Dear "Dad", Thank you for knocking me down

Even as I began to write this post - my hands started shaking. A clear sign that it was more important than I, at first, thought. It surprised me. "I'm not a child anymore!"

And with that indignant thought my imagination transported me into a vivid day dream. The view panned rapidly across an endless field of tall grass I'd been running across for years and years. I saw myself... a 13-year old boy, with passing storm clouds over head. I saw myself running in full stride with tears in my eyes. Then slowing to a trot the way runners do when they cross a finish line. There's a suspenseful fear in my heart as I hesitantly look over my shoulder to see if I'd outrun the beast. The beast who sought to run me down and kill me. After running for 20 years, the 13-year old boy finally looked over his shoulder.

And why do we fall, Bruce? So we can learn to pick ourselves up. -Thomas Wayne

Sometimes we fall. Sometimes we're knocked down. But when it comes to being knocked down I'm far from the only one. The truth is, many successful people come from turbulent backgrounds. It's a truth Malcolm Gladwell explores in his book David and Goliath. He submits that hardships are not only necessary but in some cases they are desirable. A scary thought.

My stepfather was a handsome, charismatic man. "Light skinned", (as we say in the black community). Smooth with women, an alpha-male among his peers. A lover of music and an excellent gourmet chef. He is part of the reason why I played all-state basketball and (though I hate to admit it) also part of reason why my brother and I have such an affinity for colognes and near addictions to music.

At over 6 feet tall, he was also well over 200 pounds of solid muscle. An avid weightlifter, his nickname was "Mean Greene" when he played football in the Army because of the way he would mercilessly decimate anyone in his way.

And when this monster of a man would strike me on the side of my head (where it wouldn't bruise) with the full force of his strength I would go down every time. As a skinny 13-year old boy. I would easily go down - every time. Often, the force of the blow would be so violent that my eyes would go dark, a ringing would shoot through my head and I would come-to a few feet away from where I'd been standing.

The crack cocaine he'd smoked that morning to help him ease his self-hate had also helped turn him into a virtual sociopath. Determined to beat any evidence my mother had been with any men before him out of me, he'd stand over me and beckon me to stand up again. And therein lies the lesson.

In trying to break me, by knocking me down, he gave me a gift. He inadvertently taught me how to stand up in the face of dreadful fear. He taught me how to face intimidating giants I couldn't defeat. And how to take devastating hits that seemed they would never end. He taught me courage by daring me to stand up. Five, six...twenty knockdowns later. I would stand up again. Tear-filled eyes locked on his. Angry. Feeling helpless. But standing - again.

Years later after running away twice, finally ending up in a foster home and eventually starting my first business at age 19 - I saw this man, my once stepfather, at a bus stop. He told me he'd heard about my young success and always knew I'd do great things. Then, after not seeing me for several years, he asked me for a dollar for bus fare. I gave it to him and I never saw him again.

I'm not yet at the point of forgiveness but on my journey towards forgiveness I am at a place of thankfulness.

But there is still healing to be had as is evident by the fact that I nearly cried a few times writing this post, but my hands have stopped shaking and the daydream continued just as vividly as it started...

As the 13-year old looked over his shoulder the dark dreadful beast was still there. Flaring nostrils, glaring eyes...slowly approaching like a massive predator cornering his prey. Then my older self walked into view across the field towards them both. The boy stood trembling and staring at the beast; exhausted and helpless. My older-self placed his arm on the shoulder of the boy in the face of the beast. "We are not yours", he said calmly. "And our legacy will not be yours." Calm, unafraid, with fire in his eyes, and a peaceful joy on his face he continued, "Your job is done. Thank you for teaching us about courage. Thank you for teaching us how to stand up after being knocked down. We'll take it from here."

And with that the beast, powerless, walked away.