Never in my life did I see my father or mother
angry. Some may question my honesty
here, or that I suffer from a very selective memory. As incredible as it may seem, it remains
simply true. So I ask, how did my
parents respond when the natural expectation would be anger? They would respond with patience, wonderment,
concern, and perhaps a little sadness.
Once, as teenagers two friends and I went quail hunting using our family
car to travel to the fields. In route, a
shotgun accidentally discharged and the buckshot went through the front floorboard,
deflected off the frame, and destroyed the radiator. Of course, I had to tell dad. It’s odd, but even then I did not anticipate anger. What did I expect to see but wonderment,
concern, and appreciation that none of us were hurt? That’s exactly the way he reacted. I never had to anticipate or fear anger on
the part of my father. My dad never once
whipped me. I asked mother if she ever
did. She said that once when I was a
small child she got a small bush branch and swatted my legs when I was running
and not looking where I was going—perhaps it involved a street. Yet, never having seen her angry, I can only
presume that even then each swat was directed with love and concern rather than
anger. I have been in public places and
seen parents yelling in anger at their children. I find it impossible to understand how a child
would feel being the recipient of intense outbursts of parental anger. Of course, in life I have had people angry at
me. My response to anger too often is
reciprocal anger. It comes so
automatically and naturally, I can only be amazed at the lack of it in my
parents. It strikes me that the ultimate
source of their equanimity was humility—something in which I too often suffer profound
deficiencies.
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