Thieves, Thieves, Tramps and Thieves: Part Two

Keeping the Faith: Marriage and Infidelity

I'm not ashamed to admit that Edward Norton's directorial debut, Keeping the Faith, is one of my favorite movies. This little diddy about a priest and a rabbi who fall in love with the same woman is just that: a sweet trifle about tolerance, friendship, and love.

Toward the end of the movie, father Brian Finn (Norton) goes to his elder, father Havel (a nice little cameo by Milos Foreman), for advice. Finn feels like he's betrayed god—that he should leave the priesthood because he fell in love with a woman. Foreman consoles him by saying, "I have been a priest for over 40 years, and I fell in love at least once every decade."

The point of this exchange is that priests make a higher commitment to God, but this commitment doesn't supplant their humanity. Turning away from a "normal" existence to face and serve god does not mean one (the self) ceases to exist. Rather, the challenge is to "keep the faith" in the face of temptation.

This scene is touching because it reinforces the idea that commitments are not immune from temptation but are, ultimately, worth adhering to (rejecting temptation) because they are lasting. What good is a commitment if it's not worth keeping?[1] To "fall in love at least once every decade" is momentary; to serve God is everlasting.

As a priest, father Finn gives up his right to fall in love, get married, and have sex with Jenna Elfman. He does this in order to serve God. This kind of sacrifice has meaning, has power. Why? Because God's love is deeply fulfilling, more so than the tenuous tremors of desire. True, love is not to be trifled with, but Finn has already committed himself to God—and so his love for Elfman's character is not (or would not be) true love. He has already given that to God.

Is marriage, then, not similar? In committing ourselves to our partners, do we not commit our true love to them? Anything that comes down the line after that is ultimately suspect, untrue.

The scene from Keeping the Faith further resonates because committing to a higher purpose is difficult. It requires a sacrifice—a self-sacrifice at that. I probably don't need to point out how most of us have issues with self-sacrifice…

But I will anyway: Bringing this down a few notches to the more mundane, I'll say that anyone who has made a New Year's resolution knows how hard it is to make a sacrifice. If it's so hard to commit to a new exercise schedule, or to stop eating pork, no wonder so many people have trouble remaining faithful in marriage!

Okay, so I just compared giving up pork for Lent to staying faithful to your spouse. I also implied that marriage requires a sacrifice. Some might take offense to that, but let me clarify: We make sacrifices when we choose to marry. Just as Father Finn gives up his right to follow through with his desires, those of us who are married sacrifice single life for the greater cause of a relationship. Most of these sacrifices, truth be told, might better be classified as simple trade-offs. In fact, many would prefer calling them "trade-offs" to sacrifices because "trade-off" makes marriage seem more like a business transaction. Like buying a car…

But in order for a real marriage to exist, a real sacrifice must occur. And it's the big one: self-sacrifice. Don’t get me wrong. Self-sacrifice doesn't negate remaining true to ourselves. We must (constantly) strive to maintain that balance.

So the tenor of my prose so far is riddled with "commitment" and "sacrifice." I even led this bit off by referencing a film about a priest and a rabbi…

What gives?

More than being bugged by the haphazard use of "whore" in lambasting Eliot Spitzer, I've been unnerved by the repercussions of his infidelity across marriage discourse. Since the incident, I have heard very, very little positive commentary regarding marriage and fidelity. Not only did we have the newly installed governor of New York shopping out his laundry list of infidelities, and the ex-governor of New Jersey letting us in on his ménage a trois, but NPR ran a few bits on how political sex scandals are nothing new, and I even caught part of an hour long radio show devoted to investigating the reasons behind public figures and their sexual foibles.

The most unsettling bit, though, came from Two Guys Named Chris on Rock 92. Deidre announced that of all her married friends, not a single couple had escaped the ravages of infidelity. Hearing this a 7:30 in the morning, after having climbed out of bed with my darling wife, I was horrified.

Is it really that hard to maintain fidelity in marriage?!

I spent the rest of that day mulling over the various marriages I've been privy to in my life… Suffice to say, the outlook was dim.

Why am I so shaken by all this? Well, I've been married for two years. I love my wife, and I recognize and accept—at my core—everything that I've pointed out above about sacrifice, commitment, faith and true love.

I've committed myself to my wife. I've made that sacrifice. She has, too.

But…

Will our marriage withstand the damaging cyclone of our treacherous, poisonous culture?

All signs point to "Yes."

But we certainly won't be able to find much refuge in the world around us…

Let me go back to these comments: "Self-sacrifice doesn't negate remaining true to ourselves. We must (constantly) strive to maintain that balance." It might be argued that social and political positions ravage relationships due to the stressors inherent in the jobs. The "self" in these positions is under constant barrage; having to maintain a public persona amidst the daily complications of any committed relationship must be daunting. Add to this the sheer logistics of public life: One would rarely, I imagine, have much "me time," or time for self-reflection/release.

But to counter this, I'm reminded of Joseph Campbell's discussion of the "tyrant-monster" in The Hero With A Thousand Faces:

The inflated ego of the tyrant is a curse to himself and his world—no matter how his affairs may seem to prosper. Self-terrorized, fear-haunted, alert at every hand to meet and battle back the anticipated aggressions of his environment, which are primarily the reflections of the uncontrollable impulses to acquisition within himself, the giant of self-achieved independence is the world's messenger of disaster, even though, in his mind, he may entertain himself with humane intentions.

Ultimately, Campbell points out, "the hero is the man of self-achieved submission."[2] Does this not sound like my earlier comments regarding self-sacrifice? Once committed to the higher cause (in my mind, I would rather call this a twinned spiritual transcendence/obeisance since our lives are a journey toward greater understanding and service), once set upon our hero quest, we must acknowledge/accept the loss of innocence—which here I will equate with accepting social responsibility in lieu of puerile pleasures.

I’m reminded, too, of a bit I saw on the news last night. An English professor (imagine that!) at Wake Forest University has just published a book about the value of unhappiness. Dr. Wilson's book, Against Happiness: In Praise of Melancholy, seems to come at a time when we might recoil in horror. After all, the world is falling apart around us! We need more more more happiness, not less!

But Wilson writes, "Everywhere I see advertisements offering even more happiness, happiness on land or by sea, in a car or under the stars. . . . It seems truly, perhaps more than ever before, an age of almost perfect contentment, a brave new world of persistent good fortune, joy without trouble, felicity with no penalty."

And that's the big lie.

Or at least the advertiser's dream: We huddle in scared masses after watching the nightly news and eat Papa John's pizza until we're sedated, or we lie in bed riddled with insomnia thinking about how we're going to face the next day, week, month—getting so frustrated that we eventually reach for the Ambien.

But it's all a carefully woven web of product placements. Actually, I take that back. It's a massive, unwieldy behemoth that threatens to suffocate us with paranoia! For the love of God, consume!

The end result is obvious: We don't know whether or not we're supposed to be happy, so we just amble through life hoping we get something right. Or we give up entirely and rely solely on the pleasure principle.

And that's how I'll cycle back to marriage and infidelity: The competing forces at work in all our lives threaten to dismantle our internal compasses. Right and wrong have been co-opted by multi-media conglomerates and Pizza Hut. Our free market capitalism moves ever closer to hegemonic monopoly. We can even buy church stickers for our cars, announcing to all passers-by that we're saved no matter what traffic laws we break.

And marriage? Let's face it, allowing gays to marry is the least of our worries in regards to maintaining sanctity in the institution. We've got voyeurism, exhibitionism, escort services, Internet porn, and a smorgasbord of pharmaceuticals to wrestle with.

In the end, we have ourselves to wrestle with.

And there you have it. Regardless of my whining and dithering, it all comes back to personal responsibility. Each of us decides. The only real roadblocks are ignorance and selfishness. If you're too stupid to break free (mentally/morally) from a dysfunctional, market-driven culture, then the odds are certainly not in your favor. If you are smart enough to recognize, "Hey wait a minute. Don't I have integrity?" and still choose transgression, well then. No need for me to continue.

I'll finish with a long quote from Joseph Campbell. Why? Because it all comes back to Campbell:

The unconscious sends all sorts of vapors, odd beings, terrors, and deluding images up into the mind—whether in dream, broad daylight, or insanity; for the human kingdom, beneath the floor of the comparatively neat little dwelling that we call our consciousness, goes down into unsuspected Aladdin caves. There not only jewels but also dangerous jinn abide: the inconvenient or resisted psychological powers that we have not thought or dared to integrate into our lives. And they may remain unsuspected, or, on the other hand, some chance word, the smell of a landscape, the taste of a cup of tea, or the glance of an eye may touch a magic spring, and then dangerous messengers begin to appear in the brain. These are dangerous because they threaten the fabric of the security into which we have built ourselves and our family. But they are fiendishly fascinating too, for they carry keys that open the whole realm of the desired and feared adventure of the discovery of the self. Destruction of the world that we have built and in which we live, and of ourselves within it; but then a wonderful reconstruction, of the bolder, cleaner, more spacious, and fully human life—that is the lure, the promise and terror, of these disturbing night visitants from the mythological realm that we carry within.

Okay. I can't end with that. Why? Because it seems that the bent of this entire blog is all toward sacrifice and blah blah blah. What about the fact that—hello—marriage isn't a bad thing!

All this stuff hinges on one key presupposition: That surely one cannot be happy in marriage. While we might not admit this so baldly, it is there (underneath the discarded clothes and bills). The idea is that somewhere down the road (a year from now, five, ten, thirty) being married to the same person just won't be fun (any more). And let's face it, that stuff I mentioned above about consumerism feeds on the notion that marriage is ultimately disappointing. We must have products in place to backfill our transgressions! "The wife will be upset about me going out with the boys, so I better buy her something shiny!"

I repeat: Is marriage so bad?!

I can say, from my own experiences, that the answer to that question is a resounding "NO!"

Why?!

Because the problems in my life and, conjointly, the problems in my wife's life, aren't inherent to or symptomatic of our relationship. "Happiness" is not the goal of life. Why should it be the goal of marriage? Think back to the points that Dr. Wilson makes in his book. Unhappiness and happiness are both essential to existence—married or otherwise.

As such, it is deeply problematic to blame marriage for something that is indicative of life in general! Frankly, after all this writing, I'm inclined to believe that it all boils down to this is: Marriage is an all too convenient scapegoat for unhappiness. It is not the cause, but it takes the blame.

I am not prepared to accept this blunder in regards to my own marriage. That may sound naïve, but what can I say, I love my wife. Happy or unhappy, that one fact will never change.

That felt good to say. Let me end with it: I love my wife.

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[1] I'm reminded of America's "commitment" to Iraq. We presuppose that a commitment is made in good faith and is justified by all parties included. It logically follows that those parties would maintain the commitment in the face of conflict. However, navigating the unexpected complications (not all of which, in regards to my argument above, would classify as temptations) of any engagement/experience does not mean that the answer is "stay the course." Sometimes things change and even the best of commitments must adapt.

[2] Campbell also notes, "virtue is but the pedagogical prelude to the culminating insight, which goes beyond all pairs of opposites. Virtue quells the self-centered ego and makes the transpersonal centeredness possible; but when that has been achieved, what then of the pain or pleasure, vice or virtue, either of our own ego or of any other? Through all, the transcendent force is then perceived which lives in all, in all is wonderful, and is worthy, in all, of our profound obeisance." Clearly, there is a point at which our experiences may transcend traditional thinking. This is not, however, a reprieve or "get out of jail free" card for political officials. Rather, the self-centeredness inherent in being an official denotes less likelihood (potentially) of achieving a "culminating insight."

Thieves, Thieves, Tramps and Thieves: Addendum

Before I post part two of this blog, I'd like to point out an interesting finding. After posting the first part, I decided to check my blog rating. Some months ago, my dear friend over at Virtual Bourgeois discovered a blog rating widget. Anyone can plug in a URL on Justsayhi.com's What's My Blog Rated? site and click Rate It! to run a simple word sampling test. What's My Blog Rated? then assigns a grade based on its database's evaluation of "bad" word frequency.

Virtual Bourgeois's rating? G.

Semeiotikos's rating? NC-17!

Now, I point this out because I was a bit shocked the first time I rated my site and discovered that it was/is so racy. It should not have been a surprise because I do tend to pepper my prose with profanity. After all, I consider myself a scholar of the English language—I even have a couple of degrees to justify that claim. And I've always been fascinated with the etymology of bad words and, well, bad culture. What can I say! I find the fringe more fascinating than the center…

But! Where does this widget providing site get its authority? Who determines which words are "bad"? It is safe to say that we might all agree that some word-offenders do merit attention.

However…

My rating was determined by these words (and yes, I repeat them with a huff of disdain!) and their frequency: 14 whores, 9 deaths, 6 shits, 5 hells, 3 farts, 2 shoots, and 1 pain.

Now, clearly from this breakdown, we can determine that the rating system hinges on the usual suspects (shit) and words relating or pertaining to violence (shoot). Makes sense.

But, does the occurrence of a word alone make it inappropriate?

Are there not appropriate uses for these words?

While I must profess my low moral character for farting so much, I can say that my use of words pertaining to violence and death is couched in discussing their complexities. My father's death, for instance, is a site of deep reflection and contemplation. I've referred to it on more than one occasion—and my analysis of Cormac McCarthy's The Road (Carry the Fire) trades heavily on issues that are universally human. I also have every intention of posting about the Coen brothers' dark, masterful take on McCarthy's No Country For Old Men. That posting will surely light up the rating monitor like a pinball machine!

Is such discussion off limits to anyone under 17? Hmm…

What got me here, now: All those "whores." Again I say, this should come as no surprise. I did mention that it is a "dirty little word." That was, after all, the point of my post.

But here's the thing: There are more instances of "pimp" in my previous post than there are "whore." 16 pimps (including "pimping"). Did the rating checker check for this word? No.

So, it is with some glee that I proclaim, "Aha! My point is proven yet again!"

Use of "pimp" = Okay (PG or, at the most, PG-13)

Use of "whore" = Bad (NC-17)

Hmm…

Thieves, Thieves, Tramps and Thieves: Part One

Now that the Eliot Spitzer hullabaloo seems to have died down a bit, I want to talk about it. Frankly, the last few weeks have been damn near intolerable media-wise. And, frankly again, this is why I’m writing now: In spite of the media frenzy—pesky flies zig-zagging over steaming ordure—two things still rankle.

Let's take a look at the first one...

Hookers, Whores, and Roustabouts

Shame on you David Letterman.

I love this man. Of those guiding cultural forces in my life, I count him amongst the most influential. Though I would like to claim that I started watching Letterman earlier than I did, I have to admit that his switch to CBS was really the turning point—the point at which he became a staple in my nightly television diet. At one point, I cut out his charming mug (from the February 1993 cover of Rolling Stone) and taped it over the hole in my college apartment's bathroom door. Why? Because it was an appropriate place for that face, of course!

The interplay between his off-beat humor (canned hams raining from the sky) and his awkward-but-sharp and honest interviewing skills, mixed with the debacle of his NBC/CBS feud, really resonated with my growing sense of cynicism. My world view was nourished by Dave's television trials and tribulations.

Now I am a man.

Er, well, I should say that Dave's place in my life has receded. I've gone through long periods of not watching the Late Show. It was only after the wife and I sold our soles (har har) to Time Warner Cable and hooked up the DVR that we started taping Letterman (because we're too old to stay up past ten!). Months ago, I found myself refreshed by re-introducing Letterman to my television routine. With the aid of the DVR, I can even by-pass interviews that are less than stellar!

Anyway, when the Spitzer scandal broke, it broke hard on late night television. And since the Late Show tapes in New York, I should not have been surprised to find Dave's monologues and desk banter peppered with references to the scandal. Suffice to say, it got old pretty quickly.

Then it turned on me: Dave unabashedly tossed out those terms—"whore" and "hooker." Each time he used either term, I found myself inwardly cringing. To be fair to Dave, he's gained a certain level of tenure and has the right to say and do as he pleases. In fact, part of what I love about the man is his fearlessness (most brilliantly tipped with his "Oh no! We're Gonna Get Sued!" bit).

But the verve with which he ennunciated those words…

In the end, I don't know if it was Dave's rampant use that led to my hyper-sensitivity, but I found myself continually jarred by others' use (overuse) of those two words.

Why?

Part of it. No, I take that back. All of it has to do with my pro-feminist moral compass. It falls in line with that other pack of words we don't say for fear they will turn back the civil rights movement. While reclamation seeks to make lemonade out of lemons, I just don't think it works.

Words have power. And despite our efforts, that power is not something we can harness or dilute. While we can, through knowledge, experience, acceptance and forgiveness, adapt and amend our personal senses of words, we cannot do the same for the collective social consciousness.

It's like our computers. When we delete files, they disappear from our consciousness. But those files don't wholly disappear. Sure, a computer may at some point completely erase the deleted file if it needs the space, but there's no guarantee of that. In fact, as our computers come closer and closer to becoming infinite in their capacity, we risk ever truly removing information.

So it's still there. Those negative connotations of words still exist—to greater and lesser degrees—and, despite our best efforts we cannot eradicate them without smashing our collective (cultural/historical) hard drive.

This is the problem with words that we've tried to reclaim.

But this is not the problem with hookers and whores.

Why? Because unlike those reclaimed words, no one that I am aware of has tried to reclaim "hooker" or "whore." True, we see "whore" in certain contexts that seek to be positive (or at least the word is used consciously to identify a personality trait), but even these instances carry baggage: the derivation of the term supposes a sale of something. Even in an instance of the term's conscious application to entrepreneurial behavior there is an implied unscrupulousness.

Let's look at this interesting di(con)vergence.

Dictionary.com's first result (Random House Unabridged) for "whore" notes, "a woman who engages in promiscuous sexual intercourse, usually for money." While we are not likely to disagree with this definition, I must point to the inclusion of "promiscuous" in the definition. Had this term not been included, we might be inclined to write off "whore" simply as an occupation like any other!

Discovering this meaning push, I jumped over to Merriam-Webster Online and found this: " a woman who engages in sexual acts for money." This definition leaves out "promiscuous," which might satisfy my hypothesis above, but adjacent to this first defining phrase is the synonym "prostitute." Merriam-Webster's "prostitute" has no refuge, as she is "a promiscuous or immoral woman." In this instance, this definition, we don't even have room for a midnight cowboy!

Now, I should probably point out that definition number two re-genders whore ("a man who engages in sexual acts for money"), but the damage is already done. I'll add that M-W's third definition removes economics and gender from the equation, noting that a whore is simply "a venal or unscrupulous person."

Even if we were to invert the definitions, as colloquial practice some hundred years hence may do, the evidence of the word's origins would still be present. And just as I borrowed unscrupulously from these dictionary providers, future wordsmiths might easily steal a backward glance…

But I'll say it again: The damage is already done.

My concern here is with the gender issue. Mind you, I'm not taking up the age-old argument (go read/see George Bernard Shaw's Mrs. Warren's Profession for that debate). Rather, I'm circling around issues of proper usage and reclamation: If we are to divorce "whore" from negative connotations, then we have to be cognizant of how those connotations are gendered and seek to remove those connotations.

We're not doing this. I have two examples: Hustle & Flow and Pimp My Ride. Both of these cultural artifacts seek to elevate and exonerate the "pimp." Terrence Howard's performance in Hustle & Flow is deeply affecting. While we are not likely to befriend his ho-hustler-turned-rhyme-hustler, we can absolve him (or we are asked to by the writer and director). Can we say the same for the women he pimps? True, we see the softer side of pimping, but…

Pimp My Ride isn't in the same aesthetic ballpark as Hustle & Flow, but in regards to exploring the word "pimp" and its place in the American lexicon, it is worth pointing out the connection. Pimping has gained enough vernacular momentum to be accepted on television. Pimp is not one of the seven words you can't say on television. And while MTV is a cable television station, it pervades the American cultural spectrum.

My next point should come as no surprise: A watered-down version of "pimping" has become socially acceptable (even Oscar-worthy), but "pimping" is inherently gender-biased. What logically follows is the notion that pimping is acceptable because it is masculine. Heirarchically speaking, then, this is thinly-veiled sublimation of the feminine. The pimp is a man. The whore answers to the pimp.*

But let's face "whore" is still a nasty little word.

All of this to say: It's one thing to deride Eliot Spitzer. It's another thing to call a whore a whore. Spitzer deserves the derision. He clearly should have known better. The prostitutes in this case are also not blameless. But what is ultimately problematic, is trading jokes on terms that infer gender bias. As an elected public official, Spitzer has shown more than just poor judgement. By patronizing a prostitution ring, he not only chose to fund the "world's oldest profession" but helped reinforce traditional gender roles that treat women as objects for purchase.

That bugs me.

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* The supposition "pimp controls whore = man controls woman" does not leave much room for madams. I concede that my comments are based on 21^st century conceptions of the pimp/whore relationship. Arguably, this is not an issue: The late 20^th - early 21^st century attitude that begot Pimp My Ride is founded upon the gendered heirarchy I've noted above. A hold-over, maybe, from exploitation films?

Brothers Without Arms

First, let me say this is the third blog I've attempted to write in the past three weeks. Hopefully, I will be able to complete this one—which, in turn, should motivate me to finish the others…

Family

Let's get a quote to start things off. Since I am feeling displaced at the moment, I did what I tell my students not to do: I went to Google, typed in "quotes family" and hit the first page that popped up. Three quotes down, I found this one:

"The family is a haven in a heartless world." The suspect site suspiciously notes "Attributed to Christopher Lasch." Okay then.

Without sounding too dour, I'm currently of the mind that this is the root of (or at least a contributor to) all our worldly woes:

Family is no longer a haven in an increasingly spiteful world.

This revelation comes on the heals of a voice message from my mother. She called to inform me of finally hearing from my truant brother.

Without getting into the details (because, frankly, the details simply obscure the root cause; they are not the illness but simply compounded symptoms), I'll just say that my brother a) is deeply, emotionally, scarred (the poet in me turns to tragedy and cries fatal flaw!) and b) has not come to terms with my father's death. These two facts have led him on an errant quest which threatens to tear apart our close-knit, haven-like immediate family.

In short, my brother—without the oedipal overtones and creepy uncle-turned-stepfather—is Hamlet. His actions are misguided by a spectre he puts more trust in than the concreteness of accepted loss. He chooses to react rashly without seeing the cause of his madness—trusting instead the passion of his grief in lieu of the passion he so erroneously stamped out of himself long ago.

Having been the voice of reason for most of his life, I have chosen to be silent in hopes that some greater force (not that of a poison'd sword, mind you!) shakes some goddamn sense into him.

But let me go back to that "haven" thing again. Frankly, I don't buy it. Without resorting to an ignorant sweep of hand, I am prone to believe that the American family has never been a haven. Having first been cobbled together by misfits, castaways, and opportunists, then bound together by some sense of nationalism born of proud necessity, and finally stamped with the hollow hope of manifest destiny, the American family is exactly what we should have always seen it as—hopelessly dysfunctional. It's no wonder greedy opportunists have hoodwinked us into a comatose clan fattened on fast food and clobbered into pharmaceutical and multimedia addiction.

In this late hour, we cast our hopes to bring "it" back—whatever "it" might be. We long for the strength of family. But the very nature of the American Dream denies us the respite of our former haven. How can we seek out our destinies, establish ourselves on the frontier, without sacrificing the thing that grounds and keeps us true?

We can't.

Within the larger context of the world, I am inclined to remove that modifier "American" and say that all families are, at their cores, dysfunctional. Mind you, I'm playing fast and loose with "dysfunctional" because the horrors of this world are perpetrated by the confines of social norms. We need them to establish order, but they chafe like an over-starched shirt, or an itchy underwear tag.

Family, then, becomes just that: An improperly sewn label. The more we seek to de(re)fine it, the harder it is to maintain.

But, at the very least, we should be able to maintain our own family's integrity? Our family is worth something, isn't it? So why do we allow our "selves" to resist the outstretched arms of our kith and kin?

Okay, settle down. My wife and I talked about this recently (we talk about family a lot), and I've come to the conclusion that she has more faith than I do. And, frankly, she has a right to her faith. Or should I say it comes from a true place. After all, despite my family's faltering, we've been re-establishing her family. To this point, then, we have been establishing our family. There's hope in there somewhere. I love that about her.

Brotherly Love

Let's go back to that horrid quotes page. I couldn't find anything I liked (or felt was particularly enlightening), but this will do. Besides, it's Twain so it's worth repeating!

"When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years." – Mark Twain

This is not applicable to me or my brother. That is, my brother and I were united in our love for my father. There was a time (those seven years Twain mentions) when he was embarrassing as hell, but it was good-natured embarrassment. We accepted it, even relished it at times—as I am quite sure my father did. But there was never a loss of respect between us.

My father was a great man. Flawed, but great.

And see, that's where the trouble lies. Going back to Twain's comment, my brother always idolized my father. The tragedy was that for the better part of my brother's childhood, my father wasn't around much. When he was, he wasn't particularly loving and open. Both my brother and I understand that better now. The weight of work presses harder on a father than most sons are able to understand. We've both long since forgiven him for that.

But there's another running thread in our family that goes something like this: I was my father's favorite; my brother was my mother's favorite. My brother also thought, on his own, that they both loved me more than they did him.

I now know that the truth was, as my father got older, and settled down a bit himself, he recognized that it was important to be around more, to play a much more active part in our daily lives. Unfortunately for my brother, this happened a little too late. What my brother saw was a doting on me that he had not received.

There's also the bit about birth order. As the oldest, my brother has always assumed that he was a child of trial and error, where as I had the benefit of experienced parents.

I'll admit that there may be some truth in that. Except that, in some respects, I became the more independent sibling. As we got older, I became the more grounded, socially stable one (har har). There were times we played roles like a married couple. I was the wife who took care of him, and he was the free-to-be-an-idiot bread-winner.

But all of this makes some simple sense. What doesn't work, though, is the idolatry. As I got older, I began to see the fractures and age-worn lines in my parents' existence. It was still the best relationship I had encountered, but it was far from perfect.

I, as have ages before me, began to see my parents as people.

My brother has never made that realization. As such, my father has become an absent god to him. He pays his fealty through a misguided mimicry. The bottom line is that my brother both unconsciously and consciously has been trying to live his life like my father lived his.

This shouldn't be so shocking since this is the way of things, right? I mean, "A man knows when he is growing old because he begins to look like his father," says Gabriel Garcia Marquez. And here again, my brother and I do not differ all that much. I am sometimes shocked when my father's habits and mannerisms present themselves in my actions. Hell, this damn blog is probably akin to something he would have written many, many moons ago!

But it seems my brother is dead-set to repeat and not learn from my father's mistakes. Why? Is this some desperate attempt to further garner his attention, his approval?

Well, yes.

What was that about Hamlet and Oedipus again?!

Tying the disparate points of this post together, I'm inclined to think that the root of my brother's problems is that he suffers from the converse of the oedipal complex. I will, in my cultural-critic-not-psychologist way, admit that there is something to be said about the tensions inherent in child-parent relationships, especially in regards to competing for attention.

Where the classic complex is guided by a patricidal impulse mixed with mother love, my brother subconsciously battled a matricidal impulse while harboring father love. In my brother's mind, he was competing with my mother for his father's attention. I was there, too, but it was my mother he was in true competition with (since I was an afterthought). Where my mother was simply trying to play out her part in the traditional cycle of things, my brother rebelled into a state of self-consciousness and self-hatred. His matricidal impulse has manifested in subconscious woman-hating and conscious escapism.

With my father's death, my mother's presence is an affront and her presence is intolerable. He, of course, blames her for his death and she is a constant reminder of his absence. This smacks of the Electra complex. Only, his desire manifests in escaping not killing.

This is, of course, speculation which he would deny (and maybe rightly so). But it makes sense to me, at least as I try to understand his motives. The problem is that somewhere along the line my brother never made it to the next stage. The tell-tale signs are in his dogmatic insistence on denying, or at the least delaying, love and happiness.

Interestingly enough, I think this is part of the mimicry again: My father spent his entire life delaying his own satisfaction in order to privilege ours. Because my father was never able to truly realize his own happiness, my brother feels he must deny himself the same.

Wow. Okay, there's a lot of swirling around up there.

Let's try to salvage something here. I love my brother despite his faults. And I do believe (hope) that some catharsis will occur (or be sprung upon him!). Because all that stuff about matricide, blame, mimicking, dysfunction is really just that—stuff. I am sure that my father did not die an unhappy man. Did he go gently into that good night? Certainly not! But there was some peace. He did, after all, love us. And while he may have denied himself happiness and rest, he did take pride and comfort in the fruits of his labor.

His family was the most important thing to him and none of us can deny that.

So, in the end, I have to recant. We've lost our way a bit, mostly because our grieving at the loss of a mighty patriarch has not yet run its course.

But I have faith (there's that again, too) that all will be well and that our haven will be restored.