The vehicle operators in the two cars in front of me were driving the way people drive when they have no place to go. I’m not sure if “road rage” was a much used term in 1988 but on this day I had all the symptoms. It was around 10:30am on the 2nd of January; the New Year was already a day old. At the time I was teaching high school social studies in Wallkill, NY and had only my free period of 40 minutes to complete a very painful task. My father was the principal of an elementary school in the Wallkill district and I was on my way to see him—uninvited and unexpected. The ten minute journey was being slowed by the two elderly people in front of me who obviously hadn’t a single ounce of urgency in their bones. At 28, I was making the kind of mistakes that made me wonder if my life would ever amount to much. It was surely an “I don’t give a fuck anymore,” moment that prompted me to pull out across the double yellow line and into the blind spot of oncoming traffic. The second I committed my red 300 ZX to the opposite lane, a tractor trailer came directly into my vision. I don’t know how, but for a few moments in time my car shared not only the same piece of highway as the truck but was even sandwiched between the cars of the two senior citizens. Luck, fate, or destiny were on my side that day because at 70 miles per hour I drove between them and returned to my lane unscathed.
At his place of work my father was always an easy man to find. He was six foot three, 230 pounds, and usually sporting a suit and tie. His presence was known to be quite imposing throughout his 35 years as a middle school and elementary school principal. His reputation amongst the middle school kids was that of a no-nonsense, strict tyrant whom you never wanted to meet with one-on-one. Rumor had it he used the paddle or poked his long, thick fingers into your chest if he had gotten bad reports in regard to your school behavior. I have always loved the man and even back then he was just my Dad, but in my younger years I would be dishonest to say I didn’t live in the fear of his wrath. I liked to think that my father never spared the rod on me or my brother. Maybe I have repressed the memories of any belt whippings but I distinctly recall him reaching for it and me running for dear life. One thing I am quite sure of is that in all of my living days, I didn’t want to disappoint the man I looked up to both figuratively and literally. I made my way into the main office of the Plattekill Elementary School to the greetings of a celebrity.
“Richie, what a pleasant surprise. Do you want to see your Dad?” asked Sherry Palen my Dad’s loyal secretary.
“Actually I do, but he isn’t expecting me,” I said tentatively.
Mrs. Palen jumped from her seat, “He’s in with somebody, I’m sure he will be glad to finish up.” I got up and prepared myself to enter the lion’s den.
“Go right in Richie,” Mrs. Palen politely offered. As I was entering my Dad’s office I was passed by a nine year old boy with snot running from his nose and tears flowing from his eyes and felt as though I was looking in the mirror.
For a former gang member jock, fresh out of the Depression Era streets of Flatbush, my Dad had done alright for himself. He was a wayward trouble maker of a kid who found his way to New Paltz, a teaching degree, and a career in education. Now, near the end of a solid engagement as an administrator, he sat behind a desk with nothing on it with the exception of pictures of his family. I thought about how far he had come from the ghettos of New York City to his little fiefdom in upstate New York . I had always been proud of how he had gotten so much out of life even though starting with so little. It didn’t go unnoticed to me that his family was his number one priority and he had made sure that my brother, Gary, and I were provided so much more opportunity than was afforded him. Growing up, my Dad had been there for me through everything that was thrown my way. By the time I had reached my 20’s we were fortunate enough to become friends, and with the exception of one or two issues, I’d even go as far to say we were confidantes. Now, with looming thoughts of my day of reckoning, driving recklessly with my life spinning out of control, I sat in the small confines of an elementary school principal’s office, ready to plead my case. I was turning to my father to get me out of my metaphorical speeding ticket.
My Dad didn’t rise from behind his solid oak desktop. He leaned back in his swivel chair and shot me a concerned look. “Hey Rich, what brings you to Plattekill in the middle of a school day?” He barely finished his sentence as I began spewing out the words I had rehearsed to myself the night before and all morning.
“I know I owe you $10,000. I promise I’m not ignoring that fact. The details don’t matter but I had a terrible weekend betting football. Since I’ve graduated college, I’ve only asked you for money once. I swear this will be the last time and you can set up a contract for how I’ll pay you back,” I shot in rapid fire. Then I took a breath. Before he spoke, I saw my father make a very small and subtle shake of his head.
“How much do you need?” Great question, I enthusiastically thought. The meeting was going better than expected.
Without hesitation I responded, “Just another $10,000.” I had yet to start my career in sales but I knew that after you made your pitch and asked for the order it was best to shut up and wait for the client to say “OK.”
As I sat in the principal’s office, squirming like a school boy, I felt disdain from my father for the first time in my life. It was on par, if not more, with the disdain that I felt for myself and my query. I was a professional school teacher and a grown man yet here I was ready to receive a lecture from an elementary school administrator who also happened to be my Dad. The big guy pushed back from his reclining position and now was sitting upright against his desk and leaning forward. I could anticipate my tears before he even opened his mouth.
“No, I am not going to give you any more money. You’re almost 30, you have a good job and no family, but you’re broke?” Shamelessly he pushed forward a tissue box and continued with the most painful words I’ve ever heard spoken directly to me.
“Rich, I see a guy sitting across from me who is wasting his life away. I know I’ve done things to disappoint you. But I never thought I would be disappointed in you. You have a problem and me giving you more money is not going to fix it. Only you are going to be able to cure yourself.” My wet eyes had stopped making contact with his halfway through my dress down. I had no verbal retort for the scathing but truthful words of my father. I exited the office in the same manner as the visitor before.
The winter air didn’t have anything to do with the numbness that came over my being. Certainly I had met defeat before in my life and made the adjustments to get back in the winner’s circle. This was entirely different. By the time my tears were drying I was feeling abandoned, the road back to redemption seemed so long, and I knew I had to go it alone. There would be no more excuses, no more get out of jail free cards or bailouts. The road rage I had experienced on the ride to see my Dad had completely disappeared on the ride back to my teaching assignment. Instead of my mind committing any anger towards my father, I began to take a personal inventory. For only a split second I had felt rejected and humiliated and in that little sports car I had an epiphany of sorts. No one had embarrassed me, my Dad hadn’t turned his back on me nor was I unlucky. I had to take sole responsibility for letting my life go off the tracks. My disappointments in finance, relationships, and career were self- inflicted. I had been looking for the easy way out and the short-cuts and as a result, had become polluted with a sense of false entitlement. For too many years I had been displaying a lack of passion for hard work and demonstrating an inability to grow as a person. Without realizing it, my father’s words and actions toward me had made a light bulb go off in my scattered mind. When the man who meant more to me than anyone else in the world had lost all confidence, I knew it was time for a change.
On the same stretch of highway where I should have taken my last breath a short time earlier, I was once again behind the little old church lady. It was late and I knew a bunch of 17 year olds were already in their seats waiting for their teacher’s arrival. It was going to be close, but I had an opening if I gunned my engine. Out of habit, I leaned my car toward the left lane preparing for another game of chicken. Then, in the same action, I gently let up on the gas pedal and tucked quietly back into my original position behind a woman who could barely see over her steering wheel. I can’t say from that day forward I never took another risk but I can say that I was ready to slow down the wreck that had become my life. I felt like I had been granted a second chance and I wasn’t going to cross any double yellow lines for a long time.
