My Mom and the Legacy of Freedom

My Mom is nice.

My Mom is unbelievably nice.

My Mom is pathologically nice.

In other words, my Mom tends towards co-dependency. I've had a hard time figuring out why. My Dad wasn't a drinker. Like any blue collar man of his era he enjoyed it. A night at the local Legion, or a house party with friends, was the safe space for men of his generation to talk about themselves and their feelings. But, he escaped the genetic disposition for a real practice of boozing. Basically, my Pops was a flyweight. From what I understand of co-dependency my Mom should have married to a serious drinker, a real bottle of scotch a day alcoholic.

Was she just lucky? Was I?

Not surprisingly, the answer is more complicated than Dr. Drew, Dr. Phil and the other t.v. doctors made me believe. My Mom is one of the many results of WWII.

No, seriously.

I don't think my Grampa was a real drinker either. He drank a bit when he was younger, but that is hardly evidence. Like so many men the war changed him. We went from small town British Columbia to big cities and front lines. He was one of the men who moved from heavy artillery to a place in the lead boats as the Allies stormed Normandy. Without being wounded in battle he was thoroughly scarred.

My Mom says he never talked about the war growing up. It is the job of parents to shield their children after all. But, when enough time passed he told us grandkids. We were privy to stories, now glorified, about the war. They were less gory and heartbreaking and more glorious--less Kubrik and more Hemingway. As a child, I was enthralled by his stories of close calls and motorcycle escapes. I marveled at scenes of death, implied to my childish imagination, never fully disclosed.

As an adult I began to understand. I don't mean an adult in the legal or biological sense. I mean a fully realized man who embraces, accepts and works on their flaws instead of hiding and denying their truth. I pieced together my Grampa's story. The war turned him, and a generation of men and women, into a mirror addict. Too many from his generation had signs and symptoms of the disease.It was a too real reflection of their experiences. Those, like my Gramps, without the genetic burden  for alcoholism slowed. They returned, more or less, to the persons they were before.

Time may not heal, but it does provide distance from those emotional and physical scars. Time short-circuits the need to numb emotions with booze for those able to put the war behind them.

My Grampa's story, of course, is also my Mom's story. As the oldest daughter she became parentalized after the war. She had to take care of siblings and her parents more than was healthy. This isn't a story of blame. I only seek understanding and a realization of self.

My Mom's story is my own. I let myself be manipulated for a disproportionate amount of praise. I go out of my way for friends, or colleagues, in an attempt to overcome the feeling I'm not enough. I find too much self worth in others. I wasn't parentalized, like my Mom, but the war resounds in my story too. As my children grow, I'll keep looking in and back to clarify and understand my world.

I hope the echo dies with me.

A slightly more thought out discussion of the Canucks' draft day shenanigans

Everyone with a sense of proportion, not bastardized by hearing too many arguments of false-equivalence that compare Christian fundamentalism to atheism or men's rights to world-wide misogyny, understands Schneider for the ninth pick is an awful deal.

Of course, the contradictory nature of sportswriters meant a lot of carpal tunnel was developed trying to justify the deal. Yes, the Canucks need to rebuild their farm system. Yes, the Canucks are short on prospects. Yes, Bo Hor-whatever-his-name-is, is a good prospect.

But, can anyone tell me that a potential second line NHLer is equivalent to an established number one netminder?

Are you also going to tell me how hard straight white men have it? And is there a war on religion in North America too? Is 'reverse' racism just as bad as actual racism?

Snark aside, momentarily, the return for Schneider is not my real concern. As a fan, this pick signifies the end of this era. The chance for another run at the Cup has ended. The window has closed. The door is shut. (Insert your own clichéd metaphor here).

Gillis's decision to not take Edmonton's offer, which included an actual person, is a decision to rebuild the team. There aren't blue chip prospects on the verge of making the team and pushing for top six ice time. There isn't a Logan Couture to our Joe Thornton to take over the team's offensive duties. We don't have a pair of young stars to let the twins transition into veteran helpers on a cup worthy team. The defence remains suspect. Luongo's head space will be an ongoing couch-psychologists dream. This team can't win.

And that doesn't bother me much. I'm used to not winning. As I've wrote before, I find it comforting. (http://vansunsportsblogs.com/2013/05/14/guest-post-the-canucks-lost-again-a-requiem-for-hockey-dreams/?utm_medium=twitter&utm_source=twitterfeed)

What I don't like is the lie. Maybe Gillis doesn't think he is rebuilding. Maybe he thinks there is a way to turn the few prospects he has into assets for a Cup run. Maybe he thinks the twins aren't on the downside of their careers. (For the record, they definitely are). Maybe he thinks Kesler can stay healthy and he can find a couple of cheap shut down defenceman. Maybe Mr. Gillis should make a list of what this team needs, what he has and compare the two. It is easy to see a clear future when you don't sketch it out. Your brain will fill in gaps and gloss over large areas of concern.

Maybe I'm the one missing something. Maybe there is one more run left in this team. Maybe Bo will step right in and add the depth we've needed for years. But, maybe not. I fear we are entering our late-Iggy Calgary Flames era. We have a management unwilling to admit mistakes and call for a rebuild. We have fans who want to believe the magic can be captured one more time.

I hope they are right. I hope I am wrong. But I doubt it.

Who am I?

I'm the type of man who wants to live without attachments and experience the world as Zen contemplation.

I'm actually the type of man who is easily hurt and prone to displays of passive aggression.

I'm the type of man who wants to live a spartan life of rigor, small tastes and stoicism.

I'm actually the type of man who prefers watching modern Spartans clash while eating ice cream in my underwear.

I'm the type of man who wants to take his coffee black.

I'm actually the type of man who likes cream and sugar and a lot of chocolate syrup in my poor man's mocha.

I'm the type of man who wants to be a black belt in Judo.

I'm actually the type of man who stopped going when I got older, tired and received my brown belt.

I'm the type of man who never wants to say "good enough".

I'm actually the type of man who.......actually, I just covered this.

I'm the type of man who wants to be unconcerned with being handsome or chiseled.

I'm actually the type of man who can't let go of that childhood memory of looking different and feeling out of place.

I'm the type of man who wants to be able to fix cars, and sinks and trouble shoot appliances.

I'm actually the type of man who needs a brother-in-law to fix his truck, google and repeated attempts to fix sinks and a consumer culture of disposable appliances to replace broken toasters.

I'm the type of man who wants to be above praise, congratulations and adoration.

I'm actually the type of man who just wants to show off.

I'm the type of man who wants to be an intellectual and academic giant.

I'm actually the type of man who wastes too much time navel gazing and writing meaningless blog posts in hopes of instant gratification.

I'm the type of man who wants to know when it is enough.

I'm actually the type of man who doesn't know when I should have stopped--the last set was better, I think.

I'm also the type of man who can't stick to format or be happy with what I've done.

Or, is that just the type of guy I want to be and secretly I love all praise and am too rigid too often?

Now, I'm confused.

Such is the danger of self-exploration and building a narrative of self.