On Turning 47 | Giving Myself Permission to be Myself
Ah, yes… the annual Birthday Lessons post. Who are we without our traditions? We’re unanchored cockroaches scrambling into the dark, afraid to face the brilliance of life in the sun. Even when the traditions are tough, like some family gatherings and, of course, funerals, we must push forward. This year’s lessons essay wasn’t easy.
It’s not that I didn’t learn any lessons over the past year—this forty-seventh trip around the sun, it’s that the lessons feel more like realizations. Come to Jesus moments. Finding a port of understanding after sailing a fickle tempest for some time.
As always, before I sat down with my notes to write this piece, I went back and read a few of the past years’ posts. It gives me my bearings and reminds me of how far I may have come or how far I still have to go. And in many ways, how the same lessons continue to be learned, reinforced, year after year. Looking back at the last three, I’ve come a long way. It hasn’t been easy, but that’s not saying it hasn’t been rich with adventure, laughter, and loads of joy. Still, I’ve got a long way to go, because while I am older, I ain’t dead. And I stand by my theory that if I haven’t yet, I never will.
I’m doing just fine as an adult of my age
In the days leading up to my first semester as a freshman in college, my father, who drove me from Chicago to Las Vegas in our Dodge Minivan, helped me get settled. He bought me whatever items I needed for my dorm room, threw the credit card down at the university bookstore for those strangely expensive textbooks, and wandered the campus with me as I familiarized myself with my new surroundings—my new life. Between the seventeen hundred or so-mile drive and the few days nesting at UNLV, Dad and I talked about a lot of stuff. One day, as we were walking through the far north-west side of campus—an area with decent shade and low foot traffic I would eventually claim as the best place on campus for a midday nap—the conversation lulled, and I realized that my father was a very capable and intelligent person. Wise, even. Despite typical teenage encounters with Dad cast as the antagonist in my story, I never thought my dad was a feckless turd. But as I was about to embark into the Real World on my own—as much as any college freshman is ever on their own—I was overcome with awe and adoration for my old man.
Without directly addressing him, just tossing it out there as walk-and-talk casual conversation, I asked him, “How did you get so smart?” As the words left my mouth, I realized that this question was one of curiosity for the origins of his wisdom and know-how, but it was also one asked out of fear, desperation for advice on how to not drown myself in adulthood. And, it was also an admission of adoration and love. My father and I had said “I love you” to each other countless times. We didn’t have that kind of old school, men don’t show emotion, relationship. Though, we were, and remain, a very WASPy family. WASPiest bunch of Jews you’ll ever meet. Feelings, vulnerabilities are not things we naturally do well. That’s changed some with my generation, but I didn’t grow up with it. So, asking my dad his secret to being what I considered in that moment the smartest man alive, was a big deal.
Dad kind of chuckled. He kind of smiled. Maybe he was flattered, maybe he was vindicated for all those times his teenage son acted holier than thou, maybe he understood the affection of the question, maybe he understood how desperate I was to be ready for this next stage of life. Whatever the smile meant, he told me, “Experience. Time. You learn new things with every new experience, with every new day.”
Dad was forty-seven years old at the time.
I’ve spent a lot of time this last year feeling like I know absolutely nothing. How to parent. How to succeed in my career. How to fix a home. How to sail. How to fix a boat. How to be impactful in my community.
Sure, okay, I’m quite capable. I know how to do all of those aforementioned things, though the jury is still out on what a successful career looks like for a guy like me. But I still didn’t feel like I’m as smart or wise or put together as my dad was at the same age. Maybe it’s perception. My kids, ages eight and three, think I’m the greatest man who ever lived. They think my muscles are huge. They know I’m not as strong as Hulk, but think I could definitely hold my own against Captain America—I could do it all day. They believe I can solve any problem they have. Just as I believed my dad could back then. And the way he can now.
I’m not the smartest person in every room, but I’m rarely the dumbest. I know I’m intelligent, capable, and even wise. And if my sons asked me the same question I asked my dad back in 1997, I’d understand why they thought that and I’d probably give them the same answer: “Experience. Time.” It just feels like as my kids and parent age, I’m being forced to become an adult at a far more rapid pace than I expected the feeling of adulthood to happen. Looking back, as I became an actual legal adult and took on adult responsibilities like a job, homeownership, paying bills on time, eating right, etc., it all felt very measured and part of the natural path to adulthood. But I never felt like I’d reached the pin on the map—actual Adulthood. It felt like a Lord of the Rings journey of a lot of walking with shit happening along the way. But now, I can see I’m at the endpoint: Adulthood.
Not in the “adulting” way. Shut up with that. Doing the basic, everyday stuff is annoying, sure, but shut up and do it, quit complaining or just off yourself if it’s so goddamn hard to get out of bed, throw some water on your face, and sit down for a Zoom meeting at 8:30 a.m. Jesus… When I talk about adulthood, I mean, in the big way, the way that means I’m at the head of the table, I’m the one with the answers and solutions. I’m the one who can save the day. Just like my grandfathers were. Like my father is.
I might be that to my sons. But am I that to myself? Am I that to my dad? Can he trust me to handle things the way his father trusted him? I remember sitting with my grandfather as he slipped deeper into the morphine coma on what was soon to be his death bed. My Aunt Patti was there. Poppy was essentially dead. Aunt Patti leaned over him and whispered affectionately, “It’s okay, Dad. You can go. Jimmy will handle everything.” He was dead the next day. I don’t think my dad would feel comfortable if one of my brothers said, “It’s cool, David’s got it.” That might bring him back from the dead. “What!? No. He’s not ready. Christ, he just asked to borrow a ladder. He doesn’t even have the right ladder!” But how many tools did my dad borrow from his dad? How many times did he ask his dad for help in his forties?
There’s a major marker of adulthood that comes to us when we realize our parents are not the full formed adults we thought they were. They’re just as confused as us, fumbling their way through life as best they can, but with more experience and time under their belts. And perhaps we don’t become the adults we thought we’d be at our parents’ age until they cease being around to be our parents. And, like an adult, we step up and take on the mantle.
It’s great my kids think I’m wonderful. But that’s perception and performance. I need to feel like I’m wonderful. Like I can provide and solve and answer and guide and fix and do. And I want my father to think the same. I want my brothers to feel the same. I don’t need Brother Eric to tell my dad on his death bed that “David will handle everything,” because our relationship is different than Poppy’s was with his kids. But I want to know my brothers would trust me to… be the patriarch of the family. I am, after all, the eldest.
I won’t rest on my laurels. I’ll learn new things. I won’t kick myself for making use of my dad or borrowing a ladder. I’ll buy a ladder. I won’t feel bad for having earned money to afford that ladder. I’ll try to feel less annoyed with and sorry for myself when my career feels empty, uninspired, underperforming and underpaid. I’ll keep fighting to feel like I am the kind of man I saw my father was almost three decades ago.
There’s always opportunity to become more capable
I’m not useless. There’s plenty I can do. But I want to be better at those things. And I want to know how to do things I don’t yet know how to do.
I want to be handier when it comes to home improvement projects. I want to have an encyclopedic knowledge of nautical knots. I want to be a better audio and visual editor so I can make short films with my son. I want to understand how to successfully and safely help him start and operate a YouTube channel. I want to be better at gardening.
All this is doable. But I’m also going to put a big focus on at least one commitment each year by really investing my time, money, and energy into it. Learning guitar. Getting my USCG Captain’s License. Mastering iMovie. Okay, three commitments.
Even when money and time are tight, I need to take advantage of what I have and use it wisely. Effectively. You know, be a Man of Action.
Being a Man of Action is the path of least resistance to joy
Stagnation is not the same as achievement. Never rest on your laurels. I’ve felt this way for as long as I can remember. Winning the battle does not mean you’ve won the war. Acing a test does not mean you’ve aced the class. How many Oscars has Meryl Streep won? She didn’t quit after the first. We always have to keep going because the work, the fun—and, yes, the challenges—will always be there.
I can blame the age, I can blame the career apathy, I can blame the weariness parenthood brings. I can blame the emotional marathon I was running the last few years. Taking a rest is one thing. A deserved reward, a necessary break to allow your mind and body to rebuild stronger than before. But daydreaming about the next move is not acceptable. Get up. Do something. Energy begets energy. Action begets action. Remember last year’s lesson…
Hard work pays off. Lift the heavy thing to clear the path to do the awesome thing. Sure, doing the work isn’t as much fun as it once was because it’s no longer just for fun, it’s for money, survival, and the ever-approaching legacy. But the result from that work is almost always the thing that’ll overflow your mind and body with joy.
Stop judging myself by the metrics of other people
Born and raised an upper-middle class white boy. I lived next door to my paternal grandparents, a short drive to my maternal grandparents. I went to summer camp, had family vacations, attended college without student loans. My family has boats. My family has loaned or given me money to help me with big things like buying a house, a car, paying for a wedding, paying off a divorce…
I have all the markings of a privileged white man. So what? That should not be, nor will I continue to let it be a bad thing. Because I don’t abuse it. And it doesn’t always work in my favor. And here’s the part where I celebrate what a good global citizen I am as well as a victim. But it’s my birthday, and I’ll be insufferable if I want to.
I’ve never bragged about any of this. I grew up seeing my attorney father help his low income clients. He loaned money to friends, he volunteered with several charitable organizations like Lions Club International and Park Lawn, an organization that supports adults with disabilities. I saw this as well as my mother engaging in civil and social organizations. And my grandparents volunteering at homeless shelters and hospitals. One of my favorite family stories is about my great-grandfather Louis. During the Great Depression, Poppy Lou had a friend who had been hit hard. Because Lou was fortunate to remain okay during the hard times, he loaned his friend money. No interest charged. No payback date. “Get it to me when you can.” That’s the kind of privilege I know. That’s the kind of good that can be done with privilege.
Yeah, I have a boat. And I’ve used that boat to help organizations raise money by offering it as a raffle or auction item. It raises good money and people get a chance to enjoy a day on Lake Michigan. I’ve volunteered my time to those who have less, I’ve given money to these organizations. I’ve given and loaned money to friends—even when I didn’t really have all that much to spare. Because while there’s generational money in my family, my bank account is not tied to a trust fund. Personally, I’ve never been rich. I’ve made a lot. I’ve made a little. It’s a constant roller coaster that is more thriller than thrilling. It’s the nature of my career. If I could flip a switch to make earning money easier, I’d do it. But the thing is, easy rarely pays out.
I was once told by a recruiter that I was at a disadvantage for hiring because I was not a woman or a minority. No amount of privilege allowed me to work around that.
I’ve always felt that everyone—everyone—should have at least what I have. The access, the opportunities. I know there are plenty of access and opportunities I may not have had if I didn’t have that privilege like being able to go to college and develop a network. Like having all the daily expenses without the weight of high-interest student loans hanging over my head for decades. I try to use my privilege for good. How can I help? How can I fill your cup? I have never wanted to take anything away from anyone, only give them what they need.
I want my privilege to make a positive impact on our world, and I want to do more to make that so. But I also want to not feel like I’m always scrounging for work and money. Like I’m not fighting an uphill battle to reach a castle that is under siege, engulfed in flames.
Privilege, outright, is not a bad thing. Doing bad things with it is. With great privilege comes great responsibility. Think of it like this: Good privilege is Bobby Kennedy. Bad privilege is Donald Trump.
I’m striving to give myself permission to be myself
My college mentor, Dr. John H. Irsfeld, liked to tell me in our regular and longwinded chats in his office that we needed to give people permission to be who they’re going to be. That is to say, we should either accept people for who they are or not accept them, but we should not try to change them to fit some idea we have of them or bend them to our will. This is my favorite piece of advice I’ve ever received. Thing is, I’ve struggled to apply it to myself.
While I’ve grown tired of leaning on my divorce—the few years leading up to it and the year or so going through it—I have to respectfully recognize that it’s a major factor. Time will tell, but it could be the most major factor in my life. For too long, I was in a position where I could not be myself. And I came to believe that I shouldn’t be myself. Things I could adjust, improve on? Duh. Abandoning my values and desires and core personality? Fuck off.
I won’t rest on my laurels. I’ll learn new things. I won’t kick myself for making use of my dad or borrowing a ladder. I’ll buy a ladder. I won’t feel bad for having earned money to afford that ladder. I’ll try to feel less annoyed with and sorry for myself when my career feels empty, uninspired, underperforming and underpaid. I’ll keep fighting to feel like I am the kind of man I saw my father was almost three decades ago.
I give myself permission to be a living, breathing, learning, failing, succeeding, complicated human being. For if I don’t, there’s no point in celebrating a birthday.
