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I've long said that this blog is "mine" and that I write here solely for my purposes. Posts here contain my thoughts, my opinions, and my point of view. I've not shied away from writing personal things in the past, and with this, I've decided not to do so in the near future either.

Last night I had to ask my father to leave my home. Carey's parents and my parents joined us for a small Independence Day cookout. My dad got riled up about an incident that happened over 15 years ago, began to make rude comments, and I had to ask him to leave. That synopsis doesn't do the event justice, so I'll tell it in full below. Feel free to skip this one, folks.

My parents have always been fairly negative people. My entire nuclear family feels an incessant need to "be right," and it's a trait I've worked hard to overcome. "Being right" all the time doesn't really lead to successful interactions with others, and it's a large part of the reason my father - who exhibits the trait to an extreme - doesn't have many friends. Nobody in my family suffers fools lightly, but my father doesn't suffer them at all - even when he's the one being foolish.

For example, when I was in fifth grade (or so), I played Little Gridders soccer. Soccer at that level is typically best described as "a clump of kids, all kicking, and loosely grouped around a soccer ball." It's a social event, a reason to exercise and get some sun, and something to do twice a week. One game, we had a bad ref. We all knew it, but nobody really cared if we won or lost. My dad, however, felt the need to stand up for the principle of the thing, or something… He yelled "awww, come on" and "nice call, ref" and "what the hell was that, ref?" a few times. Enough that he was asked to leave. When he refused to leave, an off-duty cop was called over to ask him to leave. He insisted on staying, saying things like "my taxes pay for this field, and that ref will leave before I will." There were a few mild obscenities mixed in, and the game was halted for 10-15 minutes while the "discussion" took place. Needless to say I was a tad embarrassed. "Barzeski" isn't exactly a common name, after all, and my dad was the one making a stink.

At any rate, last night was going fairly well. My dad shared his master's opinion on every topic from grilling to fishing to General Electric and their "stupid" safety policies, and I kept mostly quiet. I'd learned through the years that so long as I say nothing trouble is less likely to visit me.

At some point, the fact that my dad had coached my soccer team came up. This was a few years before the "off-duty-cop" incident. My dad was a horrible coach, and I'd wished he'd never done it. He didn't know anything about soccer, which meant that we were in trouble because third graders didn't know anything about soccer either. My dad played everyone equally, and told the story about how he'd told one player - a girl named Shannon - that she should not be allowed within 200 yards of a soccer field. You see, she had a habit of picking flowers, talking to friends, and tying her shoes during the games.

It turns out that Shannon was my wife's best friend for well over a decade, and her parents were good friends with my in-laws, who kept their mouths shut the whole time my father was telling the story. That my dad didn't consider this possibility while sharing what a poor soccer player Shannon was is a further telling of his general attitude towards others, but is in relation to the main story here nothing but a diversion, and one I shall end now.

At any rate, the "Shannon" story quickly lead to a re-telling of the "off-duty cop" story. At its conclusion, I remarked that it was somewhat embarrassing to have to wait fifteen minutes while your dad argued with a ref, a few other parents, and a cop (off-duty or not). Heck, most kids are embarrassed simply to have parents, let alone parents that make a spectacle of themselves. Again, my last name isn't exactly common… no hiding from that.

My dad, in response to my "I was embarrassed" comment, made some remark about how many times he had been embarrassed by the "teacher conferences." As a kid, from kindgergarten onward, I was a bit mischievious. I stole a few knick-knacks and, in general, talked a lot. I really did little more than talk - I was on ritalin (it didn't help) for a year or two - but I got in plenty of trouble for it as a kid. Looking back, it's easy to say that I was bored - unchallenged - and my misbehaving continued through tenth grade. 11+ years ago. My mom, a teacher, bore the brunt of my misbehavior more than my dad, who began working second-shift shortly after the "off-duty cop" bit.

I tried to ignore my dad. He made another comment about how the teacher conferences began as early as kindgergarten. I looked at him and he glared back at me. The look in his eye is one I'd seen several times, often just before I was held against a wall by my neck for a few seconds. I'm grown now, and I was at my own home, so I quietly told my dad to "grow up." He made another comment to the effect of "Grow up? Let me tell you something about…" I said "… or just go home, Dad." He said "Fine, let's go" (to my mom) and off they went. In the aftermath, honestly, I was kind of happy to have a house of my own from which I could boot my dad.

Carey's parents - and Carey - had sat in stunned silence for much of my father's tirade. My father takes a perverse pride in the fact that he stood up to an off-duty cop at his 10-year-old's soccer game and delights in telling the story. He still gets fired up, as if he were some crusader fighting against the plight of the common man against "The Man" or something. Instead, all he did was embarrass himself. My in-laws don't care to hear stories about the time(s) he almost got arrested for being a jackass, and the story only makes him look bad.

Furthermore, as Carey and her parents later pointed out, kids are naturally embarrassed by their parents when they're young. My only offense of the evening - besides a) existing and b) not being my sister - seemed to be that I said it was embarrassing to have your soccer game put on hold while your dad screams at the ref, league administrators, and a cop.

I admit that I wasn't the best kid in the world. As I said, I talked in class a lot, stole a few little things (including a $0.55 candy bar that landed me in court - this incident was actually a mistake that came after I'd given up stealing), and talked back to my parents. I also got straight As, didn't get anyone pregnant (or even have sex), didn't smoke or drink, didn't total my parent's car, worked from the age of 15 onward, and so on. For most of high school, my biggest sin was giving up fishing and hunting in favor of golf, a sport at which I excelled and earned several honors and large trophies. Hell, I was a good kid in 11th and 12th grade, and far less evil even in 10th grade, the first year I played golf. Coincidence? No. "Sissy sport," according to my dad? Yes.

But here's what I'm after: my "bad" behavior was ten to twenty years ago. My dad's poor behavior continues to exhibit itself any time he's around company who doesn't know how to ignore him or cut him off so that he can't get himself into a situation in which he thinks telling stories about the time he was a huge asshole to my wife's best friend, my in-laws' friends, and a cop - and doing it all in front of his 10-year-old kid at a stupid soccer game - is entertaining and makes him look good.

I don't like to blame other people for my behavior, my actions, or my thoughts. I'm my own man. Several times as a kid I was told I would be kicked out of the house when I turned 18. Several times I was held in the air, against a wall, by my neck. Several times I was hit. I was yelled at billions of times.

At no point was I asked why I continued to talk during class or to otherwise get antsy or misbehave. Had I been asked, I'm not sure I would have known the reason. Looking back, again, I was bored. Class was too easy. It didn't require any effort, and as a kid I had a lot of energy. It had to get out somehow. But, then again, that's neither here nor there.

Carey said to me later that evening "I wasn't the best kid. I called my parents all sorts of bad names and did all kinds of bad things as a kid. But my parents know that you sign on for that when you agree to be a parent. It's how kids are. Kids get in trouble. And even if you are bad, what are you now? A good guy, a husband, a stepfather, a homeowner, a computer geek. My parents would never, ever see fit to try to embarrass me by telling stories about how I was as a kid. Your parents can't let it go."

As a five-year-old, for example, I learned the Bible song "Deep and Wide." I came home and proudly performed it for my parents, but I got the hand motions backwards. For "deep" I put my hands to the sides, and for wide I put them on top of each other. My parents have never let me forget it, and not in a "ha ha, that was so silly of you" sort of way. Nope - more in a "ha, you're so stupid" sort of way.

Both of my parents, but particularly my father, simply need to "let go." My father delights in reminding me what an asshole, punk, worthless kid I was. It happens a lot less than it ever has, but I don't think it should ever happen. It's ten years old at least and often more.

A few years ago in college, I wrote my father a birthday card. It basically said "I know I've been a worthless jerk of a kid, but I'm sorry and I love you. Can we put that behind us and move on?" It took days to write the eight or ten sentences, and I bawled each time I thought about it for weeks. I was in college at the time, so I published it on my website and sent my dad the URL. My mom later confirmed that he'd seen it, but that was all I heard about it. No discussion. No "sorry." No "OK, I love you too." A few weeks later I got an email on an unrelated topic and it concluded with "Love, DAD" - the "Love" was new. But that was it.

I love my parents. They provided a house and food for me when I was growing up. Though I wasn't spoiled, I also didn't lack the essentials or some of the extras. I had a trumpet. I was driven around to various events. I had my own room. I had bikes and plenty of Christmas presents.

But until they can let go of the stuff that happened ten to twenty years ago, I don't know how much I can enjoy having my parents around. If I can get through a family gathering without bringing up their many flaws and failures, I don't think it's asking too much that they do the same.

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