brenaldo

[brenaldo]

Floyd’s Choice

George Floyd.

I don’t know him.

I’ve only seen the videos, photos, memes, and all the subsequent coverage of the protests and anger erupting across the nation in the wake of his tragic death at the knee of a police officer.

Watching heavily armed, wannabe white Rambos less than a month before march into the Michigan state capitol building (with zero resistance from law enforcement), painted a stark contrast to the harsh truth of yet another black American’s death by police in Minnesota: 

The ongoing loss of black lives is the inevitable counterpart to the willful and systemic tolerance of inequality in America.

The divisive and tone deaf response from our President to both incidents is not only revolting, it’s stirring revolution.

While Trump is a man who can’t get enough of stamping his name on anything in the hopes he’ll someday be remembered, his is a name best soon forgotten.

The name to remember is George Floyd.

The name sticks out to me personally because growing up a family friend was named Floyd. He left an enduring, indelible impact on my life. His name always comes to mind when I have a difficult decision to make. 

George Floyd’s name should do the same for all of us.

Let me explain via my personal experience, and how it holds a lesson for what we as a nation need to do now.

When my father grew up in South Side Chicago, neighborhoods near his home were effectively grouped by Catholic parish (Polish, Irish, Italian, etc.). 

In those days, it was common for what we would consider child abuse today to be generally tolerated. For instance, stories of being beaten with a broom was considered a funny anecdote.

The storyteller can still derive a survivor’s humor from this particular story, but it’s part of a larger narrative of perseverance, learning, and continual evolution as a human being.

When it came time for my Dad to rear children of his own in Portland, all he knew was that corporal punishment was the key to keeping little rule-breakers in line, particularly the boys.

The snap of a leather belt still brings me a terrifying chill, and conjures images of looking back at my bare bottom just as my Dad’s massive hand came smacking down with full force (it felt that way from my vantage point, anyway). 

A pulsing red handprint on my backside was all the evidence required to not question the velocity.

The part I couldn’t see was the simultaneous compassion and pain my father felt while striking us, either with his bare hand or an instrument of torture. He was doing what he knew of parental discipline, and he hated himself for it.

My Dad expressed his torment and internal conflict to his friend Floyd, and was offered advice that offered him a perfect solution to his troubles: instead of spankings, dole out push-ups and sit-ups.

The advice worked: to tremendous, immediate effect.

My brother and I were no longer afraid of a whipping, instead we would self inflict pain through a multitude of reps tied to how severe a house edict was broken.

As we grew older and stronger, we would challenge the system and do more reps than asked, or simply try to break a new record, hoping to diminish the power held over us by refusing to show pain.

The pain was still there, so when I’d object to my Dad’s methods he would remind me of the broom, the belt, and the choice he’d made to change. then followed with the words, ‘when you have kids of your own you can raise them with your own rules.’ 

He then would add what his own father always told him:

‘You can take the good things you learn from me, and leave the bad.’

Now raising two young men of my own, I hear those words in my head nearly every day.

Floyd taught my Dad he had a choice, and that choice was passed to me. My father chose to leave behind the pain of physical abuse as a primary parenting tool, and instead implemented something with a more positive and educational approach.

When my boys were small, a light swat on the butt seemed natural to give them an abrupt physical cue that they were out of line.

As they grew out of diapers, when I spanked them I could feel their tiny buns unprotected from even the slightest padding. I flinched at my actions and made a conscious decision: no more.

I considered taking the push-up path, but then thought about how much I still avoid them due to the negative connotation of exercise as punishment. I knew I didn’t ever need to inflict physical pain on them, directly or indirectly.

Today in my house I don’t rule by the fist, rather by choice. 

My boys know where the boundaries are, and understand their actions have consequences. It’s amazing how quickly the removal of phone and video game privileges quells any unrest. 

Better yet, remind kids that their bedroom doors just slammed in anger are only on loan, then remove as needed to restore order. It works, trust me.

I’d been presented with a choice just as my father had been, and in one generation we removed physical harm as the family standard by following Floyd’s guidance to a different, gentler approach.

By the way, our family friend Floyd is black. And Floyd’s choice now applies to all of us.

If we’re willing to seek counsel and listen, we will learn from our black friends and family. 

How we we evolve as a society will be determined by how we choose to pass on the lessons of inequality and unjust brutality.

As the world mourns George Floyd, consider the choices we make.