If This Isn't Nice, What is?

“I urge you all to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, what is?’” - Kurt Vonnnegut

One day my then teen-aged daughter asked me if there were anything she could do to make me hate her? I thought about it - went through a whole list of professions like bank robber, hooker, hit person, politician, Fox news host, Alex Jones' fan, mugger of the lame and elderly - discarded them all - and said, finally, with conviction, “You could become a nazi.”

As many of you know, both our son and our daughter were adopted from Medellin, Colombia, my son at three months, my daughter at four. We went south of the border two separate years for a couple of weeks apiece to bring them back. My son’s was two weeks of bureaucratic adventure but no big deal unless you consider a soldier with a combat rifle stationed at every street corner a big deal, however, when we went to get our daughter, there was an actual war going on. I think the word was, kinetic. The day I had to get to the embassy to receive her papers, our guide stopped four blocks away and pointed out the traffic barriers and armed soldiers. Halt. I had to walk. So, I’m walking to the embassy in downtown Bogota on empty, silent streets heavily guarded by soldiers locked and loaded. A machine gun nest covered an intersection. Snipers were up there, too. So, yeah, I’m walking and I get to thinking, “What the hell do I do if they start shooting?” “Well,” I said to myself, taking in the parked cars, still the Marine, “You can hit and roll. Get under that car.”

Think about that for a minute:

I’m forty-nine years old. Hit and roll. I did. I thought about it, and recognized in seconds that “solution” would break every bone in my body. Foreman, boychik, just breathe deeply and keep walking. Every nerve was alive for four very long blocks, eight, given the way back.

As for my daughter asking me if there were anything that could make me hate her, here’s what an adoption counselor told us thirty-six years ago. The woman was over six feet tall, dour, baggily dressed, legally blind, scrupulous, and might well have been hung as a witch by the Puritans. Her walls had hundreds of pictures of children tacked to them. She left the office for a minute and Jamie said, “Stephen, look at those pictures. They’re all so beautiful.” Just then our counselor returned and said, quite sternly, “Look again. They’re not all so beautiful, but you must be able to say I will love this child forever.” Such is the answer to that nazi question. I will love this child forever. Once this old cowboy and I were talking about our kids, and his take on it was, “Wouldn’t give ya a nickel for ‘em. Wouldn’t take a million.” There isn’t much my children could do to lose me. You don’t back out of that kind of pledge.

Our creek is dry, so Madden, my daughter, our dear family friend, Sidikibah from Guinea, and I went down to cut some dried out driftwood for firewood before the water flowed again. Her favorite new toy is our 16” chainsaw which she handles like a butter knife. The chain was too loose and came off. I watched her calmly assess the situation and make the repair. I thought to myself, “How many guys in the world are as happy as I am right this minute?” A daughter who is not only a registered nurse but can wield a chainsaw like a jack. Oddly enough, I get the same feeling of awe when I hear my son play his guitar compositions or talk coding or when he assays his theories of the universe. Who are these somethings? Both originals. Where did they learn this stuff? When and How? The memories they’ve provided. 

My son wasn’t five years old when we took him to a very posh birthday party in Santa Monica. Starched dresses. Bow ties. Shiny shoes. Nannies. A dozen or more kids. Industry parents. Assistants set out a row of tiny white kids’ chairs for each child to watch the hired entertainment - a magician, a magician who, in retrospect, resembled Steve Bannon in a frayed tuxedo. I’m pretty sure the fellow nicked the vanilla extract from the kitchen. Anyway, he goes through his bag of tricks, obviously bored, obviously anxious to finish the extract. With fanfare blown on a penny whistle, the magician announced his Big Trick. He prepared his Magic Table, and, alikazamshazam, a pigeon appeared, excuse me, a dove. Our magician waxed triumphant. Hands above head in triumph. A large, weary smile. Sevi, my son, raised his hand. “Whoops,” I thought. My wife and I exchanged "Uh, Oh" looks. The magician called on him. “Yes, young man?” said the magician. “Can I please have another piece of pizza?”, asked my kid. Politely. Go ahead. Accuse me of being a bad influence. You’re probably right, but I couldn’t have been more delighted than I was at that moment.

Of course, there have been problems. Who gets through life unscathed? My daughter is a powerhouse. Still, she's had demons to conquer. My son carries a certain sadness. Some wounds never quite heal - the nature of his demon. Others are salved by a family ready to welcome you home. Robert Frost said, “Home is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” Resonant and true, but not my definition. “Home is where, when you want to go there, they are happy to take you in.” Not as pungent but I like it better.