The Boy in the Old Brown Jacket

This morning I read a comment left by a friend of mine regarding my post on Tribalism. The comment made reference to the “family” tribe, and the detriment that its breakdown - its disintegration has caused within society.

The family tribe is perhaps the most important of all tribes, as it is the foundation of one’s identity. As I pondered this I realized that [traditionally], within each tribe are the ‘sub’ tribes - family being the most important of these. If the family tribe broke down, the overall tribe would take over - assimilating the remaining members of that family into the larger family.

This too has been lost among much of society - especially within what is commonly referred to as the “inner city”.  When family units break down, gangs tend to take over the role of family - providing that foundational identity.

I can speak to this with some authority based on my own upbringing. The “pondering” I mentioned at the onset of this writing has illuminated my own experiences regarding this foundational identity.

I was put up for adoption at the moment of my birth. To be honest I don’t know if I was ever held, even for a moment, by my biological mother. Fortunately for me I was adopted within several months of my arriving into this world, by a very loving family: parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. I was raised as one of their own. I was told early on, by my parents, that I was adopted. If recollection holds with accuracy, I was probably about four years of age. It was also brought up a few times throughout my life - especially in my mother’s final year of life. All this to say that it was never allowed to become ‘an issue’ - an “elephant-in-the-room.

When I was eleven years old my dad died, and two weeks later my grandpa died. These were the foundational male role models in my life. In many ways my entire foundation collapsed within that two-week period. I still remember, with great clarity, the deep sense of bewilderment that I experienced, as well as the deep sense of suddenly being untethered to anything. As I write this I can say now that the experience of being untethered can be equated to what I imagine it would be to be in outer space - outside of the spaceship without any cord to restrict my connection.

I felt so utterly alone.

I even remember specific instances; one where I just stood outside the house, as if I was disconnected from it as well. I was wearing this old jacket. I don’t even remember where I got it. It was well-worn, and sort of a muted plaid color of browns, and it had rather large buttons. I mention this because I relished in the fact that the jacket was “old” and “worn”. It was not new and nice - and this had great significance for me at the time - although I still have no sense as to why - nor did I then. I do remember feeling that ‘I didn’t deserve anything better than this old worn jacket’ - that in some way it seemed to be representative of me… I can still feel that jacket.

I remember, as well, standing in the back of the church, during Sunday mass - and yes, wearing that jacket. I remember just standing there not wanting to go in. As one passed through the main doors of the church’s front entrance, there was an area probably twenty feet in depth before one would pass through a second set of doors that opened into the church itself. It was in that area that I stood. A few times one of the ushers, who was seated in the back pew, would walk over to me to encourage me to come inside. It wasn’t because he was being kind, in fact it was the opposite… But each time I refused is encouragement. I just stood there with the same deep sense of ‘not belonging’. And the feeling of that old coat was just as it was as I stood outside of the house.

Life continued on, and my connection to this family was never left to any doubt. At no time did I ever feel as if I were not part of this family. Yet, in hindsight, there was a part of me that always felt disconnected - but this feeling was brought on by me, and not from the treatment of others. Would I have felt this disconnection had I never known that I had been adopted? I don’t know. Something tells me that the answer is “yes”, but this is only speculation on my part. Only “speculation”, but one that is based on a deep feeling within me that I was “disconnected” somehow - yet I must question if this ‘feeling’ only surfaced after the death of my dad, and my grandpa.

Later in life, due to various circumstances, my relationship with aunts and uncles, and even cousins, seemed to drift apart. First with those on my mother’s side of the family. In fact, it was after my mother died that this drift began… and this brings up another tangent of the family foundation:

When I was younger we would have dinner every Sunday - most often with my mother’s side of the family. It was a family gathering of the entire extended family. Generally it was a pot roast with roasted potatoes and carrots - still one of my favorite meals. This tradition carried on until my Grandmother died - by which time I was in my late twenties. After she died these gatherings ceased with somewhat of an immediacy. The cohesiveness of the extended family vanished, and it became fractured in many ways. After my mother died that fracture became even more pronounced and, in time, I lost contact with that side of the family. It was after my mother died that I also began to feel the sense of ‘not’ belonging.

On my dad’s side of the family I had maintained a close contact with my cousin Carolyn over the years. Eventually, when I was in my late forties, I reconnected with much of that side of the family as well. I was invited to the annual reunions - which I attended. And it was at one of the reunions that the subject of my “adoption” came up - not in a negative way, but more from a point of clarity. As time went on I began to feel as if there was a light chasm between us. I blamed this feeling on myself. Then there was a break in the cohesiveness. Suddenly I was set adrift by this part of the family - and to this moment I have no idea why. The connection had been broken by them.

So in pondering the comment that led me to this writing, I am struck by the importance of the “family tribe”, and the power that it provides us - or keeps from us. I mentioned early on in this writing about the formation of our “identities” that comes from the family tribe. For me, I had an identity that was formed by the family tribe. Yet mine was an identity that remained in flux - until it finally revealed itself as a false identity.

I once encountered the concept of a “stable datum”—the idea that human beings require a foundational point of certainty from which to understand the world. Whether or not one accepts the broader philosophy from which this concept originated, the idea resonated deeply with my own experiences.

The premise is that when this foundation is weakened, the individual can begin to feel as though the very structure of their life is beginning to collapse. I have witnessed this in many aspects of life, both in others and within myself.

Looking back over the moments I have described in this writing, I can see a recurring pattern: each time a foundational connection was weakened or lost, I found myself set adrift. I questioned who I was, where I belonged, and ultimately, what my relevance was in this world.

This constant flux has been a double-edged sword for me - one that has caused great conflict within me - and presumably throughout the entirety of my life. I have always been good with being a solitary being. I have embraced, and oftentimes even insisted on being left alone. Being alone was, and is, my sanctuary. Yet I also crave the connection of a tribe - the sense of belonging to something greater than just myself. This caving has manifested itself in many forms throughout the decades - yet each time I never feel fully connected to the tribe. I always feel that I am still the “outsider”. In some ways, I suppose, I will always be that eleven year old boy in the old, worn, brown plaid jacket who is standing outside of his house, or in the back of the church, adrift…

Nature Has No Agenda

This morning, I sat in my well-worn leather recliner, a calico cat stretched comfortably across my left arm while my right hand filled another page of my journal. It is part of my morning ritual whenever I am not on the road.

Eventually, I came to a stopping point. The pages of my journal remained open, but my pen rested quietly across them. I sat for a few moments longer, looking out the window. The sun had risen, and patches of blue sky had begun to appear through the dense green canopy of the trees.

My first reaction, almost instinctive, was relief. The violent storms and heavy rains that had swept through the night had either moved on or exhausted themselves somewhere beyond the horizon.

Then my thoughts drifted to another morning several years ago.

I had driven to Florida's Gulf Coast to witness Hurricane Michael firsthand—one of the most powerful hurricanes ever to strike the United States. I wanted to see, firsthand, what a hurricane of that magnitude was truly like.

As I watched the storm unfold, I understood why so many who lived in its path described it as violent. The winds were relentless, the rain blinding, and the sheer power of the storm inspired both fear and awe.

Yet the greatest revelation came not during the hurricane itself, but the following morning.

I had spent the night in Fairhope, Alabama, many miles away from where the hurricane made landfall. As I walked the short distance from my hotel room to the breakfast area, I stopped almost involuntarily.

The sky was an impossibly deep blue. A warm, gentle breeze drifted steadily through the air. Everything felt peaceful.

Less than twenty-four hours earlier, I had been sitting in my Ford Expedition fewer than two hundred miles away, witnessing Hurricane Michael's fury. Now the air was calm, the sky inviting, and the world seemed almost untouched.

It was as though nothing had happened.

Later that morning, I drove toward the areas where the storm had passed. Even there, the skies remained brilliantly clear. As I continued west toward Pensacola, I passed dozens of surfers taking advantage of the larger waves the storm had left behind. Once again, beneath cloudless skies, life was already moving forward.

It was then that I realized something I have never forgotten.

Nature has no agenda.

The hurricane was not angry. It was not seeking revenge. It was not punishing anyone or intentionally destroying anything. It was simply responding to changes within the natural world, rebalancing itself according to forces far older than humanity. It just happened that people and their homes lay in its path.

For much of human history, storms, earthquakes, volcanoes, and floods were believed to be the wrath of angry gods. People offered sacrifices in hopes of calming divine tempers and preventing another catastrophe.

Standing in the aftermath of Hurricane Michael, I saw something entirely different.

Nature was not lashing out.

It was simply being nature.

The trees did not resent the wind. The birds did not curse the rain. The shoreline did not seek revenge against the sea. Everything simply adapted and continued.

Perhaps that is where we differ.

We often assign intention where none exists. We interpret hardship as hostility. We search for someone—or something—to blame. But nature offers another perspective. It reminds us that not every destructive force is driven by malice. Sometimes the world is simply responding to circumstances beyond our control.

This morning, as I sat once again in my recliner, the blue sky returned after another night of storms. It looked much the same as it did that morning in Alabama.

And once again, I was reminded that while nature eventually returns to balance, we humans often carry yesterday's storms far longer than we need to.

The Names We Give Our Hopes

August 4, 2019

For decades I have been fascinated by the names of small towns scattered across America—places whose names seem less like locations and more like aspirations.

This morning, as I drove from Pittsburgh back to Grafton, West Virginia, I left the Interstate in search of one of them: Prosperity. Like so many towns across America, its name seemed less a description than a declaration of hope by those who first settled there.

While searching for Prosperity, I first came upon the town of Amity.

Amity—a word meaning friendship, harmony, and goodwill.

Only one road passes through Amity. Two churches face one another across Highway 19—a Methodist church built in 1867 and a Presbyterian church completed seven years later.

Continuing on, I finally arrived in Prosperity—named after “the optimism of its settlers.” The town was much like Amity, although it appeared to be in a somewhat better state of upkeep. Houses lined both sides of the road, some with small front yards. The town sits at the “Y” where Highways 18 and 221 meet.

Having left Prosperity behind, I made a few wrong turns and eventually found myself, as best I can determine, near the town of Good Intent. Seven houses, a Presbyterian church, and a weathered barn stood along West Union Trace. The barn appeared to have witnessed countless seasons come and go.

As though framed within the doorway like a photograph hanging on a wall, a reddish-brown horse stood facing left. It was the only sign of life within the town.

Each time I drove through—which was three times, nearly back to back—there was not a person, dog, or cat in sight. It was as if all life had vanished, or had become quietly sequestered within the walls of the houses scattered across the surrounding hills.

With each of these three towns, I wondered if their namesakes ever became reality.

Perhaps the people who founded these towns understood something we often forget—that communities begin not with certainty, but with hope. Their names were not simply descriptions of what existed; they were declarations of what they believed might one day become possible.

As I continue to reflect on this, I am overcome by a sense of the hope that must have filled these early settlers as they established these places. There was a time when these towns existed only as an idea—when the landscape before them was unsettled, and people were stepping into uncertainty in search of a new beginning.

They were not simply building homes and streets. They were creating a future they could not yet see.