Stephanie Clark

New York, United States

What is the one word that describes you? Re-invent

My 8th grade band class was watching Old Yeller one day when I was substitute teaching at the middle school. I felt the old, familiar lurch at the thought of the movie, part excitement to see a slice of the past, part dread because of the sadness of the story.

Even though I had not seen it in 44 years, it was so handy to my memory, such a tender, and profound story of coming of age and childhood grief. The kids were grousing about it, it was old, boring. I talked it up just a little, saying c'mon, guys, just give it a chance. I think you really will like this one, and hit the Play button.

The familiar scenes began rolling. You could hear a pin drop. It could have been me sitting there, eight years old, in a dark theater. It is toward the end of the story, and the Dad has come home from a long trip making money for his family. It is a short time after the Civil War, and the dad is coming back to life as a civilian. Dad is played by Fess Parker, who played so many of Disney's manly men like Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett.

By this time, of course, Old Yeller has been shot by the boy who loved him to end his suffering from rabies. He takes his place next to his son at the grave of Old Yeller and begins to console the heartbroken young man, who has started to go dead inside and cut himself off from things and folks he used to love. He begins with a 'We gotta get on with things, son' speech to his son, who turns to him fiercely, telling him that he doesn't want to ever, ever forget this magnificent dog and his love for him. The dad stops, considers, and revises his speech. He comes back with, 'You're right, son, you never should forget him, and there never will be another Old Yeller.'

He begins telling his son about the war. He says something like this: 'Some of life is so horrible it can take the heart right out of a person, and seeing those things and living through them can change a person forever, in a bad way. I knew that it was making me sick inside and I didn't like it. I don't know why I kept going but I did and after a while I found out that a lot of life is also good and fine, and if I wanted to feel those things too, I was gonna have to make some room to let them in, and I hope someday you can, too, son, and that's all I really wanted to say.'

This guy opted to protect his son's soul, and help him retrieve his spirit, because he had done that for himself. A gulp escaped me without permission or notice and the tears and sobs bubbled out of my face. I couldn't' stop myself and I knew it. The kids really didn't notice me crying when the bell rang, which mercifully coincided with the end of the movie. But it was OK anyway. Some things are worth crying over.

I was thinking about fathering. About how hard it is to raise kids without a dad. Especially boys, of whom I have four.

When I was single and raising two young boys I was often approached by my male suitors about the need to 'straighten them out' and that it looked like I really needed a man around to 'bring those boys into line.'

I wanted a partner in the worst way, but something always held me back from taking the plunge into marriage, and more often than not, it was the fear of a wrong choice of a step-dad. Indeed, there were guys in my church that wanted to see me hooked up with someone, and often comments contained concern about boys getting too dependent on their mother, or running wild, or not being held accountable for stuff.

Sometimes the worry about appropriate gender identification came up. Not something I ever worried about, myself. My sons were very clearly packed with testosterone, and were rambunctious, physical, loud specimens of male beauty. I was astonished that anything that wonderful as these children could have happened to me. I intensely wanted them to be healthy, whole, and to keep their youthful male exuberance, but maybe not pound each other in church or at social functions.

During that phase of my life, I did everything with a limp. That certainly included my parenting skills, and much of the time I felt I was groping in the dark to find my way to be the best parent that I could for these precious boys. It still astonishes me that I, with a self-esteem of about negative 10, could refuse some offers of shelter presented to me in the form of commitment.

My greatest fear was that I was unworthy of a relationship, and I yearned to prove otherwise, and poverty was a second fear runner up. I had intermittent depressive episodes, as I balanced the nuts and bolts of living against my fears and inadequacies that haunted me.

Some of these men were beautiful in those beautiful male ways, broad shoulders, muscles developed by activities that I could never match but loved to admire, guys that lived on horses, felled trees, jumped out of planes into forest fires. I was and still am totally captivated by the beauty of the male physique, including that of my sons. I was also completely incompetent at selecting one for a life partner. I knew something was missing in me but was not sure what.

One thing was especially puzzling and scary. These amazingly beautiful male beings that I was in awe of and whose regard I craved could turn me completely cold when talking about my male children. I wondered: Couldn't appreciation and delight go with the desire to guide? Was it really a desire to guide and help? The withholding of approval, the often complete absence of faith in my sons' goodness, and the suspicions of bad intent were dark clouds of something I didn't understand. I watched my sons retreat inside themselves when they encountered it. And I saw the flickers of fear in their eyes and longing. I didn't understand how someone could want to be inside me and not want to also treasure what came out of my body and was part of me, living, and ready to share its light. I felt split. A male lion kills off the cubs of a widow lioness he wants to mate with. I did not want this to be true of my species.

I eventually did choose well. I think he actually signed himself up without knowing by telling me that one of his favorite things about me was what a good parent I was, how much I loved my kids, and how free I was with my affection for them. This is my version of the prince that slashed away the thorns and got through, with his dinged sword, gaining the messy prize that I am.

I think about boys and their mothers, loving them, amazed at the gift that they are, trying to preserve that gift all the way to adulthood. Especially poor moms, who can't afford Taekwando and maybe don't have a car to take people to soccer practice. And when we as a community step in to be a dad, it is often in the form of jail. I don't mean to be critical of dads, being a dad is a hard job, and being a man is a hard job. But it is an impossible job if a man is not first at peace with a central part of his insides. Choosing a dad for your kids can be a thorny business if you don't know what you are doing.

A dam broke loose in me when I watched the kid and his dad at the end of Old Yeller. I could see myself having complete confidence in a man who could say that, who could help a kid face the harshness that life often deals out, but point him toward what is good, and fine, especially in himself. I could share authority with someone like that. He could even make mistakes and it would still be ok.