Lessons of Our Father (2024)

My dad passed away in May 2020. As I stumble through this life, his lessons reveal themselves unexpectedly.  

Amid what promises to be another contentious and vicious presidential election, I am reminded of my father’s love for his country. As a young man, he graduated from Frederick High School with nothing more than the promise of the draft before him. Desiring some choice over his manifested destiny, he joined the United States Navy. If he had to go to war, he wanted to see some of the world along the way.  

While fighting a war abroad, his country found itself at an inflection point. Decades of racial, economic, gender, and class-based unrest were morphing into societal upheaval. Add assassinations and an unpopular war to the mix, and the country must have felt like a powder keg ready to explode at any moment.  

Returning to American shores, my father was spit on and called a baby killer. As I grew older, my father would tell me stories about the impossible choices he was forced to make in Vietnam. Stories about killing citizens with bombs hidden underneath their clothes, and a harrowing tale of how he survived captivity, both dazzled and frightened me. Those choices haunted him. The lack of understanding and acceptance by his fellow citizens only compounded the nightmares.  

My dad never definitively stated his opinion about Vietnam and the war we waged there. As a younger man, he was more progressive, experienced enough bloodshed, and saw enough friends die. I assumed he leaned toward feelings of the war being a waste of our nation’s treasure. As he grew older, my dad grew more conservative. I watched him rethink and process those original stances.  

Despite the dissonance, my father demanded we stand and salute the flag during the National Anthem. Talking or goofing around during this display of patriotism would make him furious. Reflecting on those moments, I assume my father reconciled his past and decided that despite the faults of his nation, he would love it with all his might. He was determined to instill patriotism into his boys.  

Now, my father is gone, and I struggle to love my country. I have written these words before, but I think they are worth repeating here. Beyond some words etched into our constitution, there is no evidence that we are the best country in the world.  

We lead the world in the following categories: highest incarceration rate, the world’s largest prison population, highest percentage of obese people in the world, highest divorce rate, highest rate of illegal drug use, highest rate of car thefts, highest rate of reported rapes, highest rate of reported murders, the world’s largest police force, most money spent on healthcare as it relates to our gross domestic product, more student loan debt, largest national debt, the world’s most complicated tax system, and a government that spends seven times more on our military than any other country in the world.  

I look at the data and I don’t see a great country. I look at our divisions, our leaders, and see no solutions, saviors, or grand reckonings on the horizon. I look in the mirror and wonder, how much more of this can I take. Then, before succumbing to dread, I am reminded of the lessons of my father. I think of my version of patriotism.  

My patriotism manifests itself in the work I do. Every day, my patriotism reveals itself in a pursuit to undo decades of housing injustice. My patriotism can be found in my volunteer work. It makes itself known in my attempts to build community. It can be witnessed with every petition, protest, or exercise of my basic liberties. My patriotism is about rising above cynicism and selfishness.  

Nothing I am doing will ward off the fall of this empire, but it will be known for eternity that I did my best to stave off the inevitable. That’s how I honor my father’s legacy, and that’s how I honor my version of patriotism.  

Be good to each other,  

Nathan  

Potent Quotable (July 2024)

“She woke knowing that if she was to cross the desert she must shed burdens.” -Doris Lessing

“But strange things do happen when you trudge twenty miles a day, day after day, month after month. Things you only become totally conscious of in retrospect. For one thing I had remembered in minute and Technicolor detail everything that had ever happened in my past and all the people who belonged there. I had remembered every word of conversations I had or overheard way, way back in my childhood and in this way I had been able to review these events with a kind of emotional detachment as if they had happened to somebody else. I was rediscovering and getting to know people who were long since dead and forgotten. I had dredged up things I had no idea existed. People, faces, names, places, feelings, bits of knowledge, all waiting for inspection. It was a giant cleansing of all the garbage and muck that had accumulated in my brain, a gentle catharsis. And because of that, I suppose, I could now see much more clearly into my present relationships with people and with myself. And I was happy, there is simply no other word for it.” -Robyn Davidson

“The principle difference between an adventurer and a suicide is that the adventurer leaves himself a margin of escape (the narrower the margin, the greater the adventure). A margin whose width and breadth may be determined by unknown factors, but whose successful navigation is determined by the measure of the adventurer’s nerve and wits. It is always exhilarating to live by one’s nerves or towards the summit of one’s wits.” -Tom Robbins

“When the beliefs of one culture are translated into the language of another culture, the word “superstition” often crops up.” -Robyn Davidson

“The two important things that I did learn were that you are as powerful and strong as you allow yourself to be, and the most difficult part of any endeavour is taking the first step, making the first decision.” -Robyn Davidson

Be good to each other,

Nathan

Point B (15/15): The Destination That Changed Me

Travel solo. Travel solo, at least once in your life. If you are in the United States, take a road trip across your home state. Drive across this beautiful country of ours. Fly somewhere new or fly somewhere familiar, but do it alone. Book a plane ticket and head for some place your feet have never touched before.

I know the fear you may be feeling reading such a paragraph. I know the nightmare scenarios your mind may be exploring. I feel your anxiety. I have been there too, but I need you to trust me.

Traveling solo is an act of bravery that will change you. If travel can be boiled down to the act of moving from Point A to Point B, I am here to tell you that the person you meet at your destination after traveling solo will be brand new. By doing so, you will discover a braver, more capable, and confident version of yourself. Forced to depend solely on yourself, you will be tested and challenged in unimaginable ways. Your resourcefulness will be your only guide. Best laid plans will do what they always do, but I urge you to keep pressing forward. I am living proof that the rewards are worth the trials.

Back in 2011, I could have never imagined giving such advice to people. That version of myself was incapable of doing most things alone. But then, when I needed it the most, I found an insane moment of bravery and held on tightly with clenched fists as I pointed my car toward the Pacific Northwest.

Driving from Oklahoma to California, and then toward Seattle, I could feel myself changing with each new state line. I felt a goose-bump-inducing level of pride for my small wins. With each mile, I felt more open to new experiences. There was no one else to rely on, but the man driving his car toward new opportunities. I was beginning to realize my own power.

I arrived in Seattle. Here, I would make my stand among a mass of people, all of them strangers to me. For the first time in my life, I felt ready for whatever challenge might visit my doorstep. Before me would be unforeseeable tests that would challenge my resolve. In each of these episodes, I would begin to doubt my power. Then, I would recall the bravery it took to drive across the country, leaving everything I held dear in my rear view mirror.

Every setback or moment of celebration would find me reflecting on that pioneering spirit that drew me westward.

Confidently planted in my new home, this encounter with solo travel would inspire me to do more. It would take me to countless American cities. I would travel even further and plan a trip to Rio de Janeiro. In this bravery, I would find permission to pursue a thru-hike of the Pacific Crest Trail. It made the unbelievable task of leaving Seattle for Los Angeles a little less daunting.

Relishing my new superpower, I would discover a new truth. There are moments in this life that are meant to be shared with others. Seeing the world through the eyes of my partner or dear friends, I am reminded of the life changing and life affirming power of travel. In our collective awe, my cup is refilled. Reflecting on our shared experiences, I know I could not fully appreciate these moments if it had not been for a moment of bravery that drew me from the relative safety of Oklahoma.

It is not Rio, New York City, Vancouver, or any of the other countless destinations I have visited that changed me. Rather, it was the open road that pushed me to a place I now call home that changed the trajectory of my life. Without hesitation, it was the greatest decision of my life.

Be good to each other,

Nathan

What the Restaurant Taught Me

I firmly believe that in every person’s life, they should work in retail or the restaurant industry. Throughout my five years in college, I did a little of both. In my freshman year of college, I worked at Walden Books inside of Quail Springs Mall. After that, I spent three years working at Bed, Bath & Beyond. During my senior year (a victory lap for those keeping score), I was a server at Hideaway Pizza and a part-time bartender at the UCO Jazz Lab.  

While each job provided unique lessons, my time as a server provided moments I will never forget. Reflecting on this time in my life, I now realize that serving was both the easiest and most stressful job I have ever had.  

On the surface, there was not much to my job at Hideaway Pizza. For those who aren’t from Oklahoma, Hideaway is a rather upscale pizza restaurant founded in Stillwater. The restaurant specializes in unique toppings, appetizers that have a cult following, beer, wine, and a few desserts I can still taste. My job was to take drink and food orders, keep glasses filled, wait on guests, and ensure prompt delivery of their food, timely service, and a clean environment.  

My first couple of months were rough. I was slow, forgetful, and often challenged by demanding guests. But once I got the hang of everything, I developed a system that worked for me. On most nights, I made really great tips and left each night without a horror story to tell. In fact, there were weeks when the rent was due in seven days. I would challenge myself to have it all paid for in seven days and a little extra for walking around money. I always made my self-imposed goal.  

But there were nights when everything seemed to go wrong. On those nights, this simple job of mine became the most stressful on the planet. Perhaps, I mistakenly entered an order into our system, the kitchen misread a ticket, or we were slow to get a customer their order. On those nights, the job tested every ounce of my strength, but it also revealed lessons I still use.  

My job at Hideaway taught me a lot of patience. Human beings are complicated creatures, and we are not always our best selves when we are hungry. In the restaurant world, I have been yelled at, talked down to, and tipped horribly. On multiple occasions, I had to ignore my instincts to defend myself from such cruelty. I had to display a patience and grace I never knew I possessed.  

In these moments, walking away from testy situations is rarely an option. They revealed another lesson, though. Now, instead of engaging with angry or rude people, I disengage and deescalate. I refuse to give people an opportunity to be their worst selves. When I feel these moments rising, I excuse myself and return when calmer heads have prevailed.  

This job also presented tremendous opportunities to grow my soft skills. Every shift at Hideaway was unique. I had no way of knowing who would sit in my section, their mood, or how the day had treated them. My job was to provide a great service in hopes of a great tip coming my way. In those opening moments when you first greet a table, I would work to get to know every guest. I would open with a joke, ask how people were doing, and then offer to do anything in my power to make their time with us the best it could be. On every return visit to fill glasses, drop off food, or clear a table, I would try to deepen the relationship. Having spent 15 years in the nonprofit sector as a professional communicator and fundraiser, I frequently think about the lessons learned from interacting with customers. There, I learned the ability to talk with anyone about anything.  

The last lesson the restaurant industry taught me may be the most important. I learned how to treat people who are working on my behalf. From people in the service industry to assistants who make my work possible, my time as a server made me more forgiving of mistakes. Because of those nights and days spent waiting tables, I assume the best of intentions, knowing things do not always go as planned. Sometimes, things are just out of your hands, or you are experiencing an off night. I do not think people should have their livelihoods threatened just for being a human being. In these moments, I try to offer a level of grace that I wish someone had shown me on my worst nights.  

The restaurant business or retail is not something I ever want to do again. Yet, I am so very thankful for the lessons it taught me. I appreciate them and where they have delivered me today. Without a doubt, I am a better employee, partner, and patron because of them.  

 Be good to each other,  

Nathan  

The Sweet Ending, Part II (In Three Parts)

Image provided by @cafera13.

To read, “The Sweet Ending, Part I,” click here.

The following is a work of fiction. In Three Parts serves as an opportunity to flex my creative writing muscle. 

With a note to forgive myself for asking questions that cannot possibly be answered today, the preacher closes his worn copy of the Bible. We utter no words as the next step in the ritual unfolds.  

Standing near the back of the crowd, I can see the pain in the preacher’s eyes. He methodically makes the brief trip around the casket to where my mother and father are seated. As a display of respect and a sign he cannot possibly understand what it means to bury a child, he drops to his knee. He grabs each of their hands in his. Together, they bow their heads and pray silently. Mimicking the moment, we follow suit. After a few brief moments, amens float to the heavens. The preacher then rises and excuses himself from the scene.  

No one gives those assembled their next instructions. Instinctively, as if programmed to do so, they form a long line and begin offering final respects. Some shake the hands of my parents. Others offer timid hugs and pats on the back. Many wipe away tears. Most remain silent. Back in the relative safety of their cars and trucks, they will drop the false act of bravery. They will scream and bargain with the impossible task of witnessing a friend or family member lay their child to rest.  

Before long, there is no one else to greet. Staring at the casket before them, I can only imagine the speed of the thoughts racing through their heads. They are exhausted. Every single stage of grief is written on their faces with the care of a hurriedly assembled first draft of a novel. I imagine from a distance what they are feeling to be some mixture of relief and disbelief. Relieved to have reached this point in the marathon. Disbelieving that this is where they find themselves on a Friday in November.  

Watching their every move, the flowers on top of the casket are removed. Leaning on a tree, I know this is my last opportunity to share the same space with my brother. With conviction, I make my way toward his final resting place. Before they lower him into the ground, I place an open hand on top of the black box before me. I offer a prayer and a promise of my own. None of this shall be in vain. We will not forget him.   

Hours later, I am back in my childhood home. My suit is folded haphazardly in my suitcase. I am sleeping in the room where my brother made the ultimate decision. For the first time in days, the house is quiet. For the first time since I received the phone call that sent me screaming across the country, I think about what separated me from him.  

I, too, have battled my share of demons. A seemingly unshakable sadness has been my pain to wrestle. Sometimes I pondered a world without me in it. If my story had been written differently, those who mourned my brother could have easily mourned me as well.  

What separated us? What made me different? Once again, I find myself at the end of a ritual posing questions that will never know the true answers. Perhaps this is also part of the ritual.  

I fall asleep debating only the ghost of my brother. I fall asleep wondering if he now knows the face of God or the blackness of abyss. Yet again, another question.  

Be good to each other,  

Nathan  

Potent Quotable (June 2024)

“We participate in a tragedy; at a comedy we only look.” -Aldous Huxley

Be good to each other,

Nathan

Poetry (15/15): More Than a Poem

Past Tense

You are gone.

No longer here.

In fact, you are nowhere to be found.

Occupying yourself in the past tense…

It is the new way to describe you.

Unfamiliar territory,

We are forced to retrain the brain.

Occupying ourselves with the past tense…

“Remember when,” is how we begin conversations.

Rightly so, you are the center of those.

Filling ourselves with memories, while

Occupying time with the past tense…

Frozen and unable to move,

We hold tightly to the idea of you.

Building angels in your absence,

Occupying life with the past tense.

I began writing poetry in high school. As almost everyone can attest, this period in life is filled with angst, transition, hormones, and emotions you can barely understand. It is even more challenging to describe them in any way that makes sense.

Lost and confused, I turned to a white blank page. Sitting at a desk in my bedroom, my pen would begin to make sense of the world while I quietly meditated on my experiences. Without question, the practice was the best therapy I could afford. It helped me express what I found nearly impossible to say aloud. Armed with a name for my emotions, I could return to the world with all the armor I needed.

As I moved through college and into my professional and adult life, I continued writing poetry. I did so countless times to process the world around me, but I also did it without the intention of sharing my poetry with others.

After graduating from the University of Central Oklahoma, I was at a house party with some friends. With a few too many beers in my system, I started talking with a friend’s wife. Somehow, we got on the subject of poetry. Feeling brave, I told her about my practice. Digging deeper, she encouraged me to share my work with the world.

At first, I was nervous to do so. So much of what I had written were my private feelings and struggles. I wasn’t sure I was ready to bear it all for the world to read. We talked some more, and still, she encouraged me. Eventually, I concluded that there are no truly unique human experiences. To varying degrees, we all go through the same challenges. Perhaps my poetry might help those struggling feel a little less alone.

Shortly after launching my website, I began sharing my poetry with the world. I have continued to do so for fifteen years. Of all the poems I have written and shared with the world, Past Tense remains the most popular.

I have written countless poems about my brother, Lucas, who died by suicide almost ten years ago. I shared the above poem on what should have been his 25th birthday. It had grown difficult to talk about my brother in the past tense. When asked the question, “How many siblings do you have?” Do I say, “An older sister and three brothers” or do I say, “an older sister and brother, as well as a younger brother and another brother who is no longer with us?” I also found myself forgetting the sound of his voice, as well as other small things that made him a unique human being.

Instead, Lucas became a single memory built on the foundation of hundreds of other memories. Those memories were both happy and sad. They were also relegated to the past tense. We would not be creating new memories together. That truth broke my heart and sent me toward a blank white page to wrestle with that frustration.

Since choosing to share this poem with the world, nearly 500 people have read it. I would like to think that some of them turned to my words because they shared the same frustration. All I can hope is that they found what they were looking for in this simple poem. If they return to this essay, I hope they have come to terms with what it means to lose someone, and what it means to move them to the past tense.

Be good to each other,

Nathan

The Sweet Ending, Part I (In Three Parts)

The following is a work of fiction. In Three Parts serves as an opportunity to flex my creative writing muscle. 

The black hearse pulled away from the funeral home slowly, but with conviction. It will not take us long to reach the city limits of my hometown. There are only a few turns beyond that imaginary line in the only limousine most people will ever ride in to reach our destination.  

In rural towns across America, your fellow mourners are encouraged to follow slowly behind the lead car with their headlights on. Without a need to be told, other motorists pull to the side of the road and allow the family and those heading to the cemetery free passage. If you have never witnessed such a sign of respect, it is a sight to see. Personally, I have sat on both sides of this ritual. I have sat quietly in my car with a wandering mind intently focused on the family and friends before me. I have also been on the receiving end and felt choked with emotion that can only come with such a simple display of collective mourning.  

Staring out the window on this sunny day in November, I can only hold one thought in my mind. I would give anything to be on their side of the fishbowl.  

In the car, the smell of leather is strong, and I am surrounded by my brothers and sister. Nobody is really saying anything memorable. There are a few feeble attempts to cut the tension with a joke. They only muster a polite laugh. We are all right here, but we are all wishing we were somewhere else.  

As soon as silence fills the car again, we arrive at the cemetery. Piling out of the car, we see a small collection of white plastic chairs surrounding an open hole in the Earth. Unseasonably warm for November, a small canopy stands strong, offering relief to the family.  

With unsettled steps, we make our way to the back of the hearse. Car doors close, and those gathered in this makeshift sacred space form a widening circle around the tear in the planet. Soon, that rip in time and space will consume and hold someone I love.  

Focused on the next step, the funeral director meets us at the back of the car. Six of us prepare to receive a simple black casket holding my brother. With three people flanking on each side, we walk him to his final resting place. As we attempt to take synchronized steps, I am suddenly struck by the weight of the box. Fearful of dropping him, we hold tightly. We may have let him down in life, but we will not make that mistake now.  

With shuffling feet, we deliver him to his forever home. I hug my mom and dad. Then I fade into the crowd and attempt to become nameless. As the minister begins his practiced graveside ritual, my mind puzzles deeper questions than enteral life.  

How should a life end? Should it end in the stiff embrace of black steel? Should it end with family and friends surrounding you? Who gets to decide how you die? What if you make that decision for yourself?  

These are some questions flooding my mind. No matter how I try to escape them, these daunting and philosophical questions cannot contain themselves. I cannot answer them. With a fresher mind, one not soaked in regret, guilt, and pain, I might attempt to debate with myself. That day is not today.  

Be good to each other,  

Nathan  

My Favorite Destinations, Part IV

When small talk gives way to deeper conversations, a world of thoughtful insight reveals itself. Penetrating through questions about where one works and lives, opportunities to know someone more deeply start with simple, but profound questions.  

“What travel destination changed the course of your life?”  

Nine little words strung together with a real chance to know someone. At the best dinner parties or conversations over drinks at a bar, questions such as this have been served. It is one of my favorite questions to answer and it is something I am always happy to investigate in a new way.  

For the last entry in this series, I saved a city I have visited more than any other in the United States. My fourth city is Las Vegas, Nevada.  

On the surface, you might find it odd for me to name Las Vegas as a favorite destination. I get it. Vegas is loud, confrontational, and seems to exist solely to feed our sinful desires. I know myself. These characteristics are opposed to who I think I am. But this is precisely what I love deeply about this city. One of my great joys of travel is visiting a new destination and stumbling across a different version of yourself along the way. This feels especially true for me in Las Vegas.  

When I first started visiting “The Meadows” on my own, I found myself enamored by the strip. Along Las Vegas Boulevard, you can live vicariously through your fellow tourists. You can live experiences stolen from television shows and movies. You can eat, drink, gamble, and party until the sun rises over the mountains. You can live a life that would be impossible back home. Then, after three days, you can return home licking your wounds with over-the-top stories to share.  

For a while, this is how I experienced Las Vegas. Then I decided I wanted something vastly different. I wanted to know where the locals ate and drank. I had to get off the strip. I didn’t want to stand in the shadows of resorts any longer. Even Old Vegas wasn’t far enough away. I wanted a taste of what it means to call this city home.  

When I did, my entire view of the city changed. No longer was it just some place catering to the desires of tourists. It became a proper city with residents, each with their own unique experiences. As I explored, I found new things to love. Local bars, restaurants, galleries, and adventures that felt special unfolded before me. Now, when I think about return trips to this city, it is these spaces I crave.  

As fun as giant hotels and casinos can be, give me a quiet bar and time spent with real people any day of the week. In these conversations, I still find myself perplexed by the people who call Las Vegas home. Like living in a towering complex above Times Square, it feels surreal to me. Unpacking this mystery may be my favorite thing about these trips to the desert.  

Las Vegas feels like a paradox. But I still love every single inch of it. It is a destination that continues to baffle me. It probably always will.  

Be good to each other,  

Nathan  

Take Me Home

For many, home is where you plant your roots. It is permanence. It is a foundation from which a life unfolds. For much of my life, I thought of Oklahoma as that place. Then, it wasn’t.  

The change wasn’t dramatic. It was a slow evolution. It was the byproduct of heartbreaks, disappointments, and a longing for something less familiar. It was born out of a need to find my tribe. With this weighing on my heart, I leapt into the great unknown with all the courage I could muster.  

I can still remember how I felt the first time I told a group of friends I was moving to Seattle. Surrounded by people I dearly loved, I felt their heartache. These people became the family I got to choose. In all those heartbreaks and disappointments, they provided comfort and encouragement. Still, the pain associated with what I was losing could not compare to the excitement I felt for new possibilities. Anxiety wanted me to cling to the familiar. Experience demanded my surroundings change.  

Since that announcement, so much in my life has changed. Home was Seattle. Home was Los Angeles. Home became Seattle again. The very idea of home has made less sense to me. A desire to call several places home replaced permanence. New communities to fold myself into seem more attractive. A life in transition feels more necessary.  

It is hard to explain when this change in mindset became the dominating force. It is even more daunting to explain when I came to find comfort in the idea. It is nearly impossible to tell you how standing in one place for too long feels. I wish I could string the words together. I wish I fully understood it. For now, I am content with the idea.  

Perhaps there is a day marked on the calendar when the mindset will begin shifting again. I may make acquaintance with a city and a community that feels like a place worth a deep investment. Perhaps one day the very thought of leaving such a place will feel like a type of guilt mirroring the worst kind of shame. One day, leaving will never be an option. At the very least, it will be an option I never want to explore. Perhaps, in such a place, I can finally feel like myself.  

Be good to each other,  

Nathan