Losing It, Finding It

The mall was particularly crowded and noisy that Sunday afternoon. My son, a very high-energy six-year-old, pulled us into every toy store to check out the newest action figures or anything else that caught his eye with the single-mindedness that only a six-year-old can muster. My brother was content to be out of the confinement of the depressing facility for adults with retardation that was then his home. He wanted to talk, drink coffee and smoke. His goals also included getting some cool sunglasses, but he was generally enjoying just being with the family.

I needed a watch battery and a few other necessities. My grandmother, visiting from Florida, probably wanted to just sit down and relax and not do the mall crawl as we plodded on, attempting to meet all our divergent needs. My wife stoically endured as she kept our human caravan together amidst the crowds. But I was in charge.

The mall excursion had been my idea. I thought it would give all of us some quality time together. But the only quality that we all seemed to share was that our nerves had begun to be a bit frayed by the strain and tedium of the overall experience.

As we ended the long afternoon and headed for the exit, my son burst between two adults lost in talk, causing them to stop and stare at the little person who had interrupted their conversation. The tension I had been carrying was quickly intensified and found a righteous focus. I didn't snap--I boiled over. As a conscientious father, I chose to stop, confront my son, and demand that he return and apologize to the strangers for his rudeness. I spoke to him in a harsh, judgmental tone. Frozen, he gazed at me, unblinking, in embarrassed silence.

I could feel my internal-intensity ratchet tighten as I insisted that he make amends at once to the two people who now stood in silent witness to our confrontation. My wife quietly suggested that we take up the matter later. I flatly stated that this was the time, and mine was the way.

I went back to insisting that my son say he was sorry to the strangers. I bore down heavily as his gaze dropped to the floor. My grandmother made a small, worried sound as she frowned and twisted her purse strap nervously. With anxiety, she witnessed her grandson's wrath and her great-grandson's humiliation.

One of the strangers stepped forward, offering that it was okay and no apology was needed. I refused his offer and tersely stated the obvious. I needed, for his own good, to have my son, now shamed in freeze-frame, do the right thing--my way. Scorched by my fiery intensity, the gentle stranger pulled back and helplessly watched the stalemate deepen. A silent gathering of passersby had formed, watching my unbending demand go unheeded. All were silent except for me. I was vaguely aware of the spectacle that I was creating, and the real discomfort and strain that I was causing everyone, particularly my own dear son.

My brother, whose intellectual ability is measured in the early preschool range, stepped silently to my side. He gently put his hand on my back and said to me in a low voice, "Peace, brother, peace." The dark spell was shattered. I reached out and touched my son's shoulder. I looked down and read the emotional wreckage from my anger storm on my child's upturned face. In a trembling voice, I told him that what he had done was wrong, but that what I was doing was worse. I apologized to the strangers, to my family and, most earnestly, to my son. I took my boy by the hand, and we left the mall.

My brother, like all people, has the capacity for wisdom. Today, he lives in a regular suburban home with two other guys. They receive the support they need and enjoy the pleasures of privacy, quietude and a home with dignity and individual respect. But twenty years ago, when he lived in a crowded, depersonalizing facility, he was a genuine peacemaker and a man of gentle and clear wisdom. He said three words to me that cut through my intellectual and moral conceit and resolved an intractable dilemma that had ensnared many in my anger and self-righteousness.