Thank you teachers, for being the rain

The job of a gardener, I’ve realized three years into our family’s adventure planting raised beds, is less about tending to the plants as it is tending to the soil.

Is it wet enough? Are there weeds leeching nutrients? Is it too wet? How should I rotate crops? Is it time for compost? Are insects eating the roots? As a gardener, making these decisions is core to the craft.

The plants will grow. The plants were born to grow, that’s their nature. But to thrive they require fertile soil. That’s essential. And as a home gardener, ensuring the soil’s fertility is my responsibility.

Gardening is not just a hobby I love, it’s also one of my favorite metaphors for raising children. The connection is beautifully exemplified by a German word for a group of children learning and growing: kinder garten.

The kids will grow, but they rely on us to provide them with fertile soil.

And so we do our best. We cultivate a nurturing environment, providing them with a warm and cozy bed to sleep in. We diligently weed out negative influences, ensuring their growth is not hindered. Just as we handle delicate plants and nurture the soil, we handle them with gentle care, aware of their tenderness. And of course, we try to root them in a family and community that radiates love onto them as the sun radiates sunshine

If we tend to the soil, the kids will thrive.

Well, almost. The kids will only flourish if we just add one more thing: rain.

Without rain, a garden cannot thrive. While individuals can irrigate a few plants during short periods without rainfall, gardeners like us can’t endure months or even weeks without rain. Especially under the intense conditions of summer heat and sun, our flowers and vegetables struggle to survive without rainfall. The rain is invaluable and irreplaceable.

As the rain comes and goes throughout the spring and summer, it saturates the entire garden bed, drenching the plants and the soil surrounding them. The sheer volume of rainwater is daunting to replicate through irrigation systems; attempting to match the scale of rainwater is financially burdensome. Moreover, rain possesses a gentle touch and a cooling effect. It nourishes the plants more effectively than tap water.

For all these reasons, rain is not something we merely hope for or ask for - rain is something we fervently pray for.

It's incredibly easy to overlook and take for granted the rain. It arrives and departs, quietly watering our garden when we least expect it. Rain can easily blend into the backdrop, becoming an unscheduled occurrence that simply happens as a part of nature's course.

When we harvest cherry tomatoes, basil, or bell peppers, a sense of pride and delight fills us as we revel in the fruits of our labor. The harvest brings immense satisfaction and a deep sense of pride, even if our family’s yield is modest and unassuming.

As we pick our cucumbers, pluck our spinach, or uproot our carrots, it rarely occurs to me to credit the rain. And yet, without the rain, our garden simply could not be.

In the lives of our children and within our communities, teachers serve ASC the rain. And by teachers, I mean a wide range of individuals. I mean the educators in elementary, middle, and high schools. I mean the pee-wee soccer coaches. I mean the Sunday school volunteers. I mean the college professors engaging in discussions on derivatives or the Platonic dialogues during office hours. I mean the early childhood educators who infuse dance parties into lessons on counting to ten and words beginning with the letter "A".

I mean the engineer moms, dads, aunts, and uncles who coach FIRST Robotics, or the recent English grads who dedicate their evenings to tutoring reading and writing. I mean the pastors and community outreach workers showin’ up on the block day in and day out. I mean the individuals running programs about health and nutrition out of their cars. I mean the retired neighbors on their porch who share stories of their world travels and become cherished bonus grandparents. I mean the police officers and accountants who serve as Big Brothers and Big Sisters despite having no obligation to do so.

I mean them all and more. These people, these teachers, are the rain.

They find a way to summon the skies and shower our kids with nourishing, life-giving rain. As a parent and a gardener nurturing the soil in which children are raised, I cannot replicate the rain that teachers provide. Without them, our children simply could not flourish.

Candidly, this is also a personal truth. I have greatly relied on and benefited from numerous teachers throughout my life. It has all come full circle for me as I've embraced the roles of both a parent and a gardener. Witnessing our children learn, grow, and thrive under the guidance of teachers has been a humbling revelation. I've come to realize that without teachers, my own growth and development would not have been possible. Without teachers, I simply would not be.

This time of year is brimming with graduations - whether they're from high schools, colleges, or even from Pre-K like our oldest just graduated from this weekend. Much like the bountiful harvest, it is a time for joyous celebration. Our gardens have yielded fruit, and we should take pride in our dedicated efforts.

But in this post, I also wish to honor all of the different types of teachers out there. They have been the gentle, nurturing rain - saturating the soil and fostering a fertile environment for our children to flourish.

Thank you, teachers, for everything you do and have done - for me, for our three sons, and for all children. We have all yearned for the rain to drench our gardens, and you have made it pour.

Photo by June Admiraal on Unsplash

The silhouette of brotherhood

It is so obvious how quickly children change. Even a single day after they are born, something changes. They learn and grow immediately. They start to eat, and they quickly discover how to grasp, with their whole hand, the little finger of their father.

Then they smile, sit up, and then crawl and walk. They speak and laugh. They get haircuts and pairs of new light-up velcro shoes and they learn to hold their breath while swimming.

They were born to change, truly. And it does happen fast. But occasionally we’ll notice something, one little thing, that endures a bit. One little, essential, thing about these children that will remain permanent even as they grow, like a thumbprint of their personality.

Something, finally, which is consistent and deeply comforting and helps us find a peaceful, amicable reconciliation with the passing time. I need these little, essential things to stay anchored when the water in our lives gets choppy.

We are at the beach and I am sitting in the sand when Robert catches my eye.

He is about 25 yards ahead of me, at the water’s edge. As he looks out at the the waves I notice his silhouette, the tide splashing past his ankles. I am awestruck by how Robert’s posture and demeanor have remained consistent over the years.

Robert has an empathy and quiet confidence in his posture. His feet are grounded and his back is straight, but there’s a softness to his stance. He stands like an explorer does who has both the anticipation to go where others have not and the humility to appreciate the vastness of the ocean before him. Robert’s silhouette has had a tender graciousness to it his whole life.

Myles is about 10 feet ahead of me and is sitting cross-legged, while building sandcastles with his Grandad. I notice, immediately, the sturdiness in Myles’s back. His posture is upright, erect. His silhouette is eager, bold, and focused. His muscles and frame are sinewy and taut, and he always carries his chest a few degrees forward as if in an athlete’s ready stance.

And yet, just as everything about him is sturdy, Myles also radiates a sense of playfulness and joy - his body moves with a rhythm of jazz music even now, as he plops sand in the bucket shovel by shovel. This mix of intensity and ease gives him an uncommon swagger, I think to myself, which could not possibly have been taught to him - it’s something calm and natural. Myles’s silhouette has always been deliberate and electric, just as it is now, as I watch him fill another bucket with wet sand.

And finally, I turn my gaze to Emmett, who has just crawled out from between my legs to be closer to the action of the sandcastle factory in front of me. Even at just one year old, Emmett’s unique qualities are already starting to emerge. Emmett’s posture is open and gregarious. His arms and his legs, even while sitting on the beach, are spread out as if he’s giving the breeze and the sunshine a hug as he giggles.

Emmett’s silhouette is like a starfish, always reaching and spreading his limbs and fingers to wave at, greet, and smile outwardly to the whole world. Already, I can tell that within Emmett there is an enduring openness, friendliness, and dynamic warmth. This is a truth his silhouette is already revealing.

These are the silhouettes of my three sons. What I am seeing is my three sons. And even though so much of who they are and who they will be is not yet decided, I am seeing something essential about them. There is something of them that is already drawn. Something that will not change. And what is already drawn is something unique and something good.

And then I snap back to the moment. The children laughing, the friends, the sand, the waves, and the horizon all come back into focus. I’m back here, sitting on the beach.

But then I remember some of the other wonderful silohouttes I’ve seen throughout this day at the beach and this trip - like when Myles and Robert were walking hand in hand down the boardwalk, or when the three of them were dog-piling on the floor laughing and tickling each other, or when they were all right in front me me working on the same sandcastle.

What I’m seeing is a bond being formed. As I watch my three sons play and explore the world together, their individual silhouettes are blending together to form a beautiful, harmonious picture of brotherhood. Witnessing this is what fills my heart the most.

There have been so many moments during this trip where I see them together, the lines of their silhouettes and complementary postures all within one frame. What gives me the deepest pleasure as a father is seeing the Tambe Brothers become a silhouette of it’s own.

And deep down, I accept their relationship with each other will grow and evolve. They’ll tussle and wrastle and have spats from time to time. I know this.

I know that their bond as brothers will never again be the same as it is now. Time will, despite my best efforts and sincerest prayers, continue to pass.

But I know, too, that something about this scene in front of me won’t change. Something of their brotherhood is already drawn and will endure, even after we are gone. I find comfort in this. This is the anchor I am looking for.

This image of the three of them together, in a bond of harmonious brotherhood, is the silhouette I treasure the most.

Photo by Pichara Bann on Unsplash

Holding onto forever

ACT I

I appreciate things I can hold. I mean this literally.

I savor burritos and breakfast sandwiches - these are the foods that I enjoyed with my father and remind me of him, down to the detail of us both dousing them with hot sauce. I relish the feel of a tennis racket in my grasp, gripped to perfectly that the racket feels like it’s gripping back - the tennis court was where I could find peace and freedom, before I even knew what meditation even was.

I like pens, pencils, and chef’s knives - because words and a meal prepared for others are two of the only ways I know how to tell someone I love them. All those three objects - pens, pencils, and a good knife - feel less like implements and more like extensions when I handle them. Then take on the rhythm and flow of my heartbeat and tapping toe, as if they’re a part of my body.

With the things I hold, I develop a symbiotic relationship. I fuse with them somehow - I become a little of them, and they become a little of me. This connection brings a feeling of peace, serenity, and security.

My whole life may resemble that one chaotic drawer in the house, filled with knick-knacks, rarely used items, and tiny screwdrivers that only see the light of day in a frenzy. But when I'm holding something in my hand, I've got it. And when I've got the thing in my hand, I start to feel like I've got this. The act of the body changes the act of the mind.

I, quite literally, cherish things I can hold. But I also mean this metaphorically. I appreciate buffer and the freedom it provides, borne from a lifetime of needing to feel control and security. I prefer to save rather than spend. To this day, I pack one more pair of underwear than the number of nights I'm traveling. I’ll pack a rain jacket even when it’s sunny. I like to be prepared. I like to hold onto extra.

I think I do this because I know what it feels like to lose. When I was young, money was tight. It was tight again when the recessions hit Michigan. Our brother, Nakul, was taken from us too soon, as was my father. In some ways, the seriousness with which I was raised makes me feel like the innocence of childhood slipped away prematurely.

When I hold things, I' feel like I’ve got them. And when I've got them, I can tell myself for a little while that nobody else can take them. Now, I finally have a world - my wife, my children, my family, good friends, my health, a livelihood, and a few dreams - that's worth holding onto.

And I'm going to hold them in the palm of my hand, gripping them tight enough so that nobody can ever take them away from me.

I intend to hold onto them forever.

ACT II

Everything feels like forever when you're a child.

Even a summer vacation, with all its bike rides and fireflies, seems endless. Middle and high school, infused with a sense of invincibility, appear as though they'll never run out. Every long car ride, every grocery queue, every football practice - every single thing is long.

Childhood is the part of our lives that feels like forever.

And for you three, so much of that forever is shaped by your mom and me. The golden, fuzzy forever you experience - your memories of childhood - isn't entirely up to you. Part of it is your responsibility, sure. But a lot of it is ours.

And so I wonder - what will you three, my sons, remember about what forever felt like?

I want you to remember being held because to be held is to be loved. I want you to recall that you were loved. I want you to feel loved. I want you to be loved, and I want to love you.

Holding onto someone and being held is not a small thing. It, in a very physical way, proves that we are bonded. It proves that we are together and committed to each other. It demonstrates, with certainty that I care about you because I am here. The Jesuits talk about finding God in all things, and I think embraces are an example of what they mean in this teaching. There is something divine about being held, because to be held is to be loved.

You will have memories of fun, laughter, and joy, of course. You will experience snow days and summer nights. You'll have spring flings and Friday night lights. You'll have moments with your toes in Burt Lake and in the backyard grass on Parkside, ice cream dribbling down your chins. You'll have all this. I promise you'll have all this.

But when I think about my own childhood, the only thing that endures enough to be more than a memory but a feeling, a deep-seated sensation, is love. Love is what endures.

Even a single moment of true, unconditional love is what carries you when you want to give up or when you feel like all you can do is surrender everything. Just one moment of love is enough to save us.

I want you to remember being held because being held is to be loved. So that no matter what, you have that. When you think of the part of your life that was forever, I want you to feel like holding onto it. I want you to feel like holding onto forever.

This is why I must hold you, all three of you, forever.

ACT III

Nothing feels like forever now that we're grown. We have a clock, and it's ticking. Tick tock, tick tock.

When we’re drinking wine after the kids go to bed, I often say that last weekend feels like "forever ago," but that's not really true. Our days are full. Our nights never seem long enough to rest. Our weeks and weekends are packed enough to trick me into thinking time is passing slowly.

I notice this the most in photographs now. We look different than we did not long ago. I see it in our hair and skin. Our postures. The settings in which those photos were taken.

Seven years have passed since my favorite photo of our wedding day was captured. It's the one on our mantle, the black and white image in the silvery frame, where we're on the river, and you're embracing me from behind, around my neck and shoulders, your mehendi-adorned hand visible. I'm smiling at you over my right shoulder, looking up at you, as if you're the sunshine. It reminded me of what forever can feel like.

We've aged seven years since then, and luckily it doesn't look like more. But it feels like it should have only been two, maybe three years since that photo by the river. Tick tock, tick tock.

We hug and hold each other often and spontaneously. We naturally find our way to an embrace. It could be in the kitchen while the pasta is boiling, or for a few minutes in bed after you've showered, and I'm still lying in my pajamas. You hold me, and I hold you.

These moments, where we're holding each other, don't stop the clock. The clock moves ahead. The alarm rings. But during those moments, when we're holding onto each other, we're reminded. It takes us back to that photo by the river, where I am smiling, and you look like sunshine, in the moment that reminds me of forever.

And sometimes, when we were there in those embraces that remind me of forever, I don’t want to leave. I want to stay there. I feel safe there, loved there. To be held, after all, is to be loved.

But at the same time, what would our lives be if we did not have the world around us, if we just kept it to us in that embrace, just you and me?

If we did not have our children or our families? Or if we didn’t have our friends and neighbors? Or even kind strangers? To embrace them we have to open up and expand our hearts from just us, to give more than we think we have. To hold onto them, we have to let go.

I have to remember sometimes, that not everyone is trying to take you all away from me. Not everyone is a threat to what we finally have. I can hold on while still letting go, at least for as long as it takes to share some of the love in our hearts with others.

This ability to hold on and let go first felt like a paradox, but I think now that it’s merely a leap of faith. It is okay to make this leap, I know this now, because we will always get back to holding each other. We will come back to an embrace of each other. And we will get back to this place that reminds me of forever.

Photo by Marcel Ardivan on Unsplash

Small Love

The front-facing window of our family room faces East. And not just East, but perfectly East. And so in the mid-morning, before the sun is at its highest point in the sky, its light pours in by the bushel.

That window, over the 6 years we’ve lived in this house, has become a bit of a holy place for me.

Before that window is Riley’s guard post, where he became the sentinel and protector of our family, his watchful eye and bark alarming us of any potential intruders. It is where Robert and Myles both took their first steps, on the worn-in hardwood beneath their wobbly and eager feet. It is our arena of card games, and magical lands we have built with blocks, lego blocks, and action figures.

And most recently, it is the very spot, I believe, that the brotherhood of the Tambe boys was established. It is there that Robert and Myles, 5 and 3, have stood, looking outward, their silhouettes radiant in the morning light.

In the window, side by side, facing easteward into the sun any rivalry they have has siblings is forgotten. All the fighting and the insults. All the screaming and the punches. All the jealousy and differences. All these things, have faded for now.

For now, they both there there, talking, staring out with wonder and inquiry about the comings and goings of the street. They observe and listen, both to the wind in the trees and to each other. Their world, for at least this moment, starts and ends with them and what they see through the threshold of the glass. They are gentle and peaceful, but also with a dynamism of connection between them.

This image of them, little shoulder to littler shoulder, hands up to the sill, noses to the pane, I know, is uneraseable from my memory. To see this is joy, and relief.

They, there, in the frame, convinces me that no matter what happens between them in their lives, no matter what difficulties ebb and flow between them, they can be grounded. They can be a team. Right now, what I see here before this window, is incontrovertible proof that they are bonded for life.

Before this window, they became brothers.

And soon enough, Emmett will be there with them and the fraternity they created, right there at the window, will grow. These three are becoming brothers.

What is most haunting, though, is the realization that one the most likely ways for their bond to be broken is because of me.

Rivalries, I know from education and experience, exist because of competition over common resources. Rival sports team compete for prestige. Rival kingdoms compete for land and power. Rival companies compete for customers. Rival nations compete for position in the international order.

And though I don’t understand their sibling dynamic from my own experience of having a sibling, I understand the one thing they might have to compete for is my love.

It is my duty then, part of my dharma even, to convince them that my love does not need to be fought over, to be won. I need to prove to them that my love need not be a source of their rivalry or a crack in the foundation of their brotherhood.

My love cannot be finite. The pressure on me as their father is to demonstrate beyond and shadow of a doubt, that my love for them is ever-widening and expanding. That it is a deep pool from which they can always draw, never running dry.

I need to make my heart big enough to support their brotherhood. But how? How can I do this in a world where children have lived through mass shootings on two separate campuses? How is this possible?

The secret, I think, maybe the love that is present in small things.

There is love, small love, in waving at a colleague in the hallways instead of letting them pass without acknowledgement, feeling as if they are an outcast. There is small love is in asking and answering “how are you” sincerely and truthfully. There is small love in allowing ourselves to laugh loud enough so others - and our own hearts - can believe that it’s okay to find humor in peculiar places.

There is small love in saying thank you. There is small love writing a little note or giving an unprompted hug. There is small love in remembering someone’s birthday or even just their name. There is small love making a new friend, or in letting yourself become a new friend. There is small love, if we deliberately create it, all around.

It is in these small things, and creating love in these small moments, that we see that love is possible, not just in grand seemingly-cinematic scenes but in every moment. Small love shows that it’s possible to expand our hearts in in every moment.

I think we can do this. Small love is not out of any of our reach. And the prize is immeasurable.

If we create love in small moments we can convince ourselves, our children, and those around us that life doesn’t have to be a game, but that it can be an expansive sort of thing. We can believe that love is a renewable resource, and that it need not be finite.

If I can grow my heart with small acts, I can prove to my sons that my heart is big enough and that my love is a deep enough pool for all of them. I can show them that they do not have to be rivals, they do not have to fight for my love, and that they can be brothers.

This is why I must create moments of small love. So they can be brothers.

And so to for us all, I believe at leastIf we can create enough love, even small love - whether with our families, our colleagues, or our neighbors - we can end this rivalry. And when we squash these beefs that are over nothing but love, can can form genuine and durable bonds of brotherhood and sisterhood. We can be brothers and sisters.

Photo Credit: Unsplash @kellysikkema

In-sourcing Purpose

When it comes to being a husband and father, doing more than just the bare minimum is not difficult. At home, I want to do much more than mail it in.

The obvious reason is because I love my family. I care about them. I find joy in suffering which helps them to be healthy and happy. I believe that surplus is an essential ingredient to making an impactful contribution, and with my family I give up the surplus I have easily, perhaps even recklessly. I love them, after all.

Photo Credit: Unsplash @krisroller

And yet, love doesn’t explain this fully. The ease with which I put in effort at home taps into a deeper well of motivation and purpose.

With Robyn, our marriage is driven by a deeper purpose than having a healthy relationship, or perhaps even the commitment to honoring our vows. We find meaning in building something, in our case a marriage, that could last thousands of years or an eternity if there is a God that permits it. We’re trying to build something that could last until the end of time, until there is nothing of us that exists - in this world or beyond. We’re trying to make a marriage that’s more durable than “as long as we both shall live.” We find meaning in that.

Though we’ve never talked about it explicitly, I think we also find meaning in trying to have a marriage that’s based on equality and mutual respect. It’s as if we’re trying to be a beacon for what a truly equal marriage could look like. I don’t think we’ve succeeded in this yet; I’m certain that despite our best efforts, Robyn still bears an unequal portion of our domestic responsibilities. But yet, we try to find that elusive, perfectly equal, and mutually respectful marriage and we find meaning in that pursuit.

As a father, too, I find purpose and meaning that exeeceds the strong love and attachment I have with my children. I find it so inspiring to be part of something that spans generations and millennia. I am merely the latest steward to pass down the love, knowledge, and virtues of our ancestors. I find it humbling to be part of a lineage that started many centuries ago, and that will hopefully exist for many centuries in the future. Being one, single, link in this longer chain moves me, deeply.

I also believe deeply in a contribution to the broader community, to human society itself. And there too, fatherhood intersects. Part of my responsibility to humanity, I believe, is to raise children that are a net force for goodness - children that because of their actions make the world feel more trustworthy and vibrant. Through my own purification as a father, I can pass a purer set of values and integrity to our children, and accelerate - ever so slightly - the rate at which the arc of humanity and history bends towards justice. This is so lofty and so abstract, but yet, I find meaning in this.

These sources of deep purpose make it easy, trivial even, to put forth an amount of energy toward being a husband and father that a 16 year old me would find incomprehensible.

Finding this deep and durable source of purpose has been harder in my career, though I’m realizing it might have been hidden in plain sight all along.

I often felt maligned when I worked at Deloitte, especially when it felt like the ultimate end product of my time was simply making wealthy partners wealthier. At least Deloitte was a culture of kind people, and also had a sincere commitment to the community - I found some meaning in that.

But in retrospect, I think I missed the point. Deloitte, after all, is a huge consultancy. Its clients are some of the largest and most influential enterprises in the history of the world. Deloitte also produces research that is read by leaders and managers across the world. The amount of lives affected by Deloitte, through its clients, is probably in the billions. While I was there, I had an opportunity - albeit a small one - to affect the managerial quality of the world’s largest companies. That is incredibly meaningful. In retrospect, I wish I would’ve remembered that when I was toiling away on client projects, wishing I was doing anything else to earn a living.

While working in City government, sources of purpose and meaning were easier to find. It was easy to give tremendous effort, for example, toward reducing murders and shootings. I was a civilian appointee, and relatively junior at that - but we were still saving lives, literally. But even beyond that, I found meaning in something more humble - I had the honor and privilege of serving my neighbors. That phrase, serving my neighbors, still wells my eyes up in tears. What a gift it was to serve.

And now, I work in a publicly traded company. We manufacture and sell furniture. These are not prima facie sources of deep meaning and purpose. In the day-to-day, week-to-week, grind I often find myself in the same mindset as I was at Deloitte, asking myself questions like, why am I here, or, am I wasting my time?

And yet, I also realize that with hindsight I would probably realize that meaning and foundation on which to assemble a strong sense of purpose was always there, had I cared enough to look for it.

Why, I have been thinking this week, is it so easy to to find meaning purpose at home, but so difficult at work? There must be a deep well of meaning from which to draw, hidden in plain sight, why can’t I find it?

At home, I realized, we are free. We have nobody ruling us, but us. We are free to explore and think and make our family life what we wish it to be. I think and talk openly with Robyn about our lives. We reflect and grapple with our lived experiences and take it upon ourselves to make meaning from it. We aren’t waiting for anyone else to tell us what our purpose as partners, parents, or citizens.

In a way, at home, we in-source our deliberations of purpose. We literally do it “in house”. We know it is is on us to make meaning of our marriage and our roles as parents, so Robyn and I do it. We have, in effect in-source our search for meaning and purpose.

At work, I have done the opposite.

In my career, I have outsourced my search for meaning and purpose. I’ve waited, without realizing it, for senior executives to tell me why what we’re doing matters. I’ve whined, in my head at least, when the mission statements and visions of companies I’ve worked for - either as an employee or as a consultant - have been vacuous or sterile.

In retrospect, I’ve freely relinquished my agency to create meaning and purpose to the enterprises for which I have worked. What a terrible mistake that was. Why was I waiting for someone else to find purpose for me, when I could’ve been creating it for myself all along?

When companies do articulate statements of purpose well, it is powerful and I appreciate it. My current company has a purpose statement, for example, and it does resonate with me. I’m glad we have one.

But yet, that’s not enough. To really give a tremendous amount of discretionary effort at work, I need to believe in something much more specific to me. After all, even the best statement of purpose put out by a company is, by design, something meant to appeal to tens of thousands of people. I shouldn’t expect a corporate purpose statement to ignite my inspiration, such an expectation is not reasonable or fair. No company will ever write a purpose statement that’s specifically for me, nor should they.

Rather than outsource my search for meaning and purpose, I’ve realized I need to in-source it. Perhaps with questions like these:

What makes my job and working as part of this enterprise special? What’s something about it that’s so valuable and important that I want to put my own ego, career development, and desire to be promoted aside and contribute to the team’s goal? What can I find meaning in and be proud of? What about being here makes me want to put effort in beyond the bare minimum?

Like I said, I work for a furniture company - certainly not something glamorous or externally validated . And yet, there can be so much meaning and purpose in it, if I choose to see it.

We are in people’s homes and we have this ability to rehabilitate people’s bodies and minds. We create something that brings comfort to other people and for every family movie night and birthday party - the biggest and smallest moments in the lives of our customers and their families, we are there. That’s worth putting in a little extra for.

And we’re a Michigan company, headquartered in a relatively small town. I get to be part of a team bringing wealth, prosperity, and respect to our State. I can’t tolerate it when people from elsewhere in the country snub their noses at Michigan, calling us a “fly over” state. I find meaning in that competition to be an outstanding enterprise - why not have the industry leader in furniture manufacturing and retailing be a Michigan company?

Without even considering the meaning and joy I find in creating high-performing teams that unleash people’s talent, there is so much meaning and purpose that’s hidden in plain sight - even at a furniture company. But that meaning is nearly impossible to find unless we stop being dependent on others to create meaning for us - we have to bring the search for purpose back in house.

How interesting might it be if everyone on the team created their own purpose statement, rather than depending on the enterprise to provide one for them? What if companies helped their employees create their own purpose statement instead of making one for them? I think such an approach would be interesting and, no pun intended, meaningful.

Fatherhood and The Birmingham Jail

Bo tells me what’s on his mind and heart, when it’s just him and I remaining at the dinner table. It’s as if he’s waiting for us to be alone and for it to be quet, and then, right then in that instant he drops a dime on me.

“Today at school, Billy kicked me, Papa.”

This time, thank God, I met him where he was instead of trying to fix his problems.I asked if he was okay, which he was. I passed a deep breath, silently, as I remembered that this is the way of the world - there are good kids that still hit and kick, and there are bullies, and that on the schoolyard stuff does happen. This, I begrudgingly admit to myself, is normal - even though it’s not supposed to happen to my kid.

So I started to ask Bo questions, trying my best to keep my anger from surfacing and making him feel guilty for something he could not control.

Bo, has learned how we do things in our family, what we believe. And in our family, we have strong convictions around nonviolence. He was sad, but he told me that he didn’t hit back. He didn’t meet violence with violence. This is my son, I thought.

I told him how strong he was, and how much strength it takes to not meet a kick with a kick; how strong a person has to be to not retaliate. I said he should be proud of himself, and that I was proud too.

But as we continued, I realized just how much like me, unfortunately, he really is. It also takes strength, I added, to draw a boundary. It takes so much strength to say something like, “I want to be friends with you, but if you continue to kick me, I will not.” It takes so much strength to confront a bully, even an unintentional one.

I talked Bo through the idea of boundaries and how to draw them as best I could. It made him visibly nervous - his five year old cheeks admitting nervous laughter as he tried to change the subject with talk of monkeys and tushys. Boundaries are so hard for him. He really is my son, I thought.

Boundaries have always been hard for me. I haven’t been able to draw them, to say no. They still are. For so long, I couldn’t keep my work at work. I haven’t been able to advocate for my own growth in any job to date or to reject an undesirable project which was unfairly assigned. When a dominating person tries to take and take, I may not roll over, but I don’t challenge them either.

My instinct to please others is so instinctual, I hardly ever know I’m doing it. This inability to draw boundaries is my tragic flaw.

One of my core beliefs about fatherhood is on this idea of breaking the cycle. I think there’s one core sin within me, maybe two, that I can avoid passing on. For me this is the one. This inability to draw boundaries and please others is what I want to break from our linage for all future generations. This is the flaw that I want to disappear when I die. Even before our sons arrived, I promised myself, this ends with me.

As I searched for answers and wisdom in the days that followed, my mind went to Dr. King and the ideas of nonviolence articulated by him and his contemporaries, like Gandhi, who were the only heroes outside of my family that I ever truly had.

I remembered this passage, from his 1963 Letter from a Birmingham Jail (emphasis added is my own):

In any nonviolent campaign there are four basic steps: collection of the facts to determine whether injustices exist; negotiation; self purification; and direct action. We have gone through all these steps in Birmingham. There can be no gainsaying the fact that racial injustice engulfs this community. Birmingham is probably the most thoroughly segregated city in the United States. Its ugly record of brutality is widely known. Negroes have experienced grossly unjust treatment in the courts. There have been more unsolved bombings of Negro homes and churches in Birmingham than in any other city in the nation. These are the hard, brutal facts of the case. On the basis of these conditions, Negro leaders sought to negotiate with the city fathers. But the latter consistently refused to engage in good faith negotiation.

Then, last September, came the opportunity to talk with leaders of Birmingham's economic community. In the course of the negotiations, certain promises were made by the merchants--for example, to remove the stores' humiliating racial signs. On the basis of these promises, the Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth and the leaders of the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights agreed to a moratorium on all demonstrations. As the weeks and months went by, we realized that we were the victims of a broken promise. A few signs, briefly removed, returned; the others remained. As in so many past experiences, our hopes had been blasted, and the shadow of deep disappointment settled upon us. We had no alternative except to prepare for direct action, whereby we would present our very bodies as a means of laying our case before the conscience of the local and the national community. Mindful of the difficulties involved, we decided to undertake a process of self purification. We began a series of workshops on nonviolence, and we repeatedly asked ourselves: "Are you able to accept blows without retaliating?" "Are you able to endure the ordeal of jail?" We decided to schedule our direct action program for the Easter season, realizing that except for Christmas, this is the main shopping period of the year. Knowing that a strong economic-withdrawal program would be the by product of direct action, we felt that this would be the best time to bring pressure to bear on the merchants for the needed change.

This letter from Dr. King has always resonated with me. I believe deeply in its ideas of nonviolence and am so humbled by the way Dr. King was able to articulate the point of view so personally, simply, and persuasively.

But I had never before connected the ideas in the letter to my conception of fatherhood. The prose was so relateable and resonant with fatherhood, I found it almost damning.

I do not want my sons to bear the weight that I have borne. I want this flaw - the inability to draw boundaries - to end with me. Others, I’m sure, have others crosses that they bear that they do not want to pass on, whether it’s emotional vacancy, substance abuse, or the fear of failure. Everyone’s tragic flaw is surely different.

But what’s true for me is true for all: I need to lead by example. I will pass what I do not wish to my sons, unless I walk the walk. I need to do the self-purification that Dr. King talks about. I must make a deep change within, if I want to see the change in Bo, Myles, and Emmett.

I cannot simply say to Bo that he must draw boundaries, I must also learn to draw boundaries. I cannot simply coach Bo on how to stand his ground, I have to stand my ground. I cannot simply tell Bo that he has to say no, even when he’s intimidated, I must say no to those that intimidate me.

To break the cycle, I must engage in self-purification that results in direct action.

Dr. King’s conception of nonviolence seems to get at what the essence of fatherhood is for me. It’s a process of trying to be better, in hopes that if we are better they might be better. That they might have one less cross to bear, one less flaw to resolve.

The flaw my father sacrificed for me was that of self-expression. He found it so difficult in his life to articulate what he was thinking and feeling. And that’s what he pushed me to do.

He encouraged me to sing, act, and dance. Even though it was expensive and we didn’t have a ton of extra money growing up, he and my mother never said no to the performing arts. He always showed up, every recital and performance.

But more importantly, he worked to be better himself and I saw that, up close. He joined the local Toastmasters club for awhile. He took online courses in Marketing. Towards the end of his life, he even tried to open his heart to me.

What my father did, was the journey all fathers seem to take. When we are young, we are invincible and full of swag. Then, along the way, we realize and then accept that our fathers are not superheroes, but mere mortals. Then, whether voluntarily or by the hand of life’s misfortunes, we realize that we are flawed, too - before we have children if we’re lucky.

And then the rest of our life is the singularly focused story of overcoming that tragic flaw. The sin we must not pass on, for no reason, perhaps, other than that we must, because that’s what father’s do.

And then there’s our final act, if we are lucky enough to see it. Our children are grown, and are on the precipice of having children of their own. And we hope, with all our hearts, that we have conquered some sin, that we’ve overcome that tragic flaw enough to not pass it on.

Then we pray, with what energy we have left, that our children forgive us for what we could not manage to redeem.

Photo Credit: Unsplash @polarmermaid

Becoming giving beings

Children are selfish. By design. That’s what they’re supposed to do and their survival depends on it. From the moment they are born, they demand that we feed them, clothe them, protect them, love them, and bathe them.

Photo Credit: Unsplash @adroman

And so did I. Like every other person that has ever lived, I was a selfish child. Far into adolescence, I was selfish, even if it was slightly less so than the day I was born.

As we age, it seems as if life extracts the selfishness, little by little, from our bodies and minds. First through marriage, then through children. For those of us who believe, through faith also. Through the intensities of grief and joy the selfishness is stolen sneakily, by the experience of life itself - if we let it.

If I am lucky enough to live a full life, without sudden death, I don’t know, exactly, what it will be like to die. I know it’s coming someday, but say I am dying at 95 from the ailment of a having a body that has long since depreciated past its useful life - what will it be like? I meditate on what it might be so that I can be prepared.

If I am so lucky to not die a sudden death, I think it may actually be like the movies. That’s what I hope for, anyway.

When I meditate on what I will be thinking and feeling on my deathbed, I imagine being close to Robyn and our children. I think I will want to just sit with them, drinking water and eating rice with lentils. Simple food, that does not distract from the company.

As I visualize myself slowly chewing the tasteless rice, my deathbed meditation progress to its very last moments.

I am there. Robyn is there. Our sons are there, and even in my foggy mental state, and despite the excruciating pain of inhabiting a dying body, I can tell our sons are grown because the hair on their temples has started to grey - that is the mark of a grown man in our line.

And then, at the very end, I gaze at Robyn. I am there, trying to muster some last words before I go ahead. In that last moment I do not ask for more painkillers. I do not cry. I do not beg God for more time. I do not say to her, “tell me you love me.” In those last moments, I am determined not to take.

With the last breaths of oxygen I breathe, and the last beats of my heart, before my thoughts go dark, I will try to say, “I love you.”

I will try to give love, to her, until the literal end of my life. Until God takes me from her embrace. In that moment, when I am as vulnerable as the day I was born, I dream of giving whatever love remains. Just like that. Just like the movies.

In life, and death, there can be so much suffering. That’s part of the deal. But what a beautiful thing to be part of. It is wonderful to know that if we must suffer the fate of death that there’s at least a fighting chance that life will have transformed us from something selfish into something more gracious.

It is utterly remarkable to me that we can go from being newborns, designed to be selfish, into giving beings. What a beautiful and curious thing it is, that after the immense suffering of our lives, at the moment of imminent death, our singular focus, above even our own survival, can become, “I love you.”

Being that, a giving being, is what I hope to become.

Leaders vs. Heroes

As is the tradition in our household, we were preparing for a dinner with our extended family to celebrate the 3rd birthday of our second son, Myles. And as any parent knows, that means the entire day leading up to dinner is spent joyously on…cleaning!

Today, I thought of a new frame to try with our older sons, Bo and Myles, to motivate them to help us clean, starting with their explosion of toys in our small family room.

“Bo and Myles. Mommy and I spend a lot of effort cleaning, like the kitchen, floors, bathroom and laundry, on behalf of the entire family. Could you be leaders on cleaning up your toys in the family room? We need you to take the lead in the family room, just like mommy and I take the lead on other things, so that we can be ready for Myles’ birthday party and so we can all live in a clean house.”

The reframe worked instantly. And more importantly, it was more true and sincere than how I usually chirp and nag at our sons to tidy up after themselves. We really do need them to take lead on cleaning up their toys in the family room on behalf of us all.

But as Bo, our five year old gleefully said, “Yeah! I wanna be a leader! I wanna be a leader”, I paused.

Am I goading our sons to obsess with being a leader? Am I feeding the hero-worship our culture can have around leadership? Am I pushing them into conflating leadership with praise and celebrity?

As I kept sweeping and they dug into putting way magnet tiles and action figures, I began thinking about the concepts at play in the moment. In our country and culture, we seem to conflate the idea of being a “leader” and being a “hero”.

This is how the concepts seem to work, at least in the United States. A “leader” is someone who takes responsibility. A “celebrity” is someone who is popular and exalted by others. A “hero” is an intersection of both.

It seems to me, that what we really need in the world is more people who take responsibility. We need leaders on every block.

I want my sons to take responsibility and lead. I want to take responsibility and lead myself, for whatever my team, my family, or my community needs me to take lead on. I want there to be more people who take responsibility for every little nook and cranny of the world - I think the world would naturally become a wonderful place if that was the case.

If some of those people who are taking responsibility become celebrities, I suppose I don’t mind.

What I observed and realized this morning while cleaning, is that I feel the pressure to be a “hero.” I feel the tension of the prevailing culture that makes it seem like success is success if and only if I am exalted. I see the people who get promoted because they’re good at promoting themselves (without actually being good at their job responsibilities), and I feel the pressure of self-promotion, too

It makes me think: what am I committed to? Am I committed to taking responsibility, even if I’m not applauded for it? Am I committed to leading, even if it’s quiet and unnoticed?

As a parent, what am I helping my sons to become? Am I teaching them to lead, or am I teaching them that taking responsibility only matters if we also become celebrities?

And then of course, there’s the vexing version of these questions for anyone who is the designated leader of a team or an enterprise: are we creating an environment where people care about taking responsibility, or, are we creating an environment where they fight to become company celebrities?

I think I ought to be creating teams and enterprises which value responsibility over celebrity, but is that what I’m actually doing? Is that what I’m actually role modeling?

These questions matter because how people are motivated in organizational life is an expansive, global, flywheel for talent development, culture, and value creation at the planetary-level. It feels daunting, and anything we try to do might feel insignificant.

But that’s not true, our individual actions affect what the collective culture around leadership becomes. Even though the scale of leadership culture is literally worldwide, we can start by examining how we tell stories about ourselves, and how we reinforce behavior on our own teams. We can start making improvements in our little corner of the organizational world, and we ought to.

---

I was sitting on the couch writing this post and our five-year old son, Bo, was interested in what I was writing. I just had a great conversation with him about leaders and heroes. Here are some notes and a few tools if you’re a parent that wants to talk about why being a leader is important, even if you’re not a hero.

Me: What do you think a leader is?

Bo: Someone who does the right thing.

Me: I agree with you. I think a leader is someone who does the right thing and takes responsibility to help people.

Me: Let me explain what a Venn Diagram is to you. [I used the diagram below and we talked about dogs and animals we know. I explained how in this Venn diagram some animals are dogs, some animals have black fur, and if a dog has black fur it goes in the middle.]

Me: Now, let me show you what I was writing about. [I showed him the Leader vs. Hero vs. Celebrity Venn diagram above] Do you think a leader has to be popular and everyone has to know and talk about them?

Bo: Yeah!

Me: I disagree with you bud, let me explain why. What about Captain America. Does he do the right thing and help people?

Bo: He does!

Me: Do a lot of people know him?

Bo: I think so?

Me: I think you’re right, a lot of people do know about Captain America and talk about him. What do you think matters more - that Captain America does the right thing and helps people, or that a lot of people talk about him?

Bo: That he does the right thing! That he does the right thing!

Me: I agree with you bud. Some people are heroes, like Captain America. They do the right thing, take responsibility, and help people. They’re also popular and a lot of people talk about them. That’s what I think a hero is. But I agree with you, it’s fine if someone helps people and is popular, but I think what’s more important is that they do the right thing and help people.

Bo: Mommy, mommy! Captain America helps people and is a leader, that’s the best part about him!

The blessing of a sturdy table

The center of a family is not its family room, the heart of a family lies in its dining room, at the table it gathers around.

Photo Credit: Unsplash @ddealmeida

I remember the table my parents had growing up. It was styled like the early nineties, a light looking piney wood with a glossy finish. Kind of like the wooden equivalent of acid washed jeans. Its legs were curved and ribbed, the type of texture that little hands love to run their fingers and nails over. I remember feeling such glee when my father would put in the table leaf, because it meant we were having a special amount of company over.

The wooden chairs we had were a similar, light, hue. They were the sort of kit chairs a young, modest, immigrant family could buy from Kmart or Service Merchandise to assemble and stain themselves to save a little money.

The table always scared me a bit, because it was built as if to be a little wobbly. I remember my father tightening the bolts, every so often, to ensure it wouldn’t shake too much. I never played under it, because I was always a little scared, in the way a four year old might be, that the time it would finally topple might be the precise moment I was underneath it. But beyond that, I never had a little sibling or a puppy to chase around, so I never really had any reason to scurry under that first wobbly table we had.

That table was were we had dinner, where as a young lad I would, invariably, beg for Kraft macaroni and cheese instead of bhindi and dal. It was where my parents would review the bills and make ends meet. It was the only place in America I ever ate and talked with my with my visiting grandparents. That table and those chairs are one of the only fixtures in my family home that we’ve had with us from Williamsville, New York to three different cities in Michigan: Grand Blanc, Rochester Hills, and Rochester.

Eventually, my parents were on the come up. And one of the first purchases they made was a new, sturdier, dinner table. It was darker wood, stained to a cherry-esque finish, and they bought a china cabinet, server, and eight upholstered chairs to match. More than anything else they ever bought, I think, this was the symbol that we had made it in America.

—

The first table Robyn and I had was a small one, an IKEA outfit, but one of the nicer ones that I had from the roommate era of my life. It was solid and flat, its surface resemblant of a butcher block, but thinner. Robyn and I first ate together around it before we started dating, when in the same building in Midtown Detroit, the one with the coat of arms in the lobby. Robyn came up when she was sick on her birthday, I made soup and played John Mayer’s Where the Light Is album.

Little did we know, it would be that table that we would first sit down for dinner at, in our first apartment together, after our marriage. It would be the table that we would dream about our family, and make bucket lists of all the fun things we wanted to do together in the upcoming season. It would be the table - the one by the window, nestled between the wall and the slightly-too-big-for the-room couch - that our 10 month old, nervous, rescue dog would vertically leap onto after sprinting around the room.

When Robyn and I bought our home in Detroit, we packed up that little IKEA table, along with the rest of our boxes and ends, and moved uptown to a friendly, tree-lined street on the north side of the City. After we unloaded the truck, Robyn stayed back while I I led the movers in a caravan up to my parents house in Rochester.

After my father passed, that sturdy cherry table they bought, along with the matching chairs, cabinet, and sever had been mostly idle. My mother was gifting the whole set to Robyn and I, as we started life in our new home and I went up to retrieve the whole set.

And so, on that overcast January afternoon, the movers packed everything up in blankets, with care, and brought it all to Detroit, into our cozy little dining room, with the french doors where Robyn would later hang up photos of our children in the glass panes, every year on their birthdays.

That sturdy table, I’ve realized, is where all my dreams are represented.

Robyn and I have our candle-lit mini-dates there. When our sons were born, we’d pull up a high chair right to the corner and give them mushed up bananas, peas, and sweet potatoes. It’s where we gather our family and friends around, with easy access to the pot in the kitchen filled with a meal that can feed us all. It’s where our sons and pup can confidently hide and chase each other, without fear of the walls crumbling around them.

It’s where we blow out the candles on birthday cakes or share what we learned or were grateful for after a school day, while eating leftover tacos. It’s where Robyn and I talk for a few minutes, after the kids have already moved onto to their next adventure, after breakfast on Saturday mornings, and we smile, and then whisper to each other, “This is the dream.”

That table, that sturdy table, is where the blessings we count in prayer first came to be.

And now, as I see my sons around that table, I understand why my parents were so particular about picking exactly the right one, after weeks of research, budgeting, serious discussion, and several trips to the Thomasville store. The chance to upgrade to a sturdy table, wasn’t only a symbol of securing their seat solidly in the middle class.

I know now, that my parents were thinking of the future when they bought that table. They wanted to pass that table - that sturdy table, onto me and Robyn, even though they would not know her until decades later.

That table reminds me of the blessing and the sacrifices of both our parents. My parents had no choice but to start off in this country with a wobbly table and chairs they glued together themselves. They wanted to help us start our lives together with something sturdier.

They dreamed for us, what we now dream for our own children: that we have a lifetime of love and memories around our table - a childhood our kids want to remember. And we dream of helping our children start their lives beyond us with a table of their own. Maybe not one that’s opulent or expensive, but one that is sturdy - sturdy enough to build their dreams and their own families around.

I don’t always know who reads these posts, or where in the world they are from. But if you’re reading this, I hope you are blessed with the gifts of a sturdy table, and a community that gathers around it, just as we are.

Salsa is the last stage of grief

To many of my oldest friends, my father was best known for one thing: his salsa.

It was objectively out of this world, and the craftsmanship he used was nothing short of incredible. I remember watching him, at the green granite island in my childhood home, taking tomatoes and looking at them like a championship athlete surveys a playing field.

Then he’d take these tomatoes and mince them into minuscule cubes, better than a machine could, even if he had a dull knife. Then he’d do the same with an onion and cilantro before adding spices, hand-squeezed lime juice, and one or two green chilies. His salsa was the stuff of childhood legend, and the way he made it, with such precision and pride, was legendary to me.

It is without exaggeration to say that one specific thing I grieved when he went ahead was that I was never able to have an afternoon with him - where he would pass on the recipe, yes, but also his wisdom, his blessing, and the torch. Even when I was young, long before I knew he would be taken from us so suddenly, I put it in my mind that the salsa was not just a recipe but an important rite of passage.

I haven’t been able to bring myself to try making it since he died. The thought of making it was sad, but also scary. The knife would’ve invoked the feelings of a haunted house, I thought, and how could I do it justice without him teaching me the secrets of his work? Anything less than perfection would’ve felt like an insult to his memory.

—

My family has more than its fair share of gardeners.

I’ve been hearing about Udai Mama’s green thumb - he’s one of my four maternal uncles - from my mom for decades. My Masi, who’s know by her nickname “Gudda” in our family, is the same way. She’s created an Eden in her backyard in Long Island, with everything from tomatoes, to Indian vegetables, to figs.

She sent us home with a bounty from her garden last weekend, when we were visiting our New York family. So here I was, with a deluge of perfectly ripe tomatoes I didn’t know what to do with, which would surely rot within a week without intervention. And how could I waste a basket of tomatoes from my aunt’s garden? I may not be perfect, but I’m not a savage.

As it happened, five days after our return from New York, our youngest son Emmett was to be baptized. Our plan was to have everyone over - our family, godparents, friends, kids, everyone - for an early dinner before Mass. Robyn created the menu and had us stocked up to make our crowd-favorite white bean chili, cornbread, and a frosted chocolate cake. I picked up a Sister Pie because I happened to be in the West Village for lunch with an old friend.

And there were those tomatoes in the orange, plastic colander - the one Robyn had in her apartment when we first started dating - that were just sitting there, catching sunshine, getting riper and riper by the day.

—

It was one of the proudest moments, Papa, I’ve ever had over something I’ve made - when person after person was raving about the salsa I made. Your salsa. I got to tell all our friends and family present for Emmett’s baptism - most of whom I met after I moved to college - the story of your salsa and say with so much joy, “I’m glad you liked it, it was my Dad’s recipe. I always thought he should market it, too.”

As I was making it, I was remembering you. I was remembering your life, how you left India and landed in Tehran to join the ship on which you were to be an engineer. I was remembering how intensely you insisted on doing the right thing, in the right way, down to how you impressed upon me, “You MUST cut the tomatoes by hand, a machine leaves the pieces too large and soft. The tomatoes must be firm, Neil, FIRM.”

When you died, in addition to tremendous sadness and grief, I was also under duress for practical reasons. I didn’t know how to do any grown up stuff.

How do I negotiate a salary? How do I buy a house or plant a garden? How do I feed a baby a bottle? How would you like your last rites to be conducted? How do I find a new dentist? How do I file my taxes? How do find my way in life? How do I make your salsa? These were the things I needed to ask you, that I never could.

And beyond those practical concerns, that was supposed to be our time. I was finally grown. We could finally be the friends we were always meant to be. Asking you for advice was how we were going to bond as grown men.

I was so sad that we never got that time. I still am, because I’m balling as I’m writing this part of the essay. But I suppose you probably see that.

But a funny thing happened as I was making that first bowl of salsa yesterday. In addition to remembering you. I was remembering all the stuff that’s been going on over the past few weeks. All the grown up stuff Robyn and I have had to do lately.

I took the lead for us and traded in Robyn’s car for a minivan that can fit our growing family. I cleared the garden we plotted in our backyard for the winter, and put away the drip irrigation system I installed. I found a masonry contractor and got our garage fixed. I found a high-interest cash account to take advantage of rising interest rates. I navigated a career decision. I, and Robyn too, figured out how to get help from a therapist-coach so we could be better parents to Bo - and we graduated, so to speak, after four months, earlier this week. I figured out that the secret ingredient I was missing in the salsa was ginger.

I realized when I was chopping those tomatoes and onions that you probably never had a salsa recipe. Of course you didn’t have a recipe. Indians didn’t invent salsa. You made it your own. You figured it out. Just like you figured out everything else in your whole adult life, when you were oceans away from your family, making it as a first-generation man in this country.

As I was squeezing the lime I remembered all the things I saw you figure out. How to make a shelf. How to deal with customer service agents who disrespected anyone with an accent. How to use credit card points toward the purchase of a car. How to build a house. How to deal with unemployment. How to raise a son. How to be an honest man. How to live a life.

You were the example of figuring it out, for my whole life, and that’s what I realized yesterday. Even though you went ahead, I should’ve never been worried about the things I didn’t know how to do. It was never about that. I finally realized that you never needed to teach me the salsa recipe or anything else fathers tend to teach their sons as adults. Because you taught me to figure it out. You left me prepared, long before you died, to figure it out - whether it was the salsa or anything else.

It was an unexpectedly big moment, Papa. I’m not scared anymore. I can figure it out. I know this now.

I can figure out how to build a thriving marriage. I can figure out how to be a father to each of our very different sons. I can figure out how to be a man of good character, worthy of our family’s name. I can figure out how to make a contribution to this world, in my job and outside of it. I can figure out how to make your salsa, because you taught me to figure it out.

It’s a cliche to say, but is true - not a day goes by where I don’t think of you. I’m still so sad that you can’t be here with us for the big and little family moments we have. I still have so much gratitude and joy when I think of the happy stories we can tell about you. I know you would’ve wanted us to keep living life, and I swear to God I have. But the weight of grief has been heavy.

But yesterday was a big moment. Something feels different, lighter perhaps. When I think of you I will always have sadness, gratitude, joy, and laughter all mixed together. But now, after learning this lesson from the salsa, the grief part might now, finally, be over.

Photo Credit: Unsplash @yehoshuaas

They Need Me To Lead

I believe in the practice of walking the talk, especially as a father. Because even as cliche as it is to say, actions definitely speak louder than words.

I know it, because I act like my father. At the hospital, the day before he died, some of his colleagues came to see us and warmly recounted how passionately my father would present a data analysis and how he’d gesticulate, wildly sometimes, to make his point. I never knew that about him, I thought, but I do that too. And sure as shit, when I see my sons, already, intonate their words up or make up pretend games about spaceships, I know they’re acting like me.

As a general rule, I don’t want to be a morally lethargic parent, allergic to even the smallest personal transformation, that cranks on with tropes like, “do as I say, not as I do”. Like, if I want them to stop picking their noses or stop exhibiting the desperate signs of needing to please authority figures, I have to stop doing that myself, or at a minimum be silent on the issue.

And yet, I’ve found a specific uncomfortable, alien, circumstance where I cannot do what I tell them to do.

What I tell them is something along the lines of:

“Bo and Myles, if you want your brother to stop hitting you, you need to tell them to stop, clearly. And if they don’t listen you need to tell them why. I’m here to help you if you can’t figure it out on your own.”

But if it’s bedtime and Myles is going around in circles to the point of running face first into wall of their shared bedroom, while Bo is jumping on his bed and giggling and screaming about the potty, I cannot do what I told them to do.

I cannot tell them to stop running and yelling because that attention just eggs them on and because this behavior, though irritating, is not expressly unsafe. This part is a practical matter.

But I also cannot tell them why I want them to stop. I cannot tell them that I desperately want to spend 20 minutes with their mother talking about something other than our daily grind or syncing up on parenting tactics. I cannot tell them I am exhausted and they’re keeping me from doing the dishes, and the dishes are keeping me from working, and my work is keeping me from sleeping. I cannot tell them how selfish they are for waking up their baby brother who is sleeping in the nursery across the hall. Even though every ounce of flesh in me wants to offload all this frustration and anger onto them…

I cannot ask them for help either. Maybe there’s some exception here but doing so is dangerous territory. I can ask them for help cleaning up toys off the floor, or handing me an infant diaper when my hands are full. But in the middle of a bedtime circus, it’s different - I cannot ask them to carry my emotional burden.

I’m their father, their papa. They need me to be sturdy. They need me to lead and to lean on. They are the sailboats and I must be their safe harbor. They are the explorers and I must be their map and compass. As the temperature rises, I must be their thermostats, not a thermometer.

To make sense of this world, their not-even-school-aged world, they need me. To reassure them that no bad guys will come to get them and take them away under cover of darkness and dreams, they need me. To be the one who stays steady, instead of retaliating, when they hit or scream or kick or spit or piss in anger, they need me. It won’t be like this forever, but for now, they need me to lead.

I have wondered for a long time about childhood, or what it’s supposed to be I guess. I just don’t remember having one. I did, at some point, exist as a child and in childhood, but what was it like? I can’t recall it, save for photographs and loose threads.

I had my early years and it was full of the acceleration you would expect for a middle-class, suburban, child of scrappy South Asian immigrants. And as I kept racing and pacing, my adolescence passed. So did my father, shortly thereafter. And as he left us behind him, I was growing ahead of my time, once again.

It’s as if the passing of my childhood was something I’ve always grieved, without having the presence of mind to use that word as it was happening.

I cannot shatter the glass ceiling of their innocence so early. I just can’t. Not yet. Not until I have to. I can’t thrust them into my world of struggle and responsibility just yet. I can’t get them to help me with the distortions in my own mind. I just can’t. I want them, so badly, to stay in their not-even-school-aged world a little longer.

I feel so often that parenting is a paradox. It’s excruciating but it’s the best. It’s a never-ending slog but it goes by too quickly. It ages you gray or bald, but also keeps you young. So this, it seems, is just the latest paradox - I need to walk the talk because actions speak louder than words, but not on this one thing…I just can’t on this one thing.

Memories Are Only Shards

At around 2:30pm, when he emerges from the chamber of his midday nap, Myles is at “peak snuggle”. And this day he chose me. I was outlayed on a sofa, tucked into a corner at it’s “L”.

And then, in one single motion, he scooped on top of me, jigsawing in between my knees and sternum. This was a complete surprise, because this never happens. It’s mommy that invariable gets his peak snuggle, not me.

And I was excited-nervous like some get right before an opening kickoff and maybe even before a first date. I wanted to soak this one in, because in addition to this never happening, I’ve come to accept the difficult truth that our kids won’t be little forever.

We will only get 18 Christmases, Diwalis, and birthdays with each of them at home. We will only get 18 summers with them at home. Eventually, Myles’s sternum and knees will outgrow my own. It’s not just a thought of “oh my gawd, this never happens, I’ve gotta soak this in”, it’s a realization that there will be a time where they’re too big for this to ever happen again. Eventually, Myles, and all our children will outgrow the very idea of peak snuggle.

I know this is all fleeting, and so I was trying to just be there, so still, so as not to perturb Myles into realizing he could move on with his day. I tried to notice everything: the softness of his newly chestnut colored hair, which has lightened as the summer unfolded. I noticed the fuzzy nylon texture of his Michigan football jersey. I tried to cement the feel of his fingers as he tried to read my face like a map, as he reached up above his head, past my chin, and to my cheeks. I embraced the particular top-heavy way his two-and-a-half year old frame carried its weight at this specific moment of his life.

But hard as I tried, my efforts to remember were an exercise in grasping at straws. Memories have the shortest of all half lives.

Even 5 minutes later, as I desperately tried to encode my neurons with this moment, I couldn’t quite remember it as it actually happened. Even after just five minutes, I had only the fragments and feelings of something that now was fuzzy and choppy and bits and pieces. What remained was more like a dream than a memory.

All my memories, are this way. I’ve even experimented to test my mind’s resilience to remember, and everything still fades. Even for the most exhilarating moments of my life - like our marriage vows, the birth of our children, or my first time walking into Michigan Stadium - only the fragments remain. It’s excruciating but true that the only time the we ever experience reality is in the very moment we are in, and only if we’re fully there. After just seconds, the memory decays irreparably. All we are left with is a shard of what really happened.

This unfairly short half life of memory has softened my judgement about social media. After stripping away all the vanity, status signalining, and humble bragging, I think there is at least a sliver of desperation and humanity that’s left. At the end of the day, we just all want to remember. And because our minds are too feeble to remember unassisted, we take a photo and share it as a story.

In the past few weeks, as I’ve realized that I don’t truly have any clear, vivid, life-like memories. I’ve almost panicked about what to do. This is why we have to tell stories. Stories, just like photographs are a way to save a little shard of something beautiful. This is why I have to get sleep. The sleep keeps my eyes wide open and puts a leash on my mind so it doesn’t recklessly wander away from reality as it’s happening. And, most importantly, this is why I have to be with them.

We treasure our relationships and are so protective of them for a reason. If we find friends, family, or colleagues that we actually want to remember, we know intuitively that we ought to see them as much as we can. We know intuitively that if we see those treasured people often, maybe it’ll slow down the decay of our memories a little. Life is too short to throw away chances to be with the people we want, so desperately, to remember. This is why I have to be with them.

And just like that, Myles moved on with his day. He scooped off the sofa, just as quickly as he arrived. Peak snuggle was over. And my memory started to decay immediately, as I expected. But at least I do have this fragment of a feeling. And, thank God that even if I won’t be able to ever have full, real memories of this beautiful moment, I will at least have the shards of it.

“I Promise”

Succeeding in pursuit of a goal, I’ve learned, can be simple as long as you ask yourself the right questions. Graduate school - and everything I've read about management that's any good - taught me that the first question to ask yourself before starting any journey is "what result do I want to create?"[1] The idea is, once you clarify exactly what success looks like (and what it doesn't) you can spend all your time working at that result, instead of wasting time and effort toward anything else.

As a father, what result do I want to create? I've thought about that a lot as Robert’s birth approached and since then, as all of you have come into the world. The result I want to create is simple: I want you all to feel loved and become good people. Therefore, my duty as a father, as I see it, is two fold: 1) love you unconditionally, and, 2) help you become good people.

That's it. That’s the mission – to love you unconditionally and help you three become good people. Anything else that comes of my influence in your life is a bonus.

Let me be perfectly up front with you, too – my mission is not your happiness. Obviously, I hope you all live healthy, happy, and prosperous lives. But I'm not committing to or focusing on that. Goodness and happiness are not the same thing and I am focused on goodness, not happiness.

For one, each of you three are the only people who can make you healthy, happy, and prosperous. Guaranteeing your health, happiness, and prosperity is a promise I can’t keep. It’s difficult for me to admit that, but it’s true; health, happiness, and prosperity are only in your hands or the hands of God.

I can’t even truly promise that I will succeed in helping each of you to become good people. I am a mortal, imperfect, man just like you are, who is frustratingly fallible – and so are you. Only a God could veritably guarantee that they could help you become a good person, and a God is something I certainly am not. I may fail at my mission, even if I die trying.

But here’s what I do promise, right now, in writing. Our word is our bond, and these are quite literally my words. I promise two things, to you three, my sons.

First, I promise you that I will never give up on cultivating the goodness in you or in myself.

I will work to do that as long as I exist in body, mind, or spirit. How I approach that task will change as you grow older, but I will never give up on it. I will make mistakes, and I will learn from them. I am committed to the challenge because it is the most important thing I will ever do. I am in it for the long haul.

One of the books I will read to you one day is East of Eden[2] by John Steinbeck. It is one of my favorites and the most important novel I have ever read. I first read it in high school and I don't even remember most of the plot. What I do remember is what I consider to be it’s most important idea - timshel.

Lee, one of the characters in the book, tells the story of a Biblical passage discussing man's conquering of sin – “the sixteen verses of the fourth chapter of Genesis”. Something interesting that Lee finds is that different translations of the Bible have different understanding of what God says about man’s ability to conquer sin.

One translation – from the King James version –  says that thou shall conquer sin, implying that a man overcoming his sinning ways is an inevitability. Man shall conquer sin, it’s a done deal. The other translation – the American Standard version – says “do thou”, that thou must conquer sin, implying that God commands man to overcome his sin. In this version it’s not an inevitability, it’s an imperative.  

These two translations are obviously radically different, which leaves Lee flummoxed. What he does to remedy this confusion is go back to the original Hebrew (with the help of a few sage old men), to see the exact words used in the original scripture. His hope is that by going back to the original Hebrew, he will be able to decipher a more accurate understanding of the verse’s intent.

In the original Hebrew, Lee finds the word timshel in the verse. This “timshel” word, Steinbeck reveals, translates to “thou mayest” conquer sin. So, conquering our sins is not an inevitability and it's not an imperative - it's a choice. A choice! It is up to us whether we conquer our sins and become good men. What Steinbeck conveys is that the Biblical God says timshel - that we may conquer our sins, if that is the choice we make.

That’s what I have chosen. I choose to try, to try to conquer sin. I choose to try to be a better man, and to try to help you three, my three sons, to become better men, too. I will never give up on you, boys, I swear to you that.

What Steinbeck reminds us, is that conquering our sin is in our hands. Becoming good is our choice. And my first promise to you – my three sons - is to never give up on goodness, and never give up on you, even though I may fail.

But no matter what happens from here forward, this is my second promise to you, no matter what happens. No matter how good or wicked each of you are. No matter how tall or short you are. No matter how wealthy or poor you become, no matter what you look or act like, no matter what - I will always love you, unconditionally, and so will your mother. Always. Always. Always. 

I promise.
—

[1] From Lift: Becoming a Positive Force in Any Situation, Ryan W. Quinn and Robert E. Quinn

[2] From East of Eden, John Steinbeck

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This passage is from a book I’ve drafted and am currently editing. To learn more and sign up to receive updates / excerpts click here.

If true, am I really a “leader”?

If I choose to…

…say “just give it to me” instead of teach,

…set a low standard so I don’t have to teach,

…blame them for not “being better”,

…blame them for my anger instead of owning it,

…let the outcome we’re trying to achieve remain unclear,

…keep the important reason for what we’re doing a secret,

…leave my own behavior unmeasured and unmanaged,

…set a high standard without being willing to teach,

…proceed without listening to what’s really going on,

…proceed without understanding their superpowers and motivations,

…withhold my true feelings about a problem,

…avoid difficult conversations,

…believe doing gopher work to help the team is “beneath me”,

…steal loyalty by threatening shame or embarrassment,

…move around 1 on 1 time when I get better plans,

…be absent in a time of need (or a time of quiet celebration),

…waffle on a decision,

…or let a known problem fester,

Am I really a “manager” or a “leader”? Can I really call myself a “parent”?

If I’ve shirked all the parts requiring responsibility, what am I?

To me all “leadership” really is, is taking responsibility. It’s the necessary and sufficient condition of it. The listed items I’ve prepared are just some examples of the responsibilities we can choose (or not) to take.

And, definitely, there are about 5 of those that I fail at, regularly. My hope is that by making these moments transparent, it will be more possible to make different choices.

The Great Choice

In the spring of 2012, my life was a mess - even though it didn't appear that way to almost everyone, even me. But a few people did realize I was struggling, and that literally changed the trajectory of my life. It was just a little act, noticing, that mattered. And from noticing, care. Those seemingly small acts were a nudge, I suppose, that put me back on the long path I was walking down, before I was able to drift indefinitely in the direction of a man I didn’t want to become.

Those small acts of noticing and care were acts of gracious love, that probably prevented me from squandering years of my life. Without a nudge, it might have been years before I had realized that I lost myself. Because in the spring of 2012, I was making the worst kind of bad choices – the ones I didn’t even know were bad.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here.

Trying to become a good person is like taking a long walk in the woods. It’s winding. It’s strenuous. It’s not always well marked and there are a lot of diversions. There’s also, as it turns out, not a clear destination. Being a good person is not really a place at which we arrive, and then just declare we’re a good person. It’s just a long walk in the woods that we just keep doing – one foot in front of the other.

It is not something we do because it is fun. A long walk in the woods can be chilly, rainy, uncomfortable – not every day is sunny.

Righteousness is a word that I learned at an oddly young age. I must have been 10 or younger, I think. It was a world I heard lots of Indian Aunty’s and Uncles say during Swadhyaya, which is Sanskrit for “self-study” and what my Sunday school for Indian kids was called that I went to as a boy. And when those Auntys and Uncles would teach us prayers and commandments and the like – righteousness was a word that was often translated.

My father also used that word, righteous. I can hear him, still, with his particular pronunciation of the word talking to me about the rite-chus path. This idea of taking a long walk in the woods, you see boys, is an old idea in our culture. To me, talking about being a good person, going on a long walk in the woods, taking the righteous path – whatever you want to call it – are not just words and metaphors. It’s a dharma – a spiritual duty. It’s a long walk down an often difficult, but righteous, path.

But it is still a choice. Will we take the long walk?

This is a choice to you, like it was to me, my father before me, and his father before he. All of your aunts and uncles, grandparents, had this choice. In our family, this is a choice we have had to make – will we walk the righteous path or not? Will we do the right thing, or not? Will we take the long walk, day after day, or will we not? Will we try to be good people, or will we not?

This is the great choice of our lives. We have to choose.

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This passage is from a book I’ve drafted and am currently editing. To learn more and sign up to receive updates / excerpts click here.

“Papa? Will you never die?”

“Papa? If you take good care of your body, will you never die?”

This was the last tension, that once revealed, unwound the bedtime tantrums a few nights ago. As it turns out, it wasn’t the imminent end of our annual extended family vacation in northern Michigan that had Bo’s feelings and stomach in knots.

It was death.

Unasked and unanswered questions about death. Doubts about death. Anxiety about death, so insidious that I have not a single clue how the questions were seeded in his mind and why they sprouted so soon.

“I want to be with you for a hundred million infinity years, Papa. A hundred million INFINITY.”

Such earnest, piercing, and deeply empathetic honesty is the fingerprint of our eldest son’s soul.

When he tells me this, my excuses all evaporate. How could I ever not eat right from this day forward? How could I ever get to drunkenness ever again? How can I not be disciplined about, exercise, sleep, and going to the doctor? How could I ever contemplate texting and driving, ever again? How could I let myself stress about something as artificial as a career? For Bo, for Robyn, and our two younger sons, how could I do anything else?

I needed to hear this, this week, because I have been losing focus on what really matters.

I have been moping about how I feel like many of my dreams are fading. My need to return to public service. My need to challenge the power structures that tax my talent everyday at work. The book I need to finish, or the businesses I need to start. Ego stuff.

In my head, at his bedside, my better angels turned the tide in the ongoing battle with my ambition. Those are not needs. Those are wants. To believe they are needs is a delusion. Dreams are important, yes, but they are wants, not needs.

All I really need, desperately, is to be here. To show up. To wake up with sound-enough mind and body. To not lose anyone before the next sunset. To have who and what I am intertwined with to stay intertwined. This is what I need.

What I vowed to Bo is that I would take care of my body, because I wanted to be here for a long, long, long, long, long, long time.

“I will be here for as long as I can. I want to be here, with you and our family, for as long as I can.”

And as he drifted to sleep, I stayed a moment, kneeling, and thought - loudly enough, only, perhaps, for his soul to overhear,

“Please, God, help us all be here for as long as we can.”

“How do I become a good father?”

Let me be honest with you.

I don't know whether I'm a good man, whether I will be a good father, or even whether I'll ever have the capacity to know - in the moment, at least - whether I'm either of those things. I, nor anyone, will truly be able to judge whether I was a good father or a good man until decades after I pass on from this earth.

I do know, however, that is what I want and intend to be. I want to be a good father and the father you all need me to be.

Wanting to be a good father was my central objective in writing this book. The sentiment I had in the Spring of 2017, a few months before Bo was born, is the same sentiment I feel now – I want to be a good father, but I need to figure it out. I am not nervous to be a father, but I’m not sure I know how just yet. I am excited to be a father, but what would it mean to be a good one? What do I need to do? How do I actually do it? How do I actually walk the walk?

This book is my answer to this simple, fundamental, difficult question: how do I become a good father? In this letter and the letters that follow, my goal is to answer that question in the greatest rigor and with the most thoughtfulness I can. As you’ll see in the pages that follow, the answer to the question quickly becomes an inquiry on how I become a good person myself, because I need to walk the walk if I want you three to grow to become good people. As it turns out, the best way (and perhaps only way) I could adequately answer this question with the intensity and emotional labor it required was by talking with you all – my three sons – and writing to you directly. You boys are the intended audience of this volume of letters.

When I first started writing in 2017, your mother and I only knew of Robert’s pending birth, though we dreamed of you both, Myles, and Emmett. And by the grace of God, all three of you are here now as I begin rewrites of this manuscript in the spring of 2022, about three weeks after Emmett was born. Now that you three are here, I have edited this volume to address you all in these letters collectively, even though that wasn’t the case in my original draft.

At the beginning of this project, I wasn’t sure if I would share it with anyone but our family. But as I went, I started to believe that the ideas were relevant and worth sharing beyond our roof. This book become something I’ve always wanted from philosophers, but I felt was always missing. As comprehensive as moral philosophy and theology are with the question of “what” – what is good, what is the right choice, etc. – what I found lacking was the question of “how”. How do we actually become the sort of people that can actually do what is good? How do we actually become the sort of people that make the tough choices to live out and goodness in our thoughts and our actions? How do we actually learn to walk the walk?

This question of “how” is unglamorous, laborious, and pedantic to answer. It takes a special kind of zealotry to stick with, especially because it requires a tremendous amount of context setting and when you’re done all the work you’ve done seems so obvious, cliché even. And yet, the question of how – how we become good people is so essential.

Perhaps that’s why philosophers don’t seem to emphasize it, but parents and coaches do. Coming up with the “what” is sexy, cool, flashy, and novel and once you lay down the what, it’s easy to walk away and leave the details to the “lesser minds” in the room. On the contrary, you have to care deeply about a person to get into the muck of details to help them figure out “how” to do anything. Figuring out the how is a much longer, arduous, and entangled journey.

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This passage is from a book I’ve drafted and am currently editing. To learn more and sign up to receive updates / excerpts click here.

We are reimagining what it means to be a man

In the age we live in, what it means to be a man is being completely reimagined. And as a result, what we are trying to do as men - particularly as husbands, fathers, and citizens - is nothing short of remarkable. We are actively reinventing, for the first time, the role of men in society.

I struggle a lot with this.

On the one hand, I am a man. Being a man is a salient part of who I am and how I view the world. This may indicate, to some at least, that I’m less evolved and not as “woke”, if that’s the right word, than others among us. I’m not able to hold a world view that gender is entirely a social construction or that we should create a world that ignores the very concept of “men”. I’m not entirely sure what being a feminist or male ally entails, but I’m pretty sure I’m not that, exactly, either.

At the same time, I reject what being a man means today. And I’m not comfortable with the grotesque baggage that being a man is inseparable from. The criticisms of men and masculinity are legitimate, and that’s an understatement.

Men have controlled and abused women, for most of known history it seems - whether it was politically or through sexual violence. Marriages between men and women, generally speaking, have not be fair or equitable, ever. The glass ceiling is real - I see my women and my female colleague hindered and treated outright badly, in ways that men aren’t. I don’t want to be that kind of man.

But it seems to me, that for the first time, at least some men are trying to take on this tension - identifying with being a man, but rejecting its harmful externalities - and act differently. I don’t know if it’s a majority of men or even that a lot that are trying to reimagine what it means to be a man, but I’m certainly struggling through this tension. So are a lot of my friends and colleagues and it’s something we talk about. So it can’t be an immaterial amount of men who are trying to figure this out, right?

I love the mental model of using an OKR (Objective and Key Results) to set clear goals (you can get a nice crash course on OKRs, here). And so I tried applying it to “being a good man” - this is what being a “good man” means to me:

When I was done, I had a “whoa” moment. The OKR I created, I realized, is quite different than what I would assume the stereotypical man of the 20th century would create if he were doing the same exercise. Hell, it’s quite different than what my own father would probably create. Like, can you imagine the men of 1950s sitcoms (or even 1990s sitcoms) talking about fair distribution of domestic responsibilities or parenting without fear tactics?

I can’t. Most of the protagonists in those shows had wives who didn’t work outside the homes - the contexts in which those characters were cast is wildly different than our own.

And that’s what makes what we’re doing remarkable. We’re trying to envision a different future - and live it ourselves - without having any sort of role model on what this reconception of what it means to be a man can look like. It’s even more remarkable and complex because it’s not just heterosexual men in same-race relationships that are figuring this out. Gay men and men in interracial or interfaith relationships are also figuring out how to be husbands, fathers, and citizens in this time of cultural flux around what it means to be a man.

I couldn’t talk to my own father about this anyway (God rest his soul), but even if he was around he couldn’t be my role model for this journey. Despite my father being the most honest and perhaps the kindest man I’ve ever met, he was still swimming in a culture with remarkably rigid gender roles. All our male role models were, because that was the culture of the times.

But beyond our own uncles, fathers, and grandparents, we don’t have stories in our culture to draw from for role models, either. There aren’t novels with strong, male protagonists that are trying to redefine manhood in the 21st century, that I’ve found at least. On the contrary, every novel I’ve heard my friends talk about with male protagonists were from detective novels, historical fiction, thrillers, or from science fiction - hardly relatable to men trying to recast their male identities.

There are great male role models from the canon of 20th century literature and culture - Atticus Finch of To Kill a Mockingbird, Aragorn from Lord of the Rings, Reverend John Ames from Gilead, or even Master Yoda from Star Wars are favorites of mine - but those characters are in the wrong context to really help us navigate the process of reimagine manhood as well. Atticus and Yoda are not really dealing with contemporary circumstances, obviously, as much as I really am inspired by their example.

Honestly, it seems like the Marvel Cinematic Universe and its superheroes going through real struggles and making real sacrifices are the closest role models we can look to as men trying to be better men. Maybe that’s why I like those films so much. But it’s hard and probably ego-inflating for me to relate to comic book superheroes. We need, and have to have something better than Marvel movies, right?

My wife loves the titles from Reese Witherspoon’s book club, and I honestly love hearing the stories of the novels she’s reading. All the titles are written by women and have strong female protagonists. I would love to have a similar book club, but with strong male protagonists trying to reimagine what it means to be a man. But what novels do we even have to choose from?

So fellas, what we are trying to do is remarkable. We’re not trying to navigate to a new place, as much as we’re trying to make a map to a place that’s never been visited.

We need to talk about it, blog about it, and podcast about it. Some of us have to write novels about it, or make music and movies about it. We have to leave a body of work for the next generation of men to draw upon. We have to leave our sons, nephews, students, players, and grandsons a place to start as they continue this remarkable journey of reimagining manhood that we’ve started.

Dealing With it When Our Kids Act Ungratefully

My most guttural resentment comes when sacrifices are insulted. These moments, when an unrestrained, vindictive, anger emerges from my otherwise even temperament are also when I’m most ashamed as a father.

This weekend, I have been angry so many times I have a lingering headache as I’m penning this entry. I’m lost my temper, so many times this weekend, despite it being the first beautiful weekend of the season and we haven’t had any adversity or hardship.

It goes like this.

One of our big kids will just do something mean, either to me, Robyn, or his brother. And then, I feel such acidic resentment.

I did not skip my shower today so you could pour soap onto the carpet during your nap. I did not go out of my way to buy a coconut at the grocery at your request so you could spit on the floor or on me. I did not quit a job I liked, was proud of, and found meaning in so you could throw magnet tiles at me or punch me in the privates…I actually did it so I could be a more present father to YOU.

Your mother did not work diligently to create a part time work schedule so you could intentionally pull your brother off a balance bike on our family walk. Three off your grandparents did not leave their home countries in search of a better life so you two could terrorize each other or deliberately destroy books in front of my face because you know it makes me angry. Are you not grateful? Do you know how good you have it?

It’s damning. It hurts so badly and makes me so angry when my sons - or anyone really - takes the sacrifices I’ve made, the sacrifices that I’m trying to make quietly and keep quiet, and throws them back in my face. It’s insulting, infuriating, and maddeningly saddening.

My sons don’t realize any of this, of course. They don’t realize the gravity of the sacrifices that their parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents have made so they could live the life they have. Hell, I didn’t get it at their age and probably don’t fully comprehend the degree of my ancestors’ sacrifices, even now.

Most of the time, I don’t want to tell them either. I, nor my parents and grandparents, made sacrifices in our lives to be able to tell great stories about ourselves and seek the applause of others. 

I wouldn’t want my sons to feel some deep shame about their fortunate circumstances, either. After all, it’s not their fault they were born into a loving and prosperous family. And, I don’t want them to have to know what it feels like to be broke and wondering whether our family will lose our house. So yes, I don’t want to throw the sacrifices I’ve made in their face - spiking the football is not what we do, so to speak.

At the same time, hearing stories of my parents sacrifice - especially from others - gave me a halo of sorts. I felt so loved and so compelled to honor their sacrifice by working hard and not taking it for granted. It’s part of being the children of immigrants - when we hear about the sacrifices of our parents and ancestors it is a unique kind of affirming love, that motivates us to try to be better and to not let their sacrifice be squandered. Honoring their sacrifice, builds confidence and inner strength.

I often worry about this at a societal level. 

Every person knows, deep down, I think that the most celebrated people on earth; the people who are loved, respected, and admired are not really exalted because of their accomplishments. They are lauded because of their sacrifices. This is as true for common people as it is for celebrities.

Maybe it’s just me, but I feel like our species has this radar and fascination with people who make sacrifices for something larger than themselves. We don’t, after all, tend to celebrate people who are born rich or with some sort of advantage from genetics or birthright.  We celebrate people who work hard and make huge sacrifices to contributed whatever it is that they’ve contributed. We may fixate and envy the successes of others, but we don’t revere the successes themselves. We revere those individuals’ capability for sacrifice.

Making sacrifices builds character and confidence. If I can make a sacrifice for something bigger than myself, if I can endure suffering. If I can persist for the greater good, if can do deed cut from this cloth of sacrifice, I have proven my inner strength. Nobody else has to know it, so long as I know it.

Unfortunately, the opposite is also true. If I haven’t made sacrifices, I also know that. I know that I am untested. I know my inner strength is unproven. I know that I might be weak. And that’s a devastating,  absolute lead balloon for building confidence. And I would imagine that lack of confidence and inner strength has to be compensated for somehow. If I know I am weak on the inside, I have to make up for it with my outward presentation to the world.

At a societal level, I think this has huge consequences.

Imagine if one generation of parents made big sacrifices during their lifetime and prepared them to make sacrifices during their own lifetime. Imagine if another generation tried to build the most comfortable life possible for their children, protecting them from ever having to make sacrifices for others. Those two generations, I think, would leave monumentally different marks on the world.

It’s such a paradox, I think. I don’t want to make noise about the sacrifices I’ve made, but I don’t want my sacrifices to be insulted by ungrateful children. I don’t want my children feel deep shame or know intense suffering, but I also want them to have opportunities to build inner strength. In some ways I need to tell stories about sacrifice, but in other ways that’s counterproductive. What’s a parent to do?

The only solution I can think of is to tell stories about the sacrifices of others. Instead of talking about my own sacrifices, I can tell my sons the sacrifices that their mother and grandparents made. I can let others tell my story, or let my sons ask me about my story and tell them the truth when they do. This is at least one way out of the paradox.

I hope, too, that elevating and honoring the sacrifices of others helps me to relieve myself of this searing resentment I have when our kids are so unintentionally insulting of the sacrifices we’ve made for them.

Radha, My Sister

Her hair would’ve been actually black, I think, two shades darker than mine. My hair being dark-dark brown, but which most people think is black from afar. Though a different shade and sheen, her hair would’ve had equivalent thickness and vigor. And, for some reason I know that she would’ve worn that black, thick, hair of hers just above the shoulders.

Until recently I had only been able to visualize the back of her head - I don’t know why - and get a single breath, though a full one, of her essence only from time to time.

I am an only child; I literally have no siblings, but yet she is my sister. My younger sister, I should specify. She was never born, never conceived. And yet, for years now I’ve had a strong intuition that she existed, even if only as a spirit in the spectral realm. I have not even seen her in a dream, but I still knew of her in a dream, and I knew she was my little sister.

Over the years I’ve discerned more and more about her. Sometimes memories of our relationship come to me in a daydream, or I might feel her presence, usually manifested in the intermittent, but often forceful, breeze of early springtime.

She would’ve been two and a half inches shorter than me, and built with a broader, sturdier frame, more like our father’s than our mother’s. An athletic build, you could say, though she was not athlete. For some reason, I knew she was quietly enamored with art and art history. She was able to sketch and draw, and was a handy seamstress, like our mother. She is the one who inherited the wanderlust of our father, and would’ve moved to a place like New York or San Francisco so she could be close to museums, culture, and cuisine.

For some reason, I know her name is Radha, and that Radha is serene. Stoic and of remarkably even temperament. But every now and again, I know, her charm would shine through unrestrained. Flashing a smile, and patting my back after listening patiently to me vent about something irrelevant - softly but sheepishly interjecting, “That’s how it goes sometimes, big brother” before sashaying off to the kitchen to get us both a glass of water.

Radha and Robyn would’ve had a wonderful relationship. Radha probably becoming an ally and collaborator of Robyn in her pursuits to make work more supportive of caregivers and mothers. Robyn probably becoming a role model and an informal mentor to her for navigating marriage and family life. I think they would’ve been close, confidants even.

And to the boys, she would’ve been a doting Aunt, taking them to the latest exhibit at the Detroit Institute of Arts whenever she was in town. And she would tell them stories about her and I growing up together, and stoke their interest in our Indian heritage. For some reason, I know she is more assured in her identity than me. And, I also know, for some reason, that she would find safety in the fact that I was her biggest cheerleader and loudest supporter.

I have been thinking about Radha lately because the past few weeks have been a magical time in our family. Our sons are forming a bond of brotherhood. Bo and Myles have taken Emmett into their pack, wordlessly and without initiation. They, even though they have now been brothers for five weeks, still spontaneously erupt into a chant of, “WELCOME HOME EMMETT! WELCOME HOME EMMETT! WELCOME HOME EMMETT!” Without prompting or notice.

And as I’ve seen our three sons become a cohesive unit, images of Radha have come to me - because I’ve finally been capable of it. I see their sibling bond, up close. I see and realize, in them, the relationship Radha and I would’ve had. It is like Bo, Myles, and Emmett are a portal into a sort of semi-real-semi-dreamworld - the past I could’ve had, with my sister who was never born.

For my whole life, I’ve had moments where I’ve so desperately missed Radha. But I am lucky to have had brothers and sisters who were not my siblings. Robyn’s siblings treat me more like a brother than a brother-in-law, even though we have no shared memories of childhood. And it sounds corny, but some of my fraternity brothers, really have become brothers to me.

I, too, have a deep bond with many brothers and sisters - which most other Americans would call cousins - despite geography and age. In Indian culture, we call our elder brothers “Bhaiya” or “Bhaisahib”and our elder sisters “Didi” or “Jiji” - it’s a sign of respect. It is one of my great gratitudes and joys in life to have people that I can call those things and really mean it, rather than just “cousin”.

And yet, I still think longingly about the time with Radha I never had and the memories that could’ve been. She would’ve kindly but firmly reminded me who I was when I was floundering in my early twenties. And I would’ve been her rock when our father died and her stoic personality succumbed to her broken heart.

I do feel more than a few shreds of ridiculousness talking about what to many might seem like an imaginary sister. And yet, there’s something of Radha I know exists. She is not a ghost. There’s a little speck of her soul I feel I am always carrying with me, as if my spirt had a charm bracelet with a link to her on it. My words here are merely animating and coloring her into a quasi-corporeal form that she will never take. But, still, she is real.

What a wonderful thing it must be to have siblings, in the real world, I mean. It truly injures me when our sons get into childish arguments. If they only knew what it was like to be the without-a-sibling-will-be-an-orphan-someday type of alone. I know in my head they will grow out of their intermittent terrorizing of each other, but I hope they someday go beyond that and sincerely appreciate the beautiful gift - a brotherhood - that they’ve inherited.

It is a bizarre thing to have a bond with someone who doesn’t exist, but it’s remarkably affirming and comforting. For Radha and me, it was not meant to be in this life. All I can do is hope that she’s listening or reading my blog, I suppose. And that whatever part of her spirt that is able to be carried is something I possess.

And someday, maybe just maybe, I will meet her once I pass from this world onto the next. I will meet her and she will be as I’ve imagined her. Waiting, with my father, at the front door of a bungalow atop a hill. The hill is grassy, like that of a mountainous, western state. And as I climb the hill, up the cobblestone walkway, she will be there with two glasses of water. And she will flash her unrestrainable charm, and say, softly but sheepishly, as I’ve always known her to: “Welcome home big brother, It’s so like you to be exactly five minutes late.”