Warriors

They have been at it for days, father and son.  Deadlocked. Too angry with each other to speak, too proud to realize they hurt.

It began with E’s nasty words. Not excusable, but typical for a 16-year-old male. F. felt wounded, then furious, and rightly so. Who is this child, who we love more than life, who aims jagged words at the jugular vein? Do we blame his adolescence? A testosterone surge?  Or, do we blame ourselves for not having been strict enough when he was a funny little wise guy?

Deep down, E. is a decent kid. He can even be a mensch. But these days, he’s all bravado. Always posturing. Rarely pensive. He’s constantly flexing—his athletic prowess and his will; ever proving to himself that he is strong enough. That he is, enough.

It doesn’t take a magnifying glass to see where so much bluster comes from. But F. can’t see his son’s insecurity, maybe because he has too much of his own. So, instead of shelving his pain and reaching out, he flexes too.

Like battling rams, their horns are locked.

I’ve been at my share of impasses with E. And, for better or worse, I’m usually the one who extends the olive branch first. After all, I remember what it was like to have a parent who stayed angry; and, who refused to apologize. A dynamics take two, and staying angry—however satisfying—seems like a colossal waste of time. It’s also not the kind of life lesson I want to teach.

But I’m female. And, as evolved about gender as I’d like to think I am, there’s simply not as much at stake for me as there is for a male when it comes to laying down weapons first.

F. traveled to a tournament with E. all weekend and the two barely spoke. Before dropping him off at a lacrosse camp for the next few days, F., still angry, at least managed to tell E. he loves him. Predictably, E. said nothing back.

Father and son, cloaked in armor. How will they find each other? How will they find themselves?