Day 16: Reason

It was quite literally drilled into me as I grew up that there was a primary fundamental rationale for all that came to be. And I can attest with confidence that I do believe. I was carefully taught never to judge or scrutinize any happenings with too much energy as there was always said to be a driving force as to why or how this occurred, and for that I should always remain in a state of gratefulness. I both accept and truly appreciate this advice as I near my thirties, however, as a youth, a teen with a shattered heart, a little person let down by a friend on the playground, this wasn't so accessible.

I grew up with the knowledge that I was birthed amongst family of worriers and superstitious Italians. Try and escape if you might, try and meditate on it, that nagging doubt might as well be used as a suture for the tears in our genetics... It is who we are. We worry. We can be schooled regarding every anxiety euphemism in the book and yet it becomes an unavoidable stitch in the fabric of our upbringing. I recall resenting it, wondering why my mother wasn't so keen on a friend she'd observe abandon me for a better opportunity, while I lain baffled in denial. And now I understand that she instilled a level of integrity that I wouldn't trade for all of those friends, piled in heaps today.

Possibly the most effective and earth-shattering reasons was the story of my Nanny and my Dad. You see, I grew in a home devoid of unjust criticism of others. I viewed us as a perfect family unit, and to be perfectly honest, even with our own complications, our marriages and children, I continue to do so. My grandmother and grandfather had the proverbial rug torn out beneath them upon learning the news of my father, a then, two-year- old boy, had been diagnosed with polio. Previously vaccinated, he was affected with a limped gait and one leg significantly smaller than the other. My grandmother was devastated, visiting church on a regular basis, praying for reason. She wanted, no, NEEDED to know why this happened to her son, her baby.  While enduring the pain of this reality, she remained indebted to her belief, this all had happened for a notion far beyond her comprehension. That is, until 1968, when the Vietnam war began.

My father's draft card arrived, as did that if his good friend. His comrade was obligated to serve his country, and following several months abroad, gave his life in doing so. My father's card read the same. Their birthday months intertwined like a twist of fate unbeknownst to any of them. Due to a chain of unforeseeable events in which my grandmother sobbed amongst the saints, begging God for reason, her answer finally arrived. All of the misshapen pieces, the distress, the prayers, the wondering; "why us?", were mere stepping stones that lead them to this moment; my father's polio was a gift. THIS was her reason. Her baby was not to die at war... There was far too much for him to accomplish before his time on this earth was severed.

Instead, he became a teacher of special needs.

This is not a heavily discussed topic in my family. Primarily because we were taught never to  see this as my father's ailment. If anything, it was his power. It drove both compassion and passion in him, traits that dominate our gene pool..quiet as we might be, we are anything but passive as a result.

I barely remember my grandmother. I internalized her kindness and how she used to feed me savory egg biscuits at her breakfast nook. It's basically stories of her that flicker the flame of her life in my heart. But I will never forget her faith and conviction for her son.  She taught and still teaches me that life throws a wrench in our plans. It doesn't care what we want. And yet, we must always find reasons to believe.