Flying to Notre Dame from Great Falls, Montana, is never easy.
The seats are cramped for us tall people, and my usual preference
for solitude is often sacrificed to the need to be polite to well-meaning
strangers. As a psychologist, I spend much of my life listening
and responding carefully to people and it is an intense process.
Unfortunately, small talk sometimes feels somewhat empty and frustrating.
To me air travel is a time for reflection and contemplation.
Eventually I get back to thinking about life events that are
important on a strictly personal level, like this journey to my
son's graduation from Notre Dame. It gives meaning to my life
when I think of my children, perhaps because, for better or worse,
they are so important to me, and because I seem to be important
to them.
As we touch down at the airport I am caught up in reflections
on another Notre Dame experience, and how it is connected to another
of life's transitions. Graduation is a time of mixed emotions
for parents. A major milestone is joyously celebrated but there
will also be some sadness for me and my son -- an important part
of our relationship will be over. He has long since been an adult,
but this event gives an unavoidable sense of finality to his youth.
Calling John and my daughter, Mary, "kids" and helping to pay
their way has allowed me to keep the illusion of the parent-child
thing intact during their college years; now I will have to let
it go completely.
Each arrival at the University takes on a deeper meaning as
new layers of experience are added to a lifetime of interest --
interest born when my father would talk of his college years.
He played basketball for the Irish, and lived in Main hall --
barracks style -- until he enlisted in the Army Air Corps in 1943.
He learned to love the place, as I did in the 1960s, when I lived
in Pangborn Hall and played on the golf team.
John's passage to independence is perhaps more painful to me
because I have "lost" my son on other occasions. The first time
was during the divorce from his mother when she moved from Montana
to California. After I drove the U-Haul 1,100 miles, I had to
leave my two small children there. As I turned to leave, my 5-year-old
son ran after me and grabbed my leg around the knee, clinging
tightly. His sad, confused upturned eyes searched my face for
some better explanation than I could provide. No good-bye in my
50 plus years of life, even the deaths of my parents, has caused
so much sadness as that memory -- which still comes to mind from
time to time, uninvited.
He came to live with me when he was in the eighth grade. We
were happy and proud of each other that year, 1989-90, but then
he had to leave again. I wondered how he could leave, thinking
it was his choice, and only learned later that it was a promise
he had made to his mother. He returned to live with me for the
last three years of high school, surprisingly, and we had a chance
to share some important years as we both grew in some important
ways.
Open communication between us has never been easy. There have
been many things he didn't tell me, and it wasn't just because
we lived apart. I didn't teach him soon enough, by example, to
share his feelings. I always want more intimacy with my son, just
as I wanted but never attained with my father.
I cried too, when I left him in the parking lot next to Morissey
Hall in August of 1994, the start of his freshman year. He was
excited, happy, but it felt like I was leaving him, too reminiscent
of walking away from that scared 5-year old. But he was 18, and
ready for me to leave, so he could get started on his own Notre
Dame experience.
I suppose that we will always miss each other, my son and I,
like we did so often in his early years, when we were groping
for a comfortable way to express our love, fumbling around for
a way to make up for lost time during visits. When I left him
on campus I knew it was too late to recapture his childhood, that
I could never make up the lost time I had created with the divorce.
I realized I wanted to tell him my feelings as I drove the 2,200
miles back to Montana. I would have to write him a letter I thought,
but never did, until I wrote this.
* * *
I get off the plane with a wide grin of anticipation for seeing
my son, hoping the experience of commencement exercises will draw
us even closer, and give us new memories to share when we see
each other in the coming years of wider separation.
He is a fun person to be around. "My son John" is enthusiastic;
he is social; he is affectionate. He has shared his friends with
me during my trips to campus; he has learned to be more open and
honest with me. The last time I came out for a football game,
we were walking across campus when he turned to me and said, "Dad,
I am just going to be myself, I want you to see me exactly as
I am when you're not here." To a psychologist/father, there are
no sweeter words.
When the disembarking crowd parts enough for me to see him standing
in the luggage area, he doesn't smile. He averts his eyes and
won't even respond to my vaudeville arm waving. I know he is telling
me something is seriously wrong.
"I'll tell you about it later," he says, in response to my raised
eyebrows. I know it is not a life-threatening crisis, now, or
he would have to get it off his chest, even at the airport. Transitions
have often come with some drama; it is his way. But he is suffering
for real, as I can see from the pain in his eyes. I hate to see
him suffer -- "afraid to disappoint" is how he looks. He has never
been one to suffer in silence, fortunately. He is better than
I at expressing his emotions. He sobbed after his high school
football team lost a playoff game, the same week his grandmother
died. When my father died, during his eighth grade year, he wrote
"Papa" on his basketball shoes, one pa on each heel. He was the
most enthusiastic recruit in his indoctrination into ROTC.
I said, "You had better tell me now." So against the backdrop
of the baggage area, he tells: He was weighed and measured for
his commissioning into the Army that day, it seems, and has failed
the body-fat standard. He has 24 hours to pass another exam. If
he doesn't pass, he explains, he breaches his contract with the
United States government; he will be liable for paying back his
ROTC scholarship money -- amounting to about $80,000. He is sick
because he has spent the day starving himself, running, and sitting
in the sauna. I am scared because I know the health risks he is
running; I am sick about the money and what kind of memories might
be created to spoil the weekend ceremonies.
"It is my fault," he says. "I knew about the weigh-in and I
knew it would be close, but I have always passed before . . ."
John has made an art form of achieving without working very hard,
and once in awhile he gets caught; a rare misjudgment in how to
succeed without really trying. When I hear what has happened I
respond with some anger, because this problem has come up before,
so I point out that this is a lesson. I get into lecture mode
often enough that I know it makes him mad, but I have to say something.
I see that he is suffering enough, and he is bright and aware
of my feelings, so I shut up quickly. We will spend the evening
together and I will give him a lot of support, encouragement and
hope.
At 10:30 the next morning I ask if he would like me to go with
him to his weigh-in. He says no. He is still embarrassed, still
regretful, and wants to go face his music alone. By noon it is
better for him and for me. He tries not to give away his relief,
but before he even says anything I can see in his eyes that he
has passed his physical and will be commissioned a second lieutenant
in the Army. I am delighted; he is thrilled. There will be joy
in Mudville after all. We will be celebrating one of the most
memorable events in his life and mine with no storm clouds to
dampen our moods.
Walking with John across the quad to South Dining Hall brings
pride to my heart, and to my mind comes the memory of walking
across campus with my father, who was proud of me at my graduation
here. My father gave up a career in professional basketball to
raise a family in Montana. In 1967 he brought my mother and brothers
in our family's red and white Chevy station wagon to see me graduate.
They stayed in Lyons Hall, happy to be on campus for the first
time in my four years here. My father rarely expressed his personal
feelings, but he was excited and proud, he said. I feel that way
now as John and I go to lunch.
My son greets many friends as we walk -- the grins are wide,
the excitement palpable. In our mutual relief, we are walking
on a cushion of air that makes us feel like we are sailing above
the pavement. The seniors, some of whom I have met before, nod
knowingly to one another. What they really know is how they are
excited to graduate they are, and how scared they are to be on
their own. They have become part of the Notre Dame family in the
last four years. The camaraderie they feel because of this closeness
will make it harder to leave here than most other campuses; it
is more like leaving a home to go out into an intimidating world.
As John and I walk, we talk of his choice, painfully made three
years earlier, to be in the Army. Later I will watch his commissioning,
and know he thinks his military commitment is worth it, because
he loves Notre Dame and the life he has made for himself here.
Later on I will tell John about the sense of community that exists
among alumni, a community that for me it has only deepened over
the past 30 years. We will have an additional lifetime bond cemented
because of our shared history with Notre Dame. Later, he will
tell me he is sure that his deceased grandfather saw him graduate
-- and was proud of him too.
When we are sitting back at Morrissey Manor, I notice again
the class ring on his left hand. It is a graduation gift from
me, and he has chosen the same stone that I have in my ring. Earlier
he has told me that since he was little he admired that ring,
and wanted to have one someday.
He is busy talking to his mother and his sister, but he sees
me smile and asks why. "I like your ring," I say. From that he
senses my whole thought process, and just nods knowingly, and
he continues to talk to his sister, who is proud of him, too.
It is at that moment that I realize what a strong connection
we have, my son and I. It is with a great sense of relief that
I understand better how we work together.
People who see us interact notice that we seem close, and that
the love between us is obvious, that there is a lot of affection.
It never seems enough for me, because of the divorce-imposed separations,
which put so much space between us. Even so, it occurs to me that
we are closer than most father-sons are, and much closer that
my own son-father relationship had been, despite spending the
years of my childhood with a full-time dad.
The graduation ceremony is a cross between a pep rally and a
Mass at Sacred Heart Basilica. There are prayers and there are
cheers, there are hymns and there is the Alma Mater, and sermons
and inspirational speeches. There is quiet ritual to inspire hope
and joy and contemplation, and raucous celebration for contrast.
The energy we share with the crowd trooping in and out of the
Joyce Center reminds me of a football weekend when palpable electricity
starts Friday morning and ends Sunday after Mass. I sit with John's
sister, and talk with his mother of some shared, some separate
memories of his years with us. Like other parents, we try to find
our son in the sea of caps and gowns. Amazingly, we succeed, because
he is standing on his chair, and we do the vaudeville arm waving
thing again, this time with a happy result when he sees us.
In the middle of Mass, I remember his eighth-grade graduation,
when he won so many honors, how deeply touched I was. And his
high school graduation, when he was back living with me; how proud
I was of his ROTC scholarship, and acceptance to Notre Dame. I
have time to be grateful to have a son who has had only minor
problems and to think about the person he is, and time to pray
for his happiness.
After the ceremony the goodbyes begin, and cameras are focused
in an attempt to capture the waning moments of this special time.
Some friendships will last for years and some will end when the
loaded vans pull away from the dorm. John would like to stay here,
to prolong the sense of belonging he has. And I would like to
prolong this part of our father-son bond and avoid another goodbye,
but it is time to leave, and the airport scene is one we share
with other Notre Dame families.
Three weeks later he is at my house with five or six or sometimes
seven of his graduated friends who want to see Montana, do some
camping and start some lifetime friendships. I get the opportunity
to learn that these kids turned adults are amazing people, with
terrific values, strong faiths, realistic hopes, loyalty to their
families, honesty, respect for others, an interest in the environment
and a commitment to making the world a better place. My son is
one of them, and comfortable enough to share it, and them, with
me. I am proud all over again.
