Why I am an Angry Person

A few weeks ago I attended my daughter's graduation ceremony from Community College. It was a wonderful program with inspiring speakers, good music, and the promise of a better future for hundreds of graduates. As I watched my daughter cross that stage and take another step toward a life of independence and adventure, all I could think of was, “Why can’t those idiots behind me shut up?”

Don’t laugh, but in the last few years I have honestly tried to become a more tolerant person. I have attempted to overlook the blatantly obnoxious, oblivious, self-involved behavior of our current society. I have tried to make excuses for them, such as “they just don’t know any better,” or “it was the way they were raised,” or “someone must have dropped them on their head when they were kids.” I tried (hand on a Bible), I really, really tried.

But it’s gotten to the point that bad behavior is not just overwhelmingly prevalent, but has become accepted as a societal norm. We hear so many people talking about “Freedom,” that people think that means they can do anything they want. God Bless America! Home of the Free and the Rude!

I’ve ranted before about bad behavior in movies, but it’s pretty much everywhere now. You might expect bad behavior in a bar, or a ball game, and almost certainly at a family reunion, but I’ve noticed it rearing its ugly head at Church also. What used to be a place of absolute reverence and respect; is now a place where people chat during songs, during the sermon, and even during prayers.

When I was a kid, if I was bored, I drew quietly in a bulletin. If I got loud or misbehaved in any way, I was promptly taken outside and dealt with. Take my word for it, those hard wooden pews do not feel good after a spanking. I learned my lessons quickly.

Youth today don’t get spankings, and in general it seems that parent’s drop them at the door and don’t look their way again until they get in the car to go out to eat for Sunday lunch. I’ve noticed the youth in our church line up across a row and talk, laugh and pass notes throughout the entire service. They don’t even have the decency to sit on the back row like my peers did. They sit toward the front where everyone behind them can watch them misbehave. Everyone, I guess, except the parents (who are probably too caught up in their own conversations to go up and grab their kid by the earlobe and drag them out for some good old fashioned lessons in proper church behavior).

My girls know that I’m watching, and I’m proud of the fact that they also seem bothered by the bad actions of their fellow youth. Often they will come and sit with me and their mother on Sunday morning and when I asked them why they aren’t sitting with their friends, they have answered “they talk too much during the service.” It gives me a big Dad smile.

Another thing I’ve noticed in church lately is how many people do not take advantage of the nursery facilities. I don’t have a problem with that. In fact, I think kids should get used to being in the service and learning to be quiet and respectful. But (and there is almost always a “but”), parents need to use some common sense and have respect for others.

If you have small children, sit in the back and on the end of the pew. That way you can get up and step out quickly when they cry or act up. Don’t bring any toys that make noise or can be used as a horn, drum or hammer. These suggestions may seem too obvious, but apparently not. It happens on any given Sunday.

I’ve noticed that one mother brings books for her pre-school child, which I whole-heartedly agree is a good thing. I would not expect a child to sit still and listen to a sermon with multiple Old Testament references and themes based on eternal damnation (and to be perfectly honest, if I could bring a copy of Berenstain Bears to peruse during some of the drier sections of certain sermons, I’d be happier too). This particular mother though, doesn’t just bring her child books; she chooses to READ them to her during the service. I’m not talking about a onetime occurrence, but every Sunday morning. I’ve actually had to move where I sit (which is a major concession in a Baptist church, where seats are leased on a lifetime basis) because if I continued to sit near her and listen to her soft narration and turning of pages, I may have eventually lost my religion.

Of course, we are inundated with examples of bad behavior in media, and more often than not we see that behavior rewarded. How many reality shows do you see that follow a family who is respectful, loving, kind and generous? Between Jersey Shore, the plethora of “Real Housewives,” the Kardashians, the Teen/Dance Moms, the know-it-all cake boss/restaurant gurus, and any number of B-grade star wannabes who allow cameras to follow them around; we don’t have a lot of quality role models. Rude, loud, selfish, ignorant and greedy gets the attention these days.

All of this is a great reminder of something I have tried so very hard to ignore. I don’t like people. Not any of you reading this right now, of course, but those other people. We know who they are.

As we sat in the cramped seats of Thompson Boling Arena to watch Shelby graduate and listened to the hoots, hollers and air horn blasts coming from the large family of morons behind us, my lovely and much more tolerant wife leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, “Can we request to sit in the non-redneck section next time?”

Sadly there isn't a section to escape bad behavior.  Not anymore.

I am not exaggerating about this group, and if you do not believe me, you are welcome to ask my wife or any of our other family members who were present. The people behind us behaved like they were sitting in their back yard, drinking beer and waiting for the cock fight to start. I picture them arriving at the arena on a large flatbed truck or in an old yellow school bus (so old, I imagined, they had bought it from a church, which means it had been retired from service twice). They came there to honor “Billy,” whose name they screamed loudly and often throughout the entire ceremony. I later learned (and I swear this is true) that his name was “Billy Bob.” I can’t say that I was shocked.

I tried hard to ignore them, but considering that they raised their voices to be heard over the arena speaker system, I couldn’t help but hear most of their constant chatter. Apparently one of the three women sitting directly behind us was pregnant and would soon be giving birth, although based on appearances, it was difficult to tell which one it was. They talked about OB/GYN visits and the use of drugs during childbirth (they were all for it). Then the soon-to-be-mother, with incredible conviction, said “if it’s a boy, I’m pushing him back in until he comes out a girl.”

I wanted to turn around and educate her a little bit. “Hi, I’m not a doctor, but I used to watch ER all the time, and I just want you to know that it really doesn’t work that way.”

I wanted to turn around a lot that evening. I wanted to tell them shut up. I wanted to say, “There are other people who would like to hear what is going on and maybe even hear their loved ones name called out at graduation.” I wanted to say, “Did you ever think that Billy Bob might be humiliated that you’re up here acting like you’re at a tractor pull?”

I didn’t do any of these things, of course. I didn’t say anything to them. Fortunately, they did have a lull in their conversation when Shelby’s name was called, so we did hear it, or that might have been the proverbial straw that sent me to jail that night for assault. I was frustrated though, and it affected my enjoyment of the evening because I couldn’t just relax and be in the moment.

The situation left me wondering what is the right thing to do. How do you teach other people how to behave properly? I don’t think my asking them politely to “keep it down” would have worked. I got the impression that they would have kicked my seat and said “Move somewhere else if you don’t like it!” By implication, that left me with two choices: a) move somewhere else, or b) start liking it. I didn’t like either of those choices.

I was also afraid it could escalate in other ways.  These ladies had the look that if they had not been in a bar fight recently, that they at least knew every move in the WWF catalog, and although I was pretty sure Connie could handle one or maybe even two of them, three would have been just a little bit too much (plus, I'm fairly confident that the rest of the clan would have joined in the battle, including their feral looking children sitting behind them).

The other problem when confronting crazy, rude people is that their unbridled belief in their right to FREEDOM and doing whatever they want to the detriment of others could well extend to their personal right to bear (and use) arms. Not that all gun owners are crazy, rude people (and I know several gun owners who are polite, well-balanced citizens), but I can pretty much guarantee that if you have a guy named “Billy Bob” and at least two women with “America: Love It or Leave It” tattoos on their upper chest then there is probably a gun rack in the back truck window and a handgun in a purse.

My frustration with bad behavior only goes so far.

The Big Deal

I think I’m pretty laid back as a father, which probably has more to do with the quality of my kids than with any specific personality traits I may have mastered. I don’t have to do a lot of yelling and screaming, and when I do it usually backfires on me and requires some type of humble apology and a pathetic explanation that I misunderstood what was going on. Fortunately, my kids don’t hold those mistakes over my head too often and they accept my groveling as part of who I am.

In the last couple of weeks we’ve had some situations that required me to pull back the mask of fumbling idiot and be “serious Dad.” Even rarer was the fact that I was justified in doing so. I know this to be true because Connie did not give me the evil eye while I was doing it.

The first incident occurred on a Saturday night two weeks ago when Shelby and Ashlyn invited a 16-year-old male friend from church over to practice music. As it turns out, there was no music practiced and soon plans had changed into going out to eat and seeing a movie. Life changes fast in the mind of teenagers (or twenty year olds, in the case of Shelby). Their mutual love of music was overpowered by their desire for buttered popcorn and a night on the town.

After some drama and debate over leaving little sister Taylor at home (why can’t they all just get along?), the gang of three left the house with the promise to call later to let me know what’s going on. A while later, while watching Disney channel re-runs with Taylor, I get a text from Ashlyn saying that they were “in Turkey Creek” to eat. For those who don’t know…Turkey Creek is a shopping and restaurant haven that is not in our town but is on the outskirts of Knoxville, about 15 miles away.

Now, before I describe my reaction, let me explain a few things. First, it might sound like that’s not a big deal. Second, it’s a big deal because I say it is.

My text response was this: I am not happy

This prompted a quick text response of “why?” by sweet, dear, oh so innocent Ashlyn and almost immediately a phone call by the same sweet, dear, oh so innocent child. “Why are you upset,” she said, completely unprepared for the hurricane of parental judgment about to befall her.

“Well,” I said, “you have driven to Knoxville without telling me that you were going. It’s Saturday night, so the roads are full of people who have just had a few glasses of wine or beer with dinner. And…you have a minor in the car whose parents think he is at our house or at least in our town.”

“His parents won’t care.”

“Did he call them for permission?”

“No, but they won’t care.”

“I would care…don’t try that with me in the future.”

“We didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“It’s a very big deal,” I told her. “I’m not just responsible for your well-being, but for his as well.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take responsibility.” She said, thinking that at seventeen she could bear that weight.

“No, you don’t understand,” I told her. “I own the car that you are in. I pay the insurance. If anything happens, I am completely responsible.” I let that sink in for a few seconds. “Not that his parents would do it, but if anything happened to him, they could sue and take everything we have. I am absolutely responsible!”

She got quiet and then said, “Sorry.”

I was too upset to let them off the hook, so I said “it’s easy to be sorry after you do something,” and then added “and I’m very disappointed in your judgment.”

That last part probably stung me harder than them. When I heard myself saying it, I thought about the times I had seen disappointment on my parents face. There was nothing worse. I’d have rather been beaten.

I thought of them riding in our van; the joyous mood of youthful fun that left our house had been sucked out by the vacuum of my anger. I didn’t want them driving so upset. In my always churning “worst case scenario” mind, I didn’t want what might be our last conversation to be so harsh.

“Now listen,” I said, calmly. “The main thing is be careful…and know that I love you.”

There was a brief pause, and I can only imagine the look on her face, because Ashlyn responded with “Geez Dad, I hate it when you do that.”

“What?”

“You get all upset about something and get us all upset…and then you say you love us, like it’s all over or something.”

“Oh,” I told her, “it’s not over. We’ll talk about this again. But I do love you.”

“Fine,” she said, in frustration. “Love you too.”

“Be careful then,” I said, “and text me when you get where you‘re going…and again when you leave. Then let me know when you get to the movie.”

“Fine,” she said, although her voice made it clear that it wasn’t. The call ended.

Taylor had listened to my end of the conversation and wanted to know the details, both out of some sisterly concern and also a barely repressed glee that the older kids who had abandoned her at home were now in trouble. I tried to use my explanation as a teaching lesson, telling her that she would do well to learn from the mistakes her sisters make, and hopefully avoid the same problems.

A little later I got a text: We’re leaving.

I responded: Okay, be careful.

Twenty-five minutes later I was surprised when the front door opened and the three silently came inside. “We decided to skip the movie and stay home,” one of them said. They did not look happy, but they did not look mad. In fact, my girls looked different than I had seen them before. They looked like they knew they had screwed up.

It was not a common thing for them. It was not a common thing for me.

When Connie and I talked about it later, we discussed the fact that one of the reasons that I responded so strongly and they took it so seriously is that they have not done anything remotely like that before. They had not done the typical, stupid teenage stuff that most teens do. They had almost exclusively been thoughtful, careful, dependable kids. This behavior, while not malicious, had been a serious error in judgment, and reminded us that they were still going to make mistakes.

Another mistake they made that night was wanting to talk about it when they got home. Since Ashlyn had talked to me on the phone, Shelby led this discussion, and although I had planned to stay quiet until their friend had gone home, I decided that if she wanted to talk about it, then talk about it we would.

She did start with an apology, and it was completely sincere, but when the excuses began I had to cut her off. I explained again that this was not a problem of trust. She didn’t have to tell me that she is a good driver because I know that. Being a good driver doesn’t matter when you’re suddenly staring into the headlights of a drunk driver. Even years of experience can’t prepare you for that.

I tried to explain that no matter how ridiculous my rules and demands might seem, I have only one goal and that is to keep them safe. If I die with the epitaph of “over protective,” but my kids are alive to see me buried, then I will have died a happy man.

It’s not always fun to be a parent. We somehow assume that our kids won’t make the same kind of dumb mistakes and make the same poor choices that we made at that age. We think that our wise guidance will keep them on the straight and narrow path of perfection. When they wander off that path it’s a bitter reminder of how often I stumbled off myself.

So, I’ll try my best to teach them. I’ll pray for them and ask that they be protected from both their own mistakes and the mistakes of others (including mine). I’ll reprimand them when they do something wrong, and hope and pray that I will always have the opportunity to do that. They aren’t perfect, and neither is their father.

And even if they don’t like it, I’m going to tell them that I LOVE them after I get through yelling.