A Poem for my Father
Michael E. Summers Š2010
Traditions. Like the shape of our eyes or the color of our hair, they are unique to every family. Some traditions are annual rights of passage: Thanksgiving at Grandma’s house, the family picnic on the 4th of July, opening at least one present on Christmas Eve. However, most traditions are far less formal; marked less by time, date and occasion, and more by the ebb and flow of habit, routine and everyday life. And strangely... It seems that these traditions, these informal rituals which really don't seem like traditions at all when lived and experienced; these whimsical, nonsensical, seemingly insignificant moments, these are the things we remember, these are the things that make us pause and make us smile, sometimes involuntarily, as we reminisce and travel though the tapestry of our lives. My father was a remarkable man. Handsome, gifted, naturally athletic and possessed of a personality and quick wit that drew people to him easily and without effort. He seemed to be everything I was not as a child; a walking dynamo, outgoing and outspoken, a man who could work a crowd, any crowd, with a charm and grace unlike anyone I’ve ever met before or since. He was the quintessential All-American boy; a good student, president of his college fraternity, a football hero (he played tight end for the 1964 University of Illinois Rose Bowl team). He married the prettiest girl on campus, a striking 6 foot tall bell of the south, who was also the president of her sorority. His was a life so full of promise. I genuinely believe that my father could have been anything he chose to be. But time and fate can conspire to be cruel. My father was born at a time when to be young, bright and black was as much a boon as a burden; when the phrase "All-American" did not refer to men like him, a time of rampant segregation and traditions steeped in fear, bigotry and hate. Though physically imposing (my father once tipped the scales in excess of 300 pounds), he was, first and foremost, a man of intellect who did not suffer inequity, inequality or foolishness well. As he grew older, he grew increasingly angry, resentful and bitter. And like many talented but unfulfilled men of his day, this anger, insidious and toxic, infected and corroded his relationship with those closest to him. He could not strike out at a world that told him you can do this but not that; you can go here but not there, you can achieve this but not that. This world was beyond his grasp; it mocked and teased him. But we were not. We were unprotected and exposed. And as the world played Russian roulette with my father's soul, as we lost the boy he was and the man he aspired to be, as the world, indifferent and cold, simply moved on, it left us, his wife and children, in it’s devastating wake. As a boy, I thought my father was larger than life. To this day, I cannot say for certain how he viewed me. I know he took pride in my accomplishments. But this pride was often tinged with a
brutal mix of indignation and anger as he saw his less talented, less athletic, less dynamic son, the son who bore his name but was not him, live the life that he thought had been unfairly denied to him. He went to Illinois. I went to Northwestern (his choice). He was the one who wanted to be a lawyer but I was the one who went to law school. He once joked that had I been born a girl he would have named me Corvette because that's what he wanted as a young man just out of college; not a baby, not a son, not this. It was too soon...too soon. So I was determined, through my life, to make right those real or perceived crimes against his promise and potential. I would blot it out; I would clean up the carnage. I went to the college where his mother, my grandmother, once worked as a cook. At 17, I joined his fraternity and like him was elected president (though I initially had little desire to do either). I wasn't trying to be my father, I could never be my father, but I wanted desperately to win his approval and to forge a connection with him that was uniquely ours. I longed to create a common ground, a happy place. My efforts were sometimes successful; sometimes not. But there were moments, stolen moments it seems, when my father was just my father; not judge, not jury, not arbiter of all things right or wrong. These moments, our silly little traditions, are the moments I choose to remember. ************* When my mother and father divorced, he returned to Evanston, his hometown, about 1 hour north of our home on the south side of Chicago. We visited every weekend. Every Sunday, usually around 3:00pm after watching "those damn Bears" lose another game, we would pile into his LTD station wagon and head back to Chicago. Always the same time; always the same route. A route that took us by the same Brown’s Chicken. Growing up, my father liked his beer and his chicken. And in a ritual that seemed as comical then as it does now, he would always pose the same question when we were about 2 blocks away. Hmmmm.......should we stop and get some chicken wings? Without waiting for an answer, he would answer himself. Nah.....we don’t need chicken wings. A pause. In a voice surprisingly light and whimsical for a man so large who could be so serious, he continued his debate with himself. Hmmm.....some chicken wings would be pretty good. At this point, my brother and I would exchange knowing glances as he turned to look at us. What do you boys think? Would you like some chicken? Sure Dad. Some chicken would be great. So we would stop and order the same thing: a huge bucket of chicken wings. Only wings. At first, our father would leave us in the car while he ordered the chicken. But as we grew older, he
would give my brother or me the money, and in a sure sign that we were now men, granted us the unique honor and responsibility of ordering the wings. As we pulled away, the smell of fried chicken would permeate the car. I can still remember that smell. And in a feat of astounding dexterity that would almost certainly land him in jail for child endangerment today, my father would eat his chicken wings with one hand, seemingly indifferent to the crumbs and grease falling onto his shirt, while navigating our cavernous station wagon with its enormous eight cylinder engine down the Dan Ryan expressway at speeds in excess of 70 miles per hour. When we were about halfway home, he always turned on the same jazz show. I don't remember the name of the show or the host, but I remember the host's voice. It was deep, rich and soulful; quite unlike the nauseating, syrupy voices you associate with “smoooooooth jazz” today. At the end of every show, the host always closed with this: “Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.” Like an old vinyl record stuck in a groove, this phrase was repeated to us, Sunday after Sunday, year after year, as my brother and I grew from boys to young men. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. When I was much older, I discovered that this phrase was from the poem Desiderata by Max Ehrmann. It was my father's favorite poem. ************* Today is Father’s Day. It’s been almost 10 years since my father died, consumed my a cancer that began in his colon, spread to his lymph nodes, and slowly, cruelly, inevitably, whittled him away. My father, so large, so boisterous in life, died thin and frail. But when he died, he was, I believe, at peace. Anger had long since given away to grace and to an acceptance of life's inequities. My father, this big, burly macho man, a man who reacted with singular horror when my brother got an earring with a dangling cross, bought a little dog--a toy poodle!--that became his constant companion. He reestablished a relationship with God, joined a church and became an ordained pastor. Though sick himself, he visited the sick and shut in. He coached a youth basketball league. He gave what he had to give freely and openly. And from his sons, he asked for forgiveness. But my father, irascible soul that he could sometimes be, remained my father. Until the very end, when solid food was no longer possible to manage, he would try and sneak in an occasional chicken wing. And as he relished each utterly inappropriate, gloriously greasy deep fried bite, we would sometimes talk, we would sometimes laugh and sometimes I would just sit silently and hold his hand as my father, my hero, would eat his beloved chicken wings with the other hand, indifferent to the crumbs falling onto clothes now too large.
His was name was William Michael Summers. He was my father. And he lived. He lived. Dad...this is for you. Your loving son, Michael
Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself.
Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
Written on June 20, 2010
THE WORK OF MIKE SUMMERS