Rebeccalou: This Writer’s Life

I was raised with a conditioned distaste for the emotion that ranks among the most common on the planet. My dad yelled in anger exactly twice during my childhood, both lame attempts at expressing an emotion that made him squirm in his own skin. Mom simply announced one afternoon that there would be no anger in our home. End of story. I understand anger. I experience it from time to time, but witnessing its physical expression still feels like the rug has been pulled out from beneath my feet. It’s fair to say I come unglued from the inside out. 

So when our son started shouting obscenities at his father early one morning a few weeks ago, my fingers hardened around the cup of tea in my hands. I didn’t witness his foot blast through the wall, nor did I hear the plaster crumble. He took the stairs two at a time, glanced at his sister as he passed through the kitchen, slamming the door on his way out. I watched him cut through the wet grass as he headed toward the street, rolling onto his toes with every step. He was late for the bus. His head hung down. 

“We have another hole in the wall,” Tony announced a minute later. He looked about to explode.

Some kids practically raise themselves while others leave us going thunk in the night, perplexed, resentful, even scared. Where does his rage come from? What about the pattern of blaming others, the shouting, kicking and screaming? All from one of the sweetest males I know, tender really, with a natural propensity toward kindness. It doesn’t add up. It never has.

A few weeks ago I had a good start on a blog piece about this same boy and ultimate frisbee, the sport he has grown to love. He played for East High School this spring. He wore the white jersey and the black sweatshirt with pride and helped the team win the state championship. He was named Most Improved Player at the banquet, he and his ultimate girlfriend, Best Couple. 

Daily, from February to May, to others and to myself, I offered thanks for his participation. The sport transformed this unmotivated, disengaged teenager into a player. He came home from practice physically exhausted, hungry for dinner. His attitude was pleasant, you might even say cooperative. The grades didn’t improve but for the first time since he started high school, we had an inkling they might. He went to team dinners and played pick-up on the weekends. The mother of three teammates congratulated us on raising such “a fine young man,” the NICEST PERSON her daughters know (her caps, not mine).

He turns to me one night at dinner. “Becky, everyone dyes their hair red for state. Could we do the hair dying party here? It’s a tradition.” I swallow a mouthful of lettuce, feel my eyes expand. I picture permanent streaks of red dye on the bathroom walls, forever splotches on the hardwood floor. I imagine guys being guys—rowdy, loud, careless.

He reads my mind. “We’ll do the dying outside. I promise.”

Something inside me for which I have no explanation warms to the idea of the hair dying party. Tony is shaking his head no as I hear myself say yea, let’s do it. The boy flashes me a grin.

I set a platter of his favorite cookies and Outrageous Brownies on the table minutes before thirty athletes, mostly males, pile into our house. A mound of stinky shoes collects at the front door. It’s cold and rainy. An outdoor party is out of the question. They devour eight pizzas and the platter of sweets, wash them down with soda, then head to the pool table in the basement. Some hang on the main floor. In packs of threes and fours, with frayed bath towels draped over their shoulders, they wait for the dye to work its magic. One guy recruits Tony to give him a “professional look.” Most prefer to go it on their own. Fair-hairs turn mottled shades of red, brunettes pink, orange and peach. The next day I’m on the sidelines of the red-haired team, cheering the guys and the one gal who went eight for eight that weekend. I write a piece about pride and hope, about the value of community and being part of something bigger than yourself. I reflect on the upside of physical activity, the gift of structure, the grace of discipline.

A few days before the story is ready to publish, the season ends. He comes home to empty hours after school. No routine. Another transition that isn’t going well. Determined to be in charge, he rejects our suggestions about how to spend his time. Without exercise, the grumpy mood returns. He slumps in his chair at dinner, has little to say. He grows surly and one morning kicks his foot through the wall. There is no apology, no offer to compensate for damages. He feels entitled to his anger, his outbursts justified. The printer wouldn’t print his Spanish final. He was running late. His grade was on the line. It was his father’s fault. 

“Boys are just different.” Wise counsel from a friend, a mother of three sons and a daughter. “They don’t process the way girls do. They react—loud and physical.” 

I suppose there are lots of reasons why this boy does what he does. But I’m a mom who goes to the mother-child connection for explanation, not out of egocentricity so much as a hunch. I’ve been watching and living with him since he was eleven. I reckon I figure into the hole in the wall by default. He’s fond of me, respects me, maybe even loves me, but I’m second string, a replacement not of his choosing, a stand-in for the real thing. And even though he despises the choices the real mom has made, abhors the ruin of her life, the little boy under all that anger wishes things had been different. He’s starting to figure out that he’s powerless to change any of it. Even though Mom was nowhere near that wall a few weeks ago, the incident was triggered by a lack of control that inevitably points to her. Hence, the rage. And the swearing, and too much fear to admit his own vulnerability.

Listening to the birds at four in the morning, I’m caught in a dream of drunk adults, young boys, and chaos. An hour later Tony rolls over. 

“I don’t want our family to be about holes in the wall,” I tell him. “This unresolved anger makes me nuts. The boy is fighting demons the rest of us can’t even see, let alone destroy.” I admit exasperation. “None of what we do matters, not the trying and the loving, the caring, the patience, the tolerance, the humor. Things set him off and we’re back to square one, looking for new tactics and new strategies. It’s crazy making.” 

I’m angry.

“I know it’s hard,” says his father. He’s traveled this road before, with the mom. “I don’t know what to think.”  

That makes two of us. 

If you’ve seen The Soloist, you’ve watched a well-meaning journalist attempt to change the life of a homeless, schizophrenic musician, only to question his motives as his frustration deepens. Is he in it for the guy or for himself. Twenty years ago I honestly believed effective intervention could compensate for my daughter’s compromised brain. I knew she had cerebral palsy but I didn’t believe it, not for a long, long time. I thought I could—and needed—to fix her.

In the days that follow the hole in the wall, I search inside and sure enough, there I am: trying too hard, wanting to do right by the people I love, to make a difference, to excel, to prove I can be the mom he wanted but never had. I nod at the old friend, run my fingers through her hair, weep during a yoga class. The tears come in gratitude for all the ways she has served me, and in acknowledgement of this latest reminder that the time has come to surrender, and let her go.

It took me a good week to look into the eyes of the boy I call my son, and forgive him. I imagine him at four and at seven, imagine his confusion, his child-like angst as the world spins wildly out of control. My heart softens. I dig through the papers on my desk and find the list for the handyman. Under basement handrail I write plaster repair.