Thinking about my dad, two years on

I don't think about him too often. But it's been a bit over -- two years? Is that all? It feels like at least four--since he died.

I just finished working with a student on one last waitlist essay for college. And it reminded me that, last year, I had once written a sample application essay to try to illustrate the tone, pacing, humor, and emotional notes that I wanted that student to hit. In retrospect it wasn't fair -- a 30-year old has simply lived more life than an 18-year old. More things have happened, good and bad, and it's easier to write about influential people and moments once their influence has become pronounced over the years. I honestly don't know if the kid got anything out of it, though the mom thanked me for the essay and complimented me on my writing.

Upon a re-reading, I grimaced. It wasn't quite true -- it was my uncle that asked people to pull his finger. My father was usually content to make fart jokes. But my memories of him have been shaped by so many things -- especially, blessedly, time, which dulls wounds and through which the retrospective mind creates order and a logical story where there was none. It was him, in any case, and the rest of it was true.

I don't even know if it would have been a good essay. It is past-focused, and not focused enough on the qualities of character I did develop that would serve me in the future. It might be more of a red flag than a story of overcoming difficulty. And the last paragraph is a bit schmaltzy. But it was a first draft, and I didn't have time to polish it -- I must've worked on fifteen essays for that kid.

I'm too tired or reluctant to come up with a two-year anniversary set of thoughts. It would have been a recycled version at the one-year mark. So it seems strangely appropriate I take something I had written a year ago for the purpose. For it must be marked. I've been  a bit down lately, possibly because I'm seeing these seniors get ready to leave. And I want to leave with them, to give college and my twenties another crack. Or maybe because they remind me that I, too, have moved on from the past, and with equal parts ignorance, optimism, and fear, look toward the future.

“Pull my finger!”

That’s how my dad started every meeting. He was crazy like that, and crazy in other ways. He was bipolar, and I, thankfully, grew up without him in the house. But I did see him regularly – every two weeks. He was, at times, scary, or genial, or grouchy, or energetic – the combination of medications, occasionally illicit drugs, and, most importantly, life. He had enjoyed success as an aerospace engineer at the height of the Cold War, and lost it all – the house, the family, even his freedom.

But it was there, in the institutions, with minimal spending money and limited means of transportation, he developed his relationships, and, if I can be hopeful, some measure of wisdom about how he got there, and what he still had to offer the world.

My father taught me many things. I learned to fear emotion, as that was associated with manic depression. I learned to fear my intelligence, as that was also linked with mental illness. But I also learned the value of laughing, whether to forget, or to share. He could make me laugh, and as he grew older, was better able to laugh at himself, and his past. (And his gas.)

I remember the day he died. I remember his cold form, his mouth agape, stretched in a hospital bed in the care facility where he had spent the last ten years. In life, he had been a terror and an inspiration, a source of merriment and perpetual stress. He was gone, and I didn’t know with what, or how, I would fill the place in myself that was now empty.

Yet even here, there was humor. My aunt came in, and talked with me. After about ten minutes, I realized that she didn’t realize she was standing next to a dead man, and informed her of the fact. The mortician, a young, eager man obviously desperate to keep his job, pleaded with me to rate him highly on the survey that would be mailed to me in a week. “Tens, please!” I couldn’t help but laugh, and I know my Dad would have done the same.

After I had taken care of that business, I looked at him one last time. I recited the words of “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”. I sat for a while.

And on my way out, I pulled his finger.

My father learned to laugh because it felt good. He laughed to escape the doubts and regrets that plagued him. Honestly, I laugh for the same reasons. But I also value laughter as a way of really understanding and appreciating the human condition. When we laugh, honestly and fully, we begin to open ourselves, to make ourselves vulnerable – and that, perhaps, is the beginning of wisdom.

I have not fought in war. I have not discovered a new technology, or written a novel, or performed in Carnegie Hall. My triumphs, and my tribulations, have been necessarily smaller, more private. They do not capture the imagination, but they echo in my memory. They inform my character, and give me both courage and caution, combining in what I hope to be wisdom. I have faced those old, old fears. And I have learned how to laugh at them, at myself, at the frustrations great and small. He was, in his absence, at least as influential as in his occasional, unstable presence. But he trained me well. For even in that last hour, I laughed a large, wonderful laugh, and thanked my father for his imperfect love.

How to screw up a speech (CC#2: Organize Your Essay)

I screwed up today's speech. I still won the club award. But that was on my strength of speaking, and not on the quality of speech.

I've been working on a Theodore Roosevelt speech for about a month. I've gone through an estimated four drafts. And none of them sounded right. I ended up delivering a jumble of information today. It was well-received and praised.

My evaluator, a kindly retired lawyer, rightly took me to task on it. He thinks he was too harsh; he was actually just right, and I'm glad the club saw the critiques he made.

Could better preparation helped? Sure. I didn't effectively memorize the speech, or even talking points, because I was struggling until the last minute to get a draft.

Could I have worked on my physical presentation? Yes. I was in a suit. But I tended to pace. I have a way of scanning the room that's reminiscent of an oscillating sprinkler. It's eye contact, but it's not particularly effective (and for the vision impaired toastmaster, damn annoying -- the auditory input of someone pacing while speaking can actually induce nausea).

But those are secondary issues.

The biggest reason it was a bad speech was because the topic was ill-suited to the format.

The Competent Communicator (CC) #2 speech is all about organization. There should be a clear intro, in which you enumerate your three main points. There should be three supporting points. And, finally, there should be a conclusion.

The problem is that I ended up delivering a narrative speech. There's just too much info in any biographical narrative (and most obviously so when discussing a crowded life like T.R.'s.)

A narrative is a terrible approach to a highly structured speech, especially given the time constraints.

The speech would have gone better if I had stuck with draft #2, which organized roughly along certain personality traits.

But it would have still foundered on the fundamental fact that historical narrative is a poor match for this speech.

Most of us are limited by topic. We have to speak about a certain thing in a professional setting. We have to talk about the bride and groom at a wedding. In the vast majority of cases, the topic is fixed. Sometimes even the format is fixed. But even in those cases, what flexibility exists comes from format, not from content.

These Toastmasters speeches are precisely the opposite. For many of these speeches (but not all: CC#1: The Icebreaker is a conspicuous exception), the speaker has freedom -- too much for comfort -- to choose any topic he or she wishes. It's the format, structure, or grading rubric that is fixed. The intent is clear: focus on a single technical aspect of the speech. It doesn't matter if it's about something no one cares about; at this level, the emphasis is on the mechanics.

It's important to double-check that you're doing precisely what you're supposed to be doing. And sometimes, in order to do what you're supposed to do, you have to ditch your preferred topic and go with another one.

This lesson applies to writing as well. Even if you have freedom to include whatever examples or content you wish, your format will often suggest more natural topics, and, contrariwise, will build in natural barriers if you insist on alternative topics.

This might not be helpful for those of you speaking in work settings. But for those of you with some flexibility in content, but not in form, it bears remembering. I'll keep that in mind while I prepare for CC#3: Get to The Point.