had no experience with LGBTQ individuals. Somebody else from the team had to help this particular family. I was couldn’t. I was way out of my depth.

Fast forward again.

Now, my wife and I are raising our grandson, Asher. We are his legal guardians and primary caregivers. Asher’s mother has a strong relationship with him, but the boy does not know his father at all. We get help from Asher’s uncle, who is a male role model for the lad.

Across the street from us, a married lesbian couple is raising a high school age boy. The teenager is nice young man, and his two maternal mentors are doing a good job bringing him into adulthood.

Families come in all shapes and sizes, especially now. It doesn’t matter who makes up the family. There is an endless variety of people who might constitute a family. There is no such thing as a “normal” family. I don’t think there ever was such a thing.

Based on my experiences, raising kids and keeping a family together is heroic adventure. Many resources are needed to maintain a family: food, shelter, health care. The most essential ingredient is love. That sounds corny but it is a stone-cold fact. What matters is that they love each other.

June 20th, 2023

I am struggling with a problem. Actually, I’ve been struggling with it for over a decade. The current crisis is just the latest permutation. Somebody I care a great deal about is very sick and is apparently getting worse. The person’s condition is the cause of great anxiety for me. I see no sense in what the individual is suffering. I don’t understand why this is happening, and I can think of no solution.

I texted a young friend of mine about this situation. He is an intelligent man, and he is a devout Muslim. I told him,

“Sometimes I can’t find God in all this.”

My friend replied,

“You know, Frank, Allah said in the Quran, and I’ll be testing you with what you love. Maybe it’s a test for you and also God does not control every action humans take. Just be patient. I’m sure everything will be good at one point. I feel the same way sometimes too, but like I said, it might be a test just to see how strong you are!”

I am certain that my friend was trying to encourage me to persevere, however I am getting tired of being tested, if that is in fact what is happening.

The idea of God testing people is prominent in Islam. A major holiday for Muslims, Eid al-Adha, commemorates the time when Ibrahim (Abraham) was called by God to sacrifice his son, Ismail. In the Jewish tradition, the same story exists, although Abraham is told by God to sacrifice Isaac instead of Ismail. The Book of Job in the Hebrew scriptures is all about God testing Job and driving him to the limits of his endurance in order to prove to Satan that this man is righteous. This whole notion of God testing his creation permeates Judaism, and Christianity as well. Jesus was tested by Satan during his forty days in the desert.

I remember, years ago, talking with a rabbi about the Book of Job. It’s a disturbing text, and it does not show God in a very favorable light. The rabbi told me that Satan is often referred to as the “tempter” or “tester” or the “accuser”. He went on to say that all of creation, even the devil, serves God, willingly or not. My understanding from our conversation was that, like it or not, Satan reluctantly works as God’s quality control guy.

Every time I consider this notion of God testing humanity, I immediately ask, “Why?” What is the point of all this? God, if all-knowing, already knows the strengths and weaknesses of every person. So, why push somebody to the edge?

Even in Eastern traditions, there is a mention of spiritual tests. The Buddha was tested before he achieved enlightenment. Western traditions seem to view any test as a pass/fail kind of thing. If life is a test, then an individual either attains endless bliss when they succeed or eternal damnation if they fail. The Buddhists look at it more as continuing education. The Eastern religions believe in reincarnation which means a person gets the opportunity to learn a lesson over and over until they finally get it. That might require thousands or millions of iterations. In Buddhism an individual does not pass or fail. Instead, at the end of their lives they usually get an “incomplete” on their cosmic report card.

My current rabbi once told me that when we ask, “Why do bad things happen to good people?”, we are asking the wrong question. That question is just a rabbit hole. We will never get an answer to it. Job certainly didn’t. The rabbi suggested that the correct question is, “What do we do when bad things happen to good people?”, because it is inevitable that bad things will happen to them.

So, in my case, what do I do when these bad things keep happening to a person I love? Do I run away from the situation? My experience has been that the problem follows me if I attempt to flee. Do I get angry and curse God? That I’ve done already, and it is only satisfying for a short time. Or do I accept that which I cannot change, act with compassion, and try to alleviate the suffering of others? Once in a while I can do that, but it is a real bitch.

My friend said that God is testing to find out how strong I am. God already knows the answer to that. He wants me to discover how strong I really am. It is a lesson for me, not for God. And it is a lesson that I can’t skip.

June 17th, 2023

Father’s Day is kind of a sentimental holiday, one that drips with nostalgia for families that probably only existed on television shows that were broadcast in black and white. The fathers in these TV series were always patient, caring, and wise. Fathers like that are rare. I know that because I’m not one of them.

Most fathers are imperfect, and they fall short of expectations even when they try hard to do the right thing. Generally, fathers look their best when they appear in an obituary. Prior to that, their flaws are obvious to anyone who cares to look. I have met people who have told me about how wonderful their dads were. I can never bring myself to completely trust those individuals. Either their memories are faulty, or they have been extraordinarily fortunate.

Father’s Day seems to focus on honoring biological fathers. I guess that makes sense, but there is more to being a dad than just donating some sperm. I know one man who considers himself to be a good father, and all he has ever shared with his son is his DNA. That doesn’t cut it.

It’s difficult to be a father. I think it’s always been that way. When a guy becomes a dad, nobody hands him an operator’s manual for nurturing the child. It’s all on-the-job training. In a way, raising a kid is like shooting at a moving target, while the shooter is also in motion. The child is constantly changing and developing, and so is the father. The process is dynamic, and everything is transitory. It is impossible for the parent to get a handle on the situation because every day the child is different and so is the parent.

I’ve screwed up many things as a parent. If you want details, you can ask my kids. I’ve caused needless confusion and trauma. I try to think of what I have done right, and I have trouble coming up with much of anything.

One of things that I did right was to introduce the kids to other male role models. Most dads get their fathering skills from their own fathers. My dad was good at some things, and absolutely horrendous with others. It’s the same with me. I tried to have other men in the lives of my children, guys who were trustworthy, but who did things very differently than I did them. Children need a variety of mentors. Sometimes, it’s a coach or a teacher or craftsman that inspires a young person. It’s not always the father.

Father’s Day should recognize and honor all the guys who help to turn boys and girls into men and women, not just the fathers who have a blood bond with the children. There are all sorts of men who are vitally important to a child but are not necessarily related to them. These guys are also fathers. Real fathers.

June 3rd, 2023

Nobody understands addiction. I am absolutely convinced of that.

Do I have any right to make that assertion? I’m not a physician or a psychologist. I’m not a therapist or a counselor. I have no educational background that would give me any credibility on the subject. So, how can I say that no one understands the problem?

The answer is: I’ve lived this shit.

Today is my younger brother’s birthday. Chuck would have been sixty-three years old. Instead, he died of a heart attack at the age of forty-nine. That was the official case of death, but his health problems were all related to his alcohol abuse. He spent the last decade of his life drinking himself to death.

Chuck was in and out for treatment for years. Nothing worked. He just got worse. I had a relative tell me after my brother died,

“I don’t understand why, after all the help he got, he couldn’t pull himself up by his bootstraps.”

Chuck was sick, really sick. Some people who are sick like that don’t get better. They just don’t. If somebody dies from cancer, nobody asks why they couldn’t pull themselves up by their bootstraps, but we almost always ask that about an addict.

My brother probably had caring and competent professionals trying to help him to get healthy. I’m sure everybody did the best they could for him. The problem is that the human brain is extremely complex, and everyone’s brain is unique. There are no one-size-fits-all solutions. Every successful treatment plan is based on knowledge, intuition, and a certain amount of dumb luck. What works splendidly for one addict may be useless for another. To a certain extent it’s always a crap shoot.

I know an elderly nun who worked in a refugee field hospital in Thailand back in the day when Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge were busy with committing genocide right across the border from her operation. She came back to America with massive PTSD from her experiences as a nurse. That along with other factors made her seriously ill. The sister developed stomach cancer. She had an operation and chemo treatments. She still struggles with the disease.

I talked to her about addictions and told her about how hard they are to treat. She said that addictions, like her cancer, can’t be cured. However, she has done things in her life in order to function although she can never be completely free of her condition. The nun changed her diet to eliminate gluten. She takes her meds regularly. She has made efforts to deal with her anxiety and stress. She stated that an addict can do what she does: take action to alleviate a problem that will never really go away. Her point was that there is some choice involved on the part of the addict, just like on her part as a cancer patient.

That’s true. My brother had extremely high blood pressure. He refused to treat it with his meds, and it eventually killed him. I also have high blood pressure. I take my meds.

It bothers me when well-meaning people overly emphasize the freewill that might be available to an addict. I have often heard folks say things like:

“They just need to learn how to make good choices” or “The guy lacks willpower” or “Those people want to live like that” or “They don’t have any morals”.

People with an addiction cannot always make good choices. The ones I have met have morals and they don’t want to live the “lifestyle” of an addict. A disease cannot be overcome be sheer willpower. Other help is necessary.

I don’t know why my brother died while other people have survived, and sometimes thrived. Nobody else knows why either.

June 1st, 2023

Asher has been upset. He’s two and a half years old, and it’s not unusual for toddlers to throw tantrums and be emotionally intense. However, this is more than just the typical moodiness of a small child. This is more serious than that.

On Sunday night, the person that Asher’s needs the most had to leave our home. The person was not behaving in a rational way and was a hazard to the rest of us. Alcohol abuse is a dangerous thing, and not only to the user. The person was aware that they would be kicked out, but they couldn’t stop themselves. They still can’t.

Asher knows on a gut level that something is very, very wrong. He doesn’t understand what that something is. I don’t understand what it is. Honestly, I don’t think that anyone truly understands addiction. If Asher was older, I could try to explain the situation to him, but how do I explain something to somebody when that something is by nature irrational? How do I make sense of it?

I don’t make sense of it. I can’t. It’s beyond me. It just is. I try to deal with the situation, and we try to care for Asher as best we can. My wife and I are his guardians, and we are morally and legally responsible for the boy’s safety and wellbeing. We just try to love him.

Asher loves the person who is now absent from his life. We love that person too, probably more than the individual realizes.

The current state of affairs is not sustainable. The person is still using, as far as we know. Eventually, something has to give. The person may go to treatment again. The person might die. We don’t know.

We are waiting.

May 24th, 2023

I parked the RAV4 in front of the synagogue. My little grandson, Asher, was already strapped into his car seat in the back. The elderly couple walked over to the car. The woman slowly and carefully climbed in the backseat next to Asher. Her husband climbed in the front seat next to me. Once they were both buckled up, we started our journey to the cemetery.

The old couple are friends of mine. They buried their son a month ago. Their son was only a year younger than I am, and I’m retired and on Medicare already. The family is originally from Ukraine. They came to America after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The son had been an officer in the Soviet Army. He was severely wounded in Afghanistan in 1983. For the last forty years he struggled with PTSD and alcohol abuse. He finally lost the battle.

As far as I know, the mother and father of the soldier had not been to the cemetery since they laid him to rest. I had been with them at the funeral. They don’t own a car and they don’t have licenses anymore. They asked me to drive them to the memorial park. I agreed to do so. It was the least that I could do for them. It was a half hour ride from the synagogue to the cemetery. I drove and the old folks talked to me.

I had brought Asher along with me because the elderly couple love the boy. Usually, they can make him laugh and smile. Not this time. Asher would have none of that. The father tried to make funny faces at Asher, and Asher recoiled from him. Toddlers have their moods, and Asher’s not very friendly. However, as we drove, the mother said to me in her thick Slavic accent,

“The little boy, Asher, he lets me hold his hand. I like sweet little boys who do that.”

The mother started to tell me a story about her deceased son. It was a bit hard to follow at times. She did not have all the right English words to explain what she meant. At times, her husband would clarify things for me. It was a sad story, and it struck home to me. Her son had often refused help and advice from others. He insisted on handling his problems alone, even when it was obvious to everyone else that he couldn’t.

The father told me,

“It is hard for a successful person to admit that they need help. Doctors, lawyers, engineers (my son was an engineer), they don’t want help. They think they don’t need it.”

That’s true. I never wanted help. I didn’t accept any help until there was no longer any choice in the matter. The old man’s son had been a decorated military officer in the Soviet Union, and when he lived in America, he was a highly paid radio engineer. The guy had been very successful, and the father is still proud of his son. The son could do damn near anything, except deal with his PTSD and his addiction.

I think it’s just human nature to want to be independent. Asher is just starting to ride a bike, and he wants no assistance whatsoever. His mantra is: “I got it! I got it!” The goal of being self-reliant is strongly reinforced by our culture. As Asher grows up, he will be encouraged to do things on his own.

Did the son refuse help because of hubris? Maybe. I don’t know. I never met the man. From what his parents have told me, their son experienced a great deal of hardship and trauma in his life. He often had to fend for himself. He learned to use his many abilities, but he never recognized his limitations. On the surface, it was the alcohol that ended his life. On a deeper level, it was his inability to accept help that killed him.

Before we arrived at the cemetery, the mother asked,

“Is there place I could buy flowers?”

The father talked to her in Ukrainian, and she did not reply to what he said.

The old man turned to me and explained,

“We do not put flowers on graves. Christians, they put flowers on graves. The Jewish tradition is to put stones on the graves. Flowers? What good are they? They wilt after one, maybe two days. Stones, they last. We have seven stones on our son’s grave: two for me and my wife, two for our daughter and her husband, and three for the grandchildren.”

As we entered the cemetery, the old man pointed to where his son was buried. He said, “That is a part set aside for Russian Jews.”

I parked and the parents got out of the car. I got Asher out. We were a few yards from the plot. There was rectangle of fresh sod on top of it. The grass there was a darker color than the rest of the lawn. The ground had not settled enough for there to be a headstone, so there was a small placard with the son’s name written on it. The little sign was on a stick stuck into the ground.

The old couple stood next to the grave. I took Asher away, so that they would have time alone. It was a gorgeous spring day with all the trees showing off their fresh green leaves. As I walked with Asher, I noticed all the headstones with small smooth stones on top of them. Some of the headstones had writing with Cyrillic letters. They all had words written in Hebrew.

I glanced back at the parents. The old man stood straight and immobile. His deeply lined face betrayed no emotion. The mother hid her face in a handkerchief as she silently cried. She wept for her sweet little boy, the one who had held her hand. She cried for the son who was now buried several feet below her.

That broke my heart.

I walked a bit more with Asher. Then the father beckoned for us to come. We hadn’t been at the grave site for more than a few minutes. The parents were ready to leave. Asher was too. We all got back into my car.

It was a thirty-minute drive from the cemetery to their apartment downtown. There was dead silence in the car, except for when the mother sniffled in the back seat. The father sat next to me and wore wrap-around sunglasses. I couldn’t see his eyes, and his face held no expression.

As we got close to their home, the mother said to me,

“The little boy was tired. He is asleep now.”

I pulled up to the entrance of their building. I told them that I was staying in the car so that Asher would not wake up. The old man said,

“Thank you, my friend.”

From the back seat the mother said, “We are indebted to you.”

I replied quickly, “No. You’re not. Don’t worry about it.”

They said goodbye, and I pulled away from the curb. It bothered me that they felt like they owed me something. I was glad to help.

It was such a small thing to so.

May 18th, 2023

“Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.” – Samuel Johnson

“I believe in America.” – first words from the movie, The Godfather

In a recent survey funded by the Wall Street Journal, 38% in 2023 said “patriotism” is very important. This is in comparison with 70% in 1998 and 61% in 2019. On the surface this decline would seem to be alarming, but is it?

One definition of “patriotism” is: the quality of being patriotic; devotion to and vigorous support for one’s country.

The first part of that definition explains nothing. The second part is meaningful, but only to a certain extent. It quickly raises some questions. For instance, what is “devotion” to one’s country? How does a citizen “vigorously support” his or her country? There can be a variety of answers to these questions, some of them conflicting. I would argue that there are as many answers as there are Americans.

Patriotism has to be more than just a feeling, and it needs to be more than just empty words. How does a person demonstrate that they are a patriot? How would another individual recognize that a person is patriotic? What is the litmus test in the real world?

I expect that, generally speaking, most Americans would describe members of the U.S. military as being patriotic. After all, military personnel are putting their livers on the line to defend the United States. It would seem that soldiers are by definition “vigorously supporting” their country.

Not everyone agrees with that. I know pacifists who would argue that soldiers are in fact vigorously supporting the imperialist policies of the U.S. government, and not doing their country any real good. Some of the peace activists I know would not consider service members to be patriots at all. They see them as misguided people who are pawns of the military-industrial complex. The pacifist viewpoint is clearly a minority opinion, but it exists. I only mention it because, as far as I can see, there is no consensus in the United States regarding who is a patriot, or even what the word means.

Let me present another scenario. Before COVID struck, I used to teach a citizenship class to immigrants holding green cards. When I would tell people that I was instructing a class of soon-to-be Americans, they would sometimes remark that I was being very patriotic. During the same time period, I was also driving undocumented migrants to their court appearances. I was escorting people who were not in the United States legally to court houses to lessen the chance that I.C.E. would snatch them up. When I told people about doing that, they often didn’t view me as being patriotic at all. In both cases, I was volunteering to help immigrants in our country. However, my two sets of actions elicited very different reactions from my fellow citizens.

The word “patriotism” has been used and abused, especially since 9/11. Often patriotism has been equated to jingoism and xenophobia. As America has become more politically polarized, the concept of patriotism has been twisted to justify extreme policies and actions. Were the Proud Boys and the Oath Keepers patriots on January 6th? Were the members of BLM who rioted in various cities patriots? Who are the real patriots now?

Maybe only 38% of the population believes that patriotism is very important because we don’t even know what it means anymore.

May 13th, 2023

Two weeks ago, Karin and I took our grandson, Asher, to the ER. It was late in the evening, and Asher had been sobbing uncontrollably. He’s two and a half years old, and he can express himself fairly well. However, something was hurting him that night, and all he could do was cry and cry and cry. He had thrown up the night before, so we figured he had some kind of stomach problem. We couldn’t find a way to calm him down or console him. There was something wrong and we didn’t know what to do about it. Finally, we gave up, and decided to take Asher to the hospital.

It’s been nearly 25 years since we last took a toddler to the ER. The experience doesn’t improve with time. Driving to the hospital at night with an upset little boy is never a good deal. I felt exhausted and anxious all the way to the ER. I thought to myself,

“I thought we were done with this shit.”

Apparently not.

The registration at the ER was mercifully brief. Asher’s pediatrician is associated with at hospital, so they already had Asher’s medical history and insurance information on file. The young woman who checked us in asked us,

“How are you related to Asher?”

Asher was howling continuously during this time, so we had to have the woman repeat her question.

Then Karin said, “We are his grandparents.”

The young woman paused for a moment. That wasn’t exactly the answer she needed to hear.

I added, “And we are his legal guardians.”

Bingo. The woman had the authorization she needed to admit Asher.

They took us to a little room to wait for the nurse. She came and tried to get Asher’s vital signs. He was less than cooperative. After a brief struggle, she finally got his temperature. He had no fever. She gave him some medicine for nausea. That seemed to make him feel a bit better.

Upon further examination, the nurse found a wood tick on Asher’s abdomen. He must have got it while playing outside. The nurse called in two other people to hold the boy down while she used a tweezer to pry loose the tick. Asher was not happy about this operation. Eventually, she had the thing removed. Asher didn’t have symptoms of Lyme disease, so the nurse did not think the tick had anything to do with his illness.

Shortly after that, Asher had a diarrhea explosion in his diaper. It was like a grenade went off. We used a lot of wipes to clean him up. He had been wearing a onesie, and that was also nasty. We threw it away with the diaper.

The rest of the stay was anticlimactic. We got a prescription for an antibiotic and nausea medicine. It was too late to find an open pharmacy, so we drove back home. It was midnight. We all crashed in bed after that.

Asher was better in a couple days, but Karin and I were sick with whatever he had. We like to do things as a family.

May 9th, 2023

Definition of empathy: the ability to understand and share the feelings of another.

My son, Hans, is going to ride his Harley with some friends on Saturday. They are going to Kurten, Texas, for a blessing of the bikes. Hans told me that there will a “priest or pastor or whatever” to say a blessing over the motorcycles. It’s not a far ride from where he lives, so he will probably hook up with some guys to go further. Riding the Harley helps Hans to relax and deal with his PTSD from Iraq. It’s healthy for him to go for long trips on the Harley.

Hans told me about another ride that is going to happen on Saturday. A different group of guys are doing a sort of memorial ride for a 17-year-old biker who died after getting t-boned by a car at an intersection. Hans decided not to go to that one, partly because he’s not very good at expressing emotions. He’s always been kind of impassive and distant that way. Going to Iraq with the Army didn’t help in that with regard. Hans described himself as “callous, kind of an asshole”. I think that Hans would have been okay at that event, but he knows himself best. The ride might have conjured up some memories and feelings that he really doesn’t want to have.

Hans and I talked about it on the phone. He told me,

“It’s hard for me to get all worked up about some problems that other people have. Like with homeless people, I was homeless once, and not many people helped me.”

I replied, “Yeah, but some people did help you.”

He said, “I know, but you know what I mean. I went to hell and came back again. It was hard, but I pulled myself together.”

I told him, “You did, but some people can’t. Mental illness or whatever. Some people just can’t.”

He sighed and said, “Yeah.”

Hans and I talked some more, mostly about work. Neither of us have much tolerance for people who we perceive to be lazy and/or stupid. We have (or in my case, had) no empathy for people who couldn’t get the job done. We are very mission oriented. Hans told me about a former coworker who couldn’t do his job, and Hans told him point blank,

“You are a lazy motherfucker.”

That outburst was no doubt satisfying in a cathartic way, but probably counterproductive. Most people don’t see well-intentioned comments like that as being constructive criticism.

Ironically, many years ago, I used those same words with one of my coworkers.

Why is Hans the way he is? Partly, it’s his upbringing. Hans told me once that, after growing up with me as a father, basic training was kind of a letdown.

I also think being veterans plays a role here. The military promotes many noble virtues: loyalty, honor, courage. However, empathy does not usually make the list. Well, I guess empathy is encouraged in a highly selective way. Soldiers are expected to care for their comrades and to protect civilians. However, in a profession that is all about killing people, empathy for our enemies is not helpful.

Vets are also all about the mission. Quit your whining and get it done. We really don’t like people who can’t seem to function. We tend to hardasses that way.

I think that veterans are often callous after the leave the service, especially combat vets like my son. In the military a person experiences things that are brutal and perhaps life-threatening. It’s hard to look at problems of the civilian population without concluding that a lot of it is petty. Becoming emotionally hardened is protective device that allows a soldier to do things that are traumatic. This is not necessarily a healthy way to be once a person has returned to the outside world.

It takes a long time for a person’s emotions to soften up, if they ever do. It took me decades to be open to the feelings of others, and to my own feelings. I am different now than I was forty years ago. I had to do things like meditation to change inside. Relearning empathy is work.

Empathy comes with a cost. I have a friend from the synagogue who is a very old man. His son died recently from alcohol abuse related to his PTSD from the Soviet war in Afghanistan. I called my friend yesterday. He told me the story of his son’s life, again. Every time we meet or call each other, my friend tells me all about his son. I listen, just listen. I understand his feelings very, very well. I share his grief, and I share his suffering. When he finishes his story, and we leave each other, I cry. Every time. Listening to him hurts me intensely, but it is the only thing I can do to ease his pain.

I hope that Hans has a good ride.

Postscript: Hans changed his mind about riding as an escort to that 17-year-old biker’s funeral. He’s going with the mourners to accompany the casket to the cemetery. I’m proud of him.