letter to nephews and nieces

eating fish in Spain
- summer 2013

Dear nephews and nieces,

When I was a little boy I noticed that many adults ignored children. They acted like I wasn’t there. They didn’t say hi to me, even though they said hi to all of the adults. They didn’t talk to me or look at me – or other kids. I felt like saying, hey, I’m a person too! I decided then that when I was an adult, I would say hello to everyone, including kids. Kids think and feel and notice.

Well I haven’t always done that. When you are an adult things can get complicated. Some adults think that their kids belong to them, and they don’t want other adults to talk to their kids or look at them. Kinda like if you don’t want other people to pet your dog. So adults end up acting like kids aren’t there. I think that’s bad manners, even though lots of people do it. Kids are not pets or objects to own, but they are younger people that must be protected.  

Other times adults are afraid of each other. They want to protect their kids from other people who might hurt the kid, or talk about something that the parent doesn’t want their kid to talk about. Adults sometimes don’t know who will do something inappropriate, so they could be afraid of everyone. Maybe they only want certain people to talk to their kids.

*****

When I was a boy I thought that I was a bad kid because I had a secret. When my parents or other people told me that they loved me, I thought, “Yeah, but if they really knew who I was, they wouldn’t love me.” My secret was that I really wanted to talk about sexual things, and I was really interested in other boys. Most of the other boys, when they got older, were really interested in girls. So I was different. And very bad, I thought.

When I got older I told adults about my secret. Some of them hugged me and told me that they would always love me. They were nice and stayed my friends. Others were angry and upset. Some cried and said that they wished that I was dead instead. Some of them stopped talking to me forever, some just for a few years.

Some of them were scared. I was scared too. Some of my brothers and sisters were scared because I was different. They had been taught that people like me were bad. Some adults were taught that if a man wants to marry another man, he also wants to marry children! Or do things that married people do with children. Silly shit.

Others of my brothers and sisters kept inviting me to dinner and sending me Christmas cards and birthday cards. Thank goodness.

I am glad that I shared my secret. I feel better to have other people know me, and see all of me. I don’t share all of me with everyone, but I do share all of me with some people. I am not bad. I am good. Loving men, enough to marry one, is a beautiful thing to me.

*****

Some of you nephews and nieces I’ve felt very close to. I’m happy for that. I value you. It is a privilege and an honor.

Some of you I have not even said hi to when I saw you. So I have become that adult that doesn’t say hi to kids, and pretends like they are not there. Up until now I’ve felt like I had a good excuse.

But you know, I don’t want you to feel bad about yourself. Or think that your uncle Percy doesn’t like you. Or somehow think that you’re doing something wrong. I have to give you credit, because when I was a little boy I just thought that those adults who ignored me just had bad manners. I did not internalize it. Maybe you just think I have bad manners and am an inconsiderate self-absorbed adult who doesn’t see you standing there in the room.

You know, I’d rather you think that, than tell yourself something negative about yourself. But the truth is that I really do think about you often. And in my dream world I would probably jump up and down when I saw you, and run over screaming like a silly excited person and hug you, and laugh, and maybe dance up and down in a circle, or ask you how you were doing, and rest my arm around your shoulder, and just glow listening to you. Then we’d go jump on the trampoline, or play soccer, or sing around the piano, or watch funny youtube videos, or just be in the same space.

In my ideal world we would be a support to each other for a lifetime. A big network of a family. A family with lots of participants, lots of eyes, lots of ideas, conversations, adventures, history, whether scarce because we live in different cities, or frequent because we live in the same town or spent a summer or trip together. When you’re young I would talk with you and listen to you, play games, build things, adventure, protect you, teach you, go on trips, and take care of you. I would feel satisfied and happy, excited, alive, and in love. When I’m old we would still talk and listen to each other, you’d visit me, play games with me, visit me, go on trips, adventure, protect me, teach me, and take care of me if I needed it. Like all of us would for each other.

So you know what, next time I see you, I’m doing to do things differently. No matter who your parents are, I’m at least going to say hi and smile at you. If things are cool, I’ll use your name and shake your hand. If things are even better, I’ll hug you and talk with you.

*****

I think I’m going to keep that promise that I made to myself when I was a little boy. I’m going to say hello to everyone, including kids. Starting with some people that mean a lot to me: my nephews and nieces.

my indigenous uncle jeff

Uncle Jeff is one of my Dad's six brothers. Story-teller, makes you laugh, kooky, sentimental, says-hi-to-absolutely-everyone-everywhere, cry-easy, risk-taker, wild-man Jeff.

Some of my favorite memories of him growing up were his bearded haka-dance (ancestral war cry of the Maori people) after his mission to New Zealand, the proud guided tours of his backyard garden and rabbits, one time he sitting at the piano singing loudly to descending octaves bar chords - with his shirt ripped off from sheer energy, demon snow-mobiling up dangerous snow banks and zigzagging telephone poles racing us in the pick-up, and canoe trips.

Now he's had multiple heart surgeries. When his heart rate lowers dangerously, a pacemaker resets it with a punch "like a donkey kicking me in the chest," he smiles big. I'm not that comforted. He's more gentle with his thinner body. He eats healthy. I'm surprised by the crow-feet wrinkles of his thin facial skin and the redness. His voice doesn't boom as loud. Still it barely contains his zest. Eyes twinkling. Body tired. Soul wild. Eager to say hello and chat a while.

I remember him teasing me in college, where are the girlfriends? Why are you bringing your roommate over for dinner, where's the girl? Damn he's ugly. Playful.

And later him struggling with Andrea. We estranged cousins talking on the phone lamenting our family's judgments and awkward loving. A few years later I was tickled to hear that he motorcycled cross-country with her. Dad and daughter. I leapt inside at the news. Parallels to my own journey and distances covered.


Now I reflect in grad school on philosophical underpinnings. What animal(s) am I like? How close or far am I from the cycles of nature? How did my childhood influence me, and where do I go from here? Who are my people, my culture? What dream figures awaken? Where is my home?

I muse at how I revel in the sky patterns, notice expressions and animals, touch a tree (and even steal a hug when I think no one is looking), cry at a silly commercial, dance like a mad-man to electronica and city beats, write and tell stories, run to feel better, connect more wildly than I ever dared before.

And I think of my Uncle Jeff, noticing the elk or deer on the horizon, pointing out the eagle nest, glorying in the Snake River, looking at his cows standing there looking back at him. Then something in me remembers that this memory or awakeness is not entirely my own. These fondnesses are not just mine, my Uncle Jeff's, or remnants in my genetic line. They are the DNA-affections of millions of my kind.

Modern rhythms deafen. Clamor. But if I unearth some stillness, see the plants reaching up from sidewalk cracks, smell the crisp air, notice flocks swooping to catch the sunset insects, then I come home to a way, a manner that is in my blood, a music-making poetic eloquence that is the way of our collective us.