Not A Failure

It always frustrated and hurt me when people talked about my “privilege.” Being born in North East Jackson, a city with a very poor South West, a block from Eastover, a creek separated our house from Warren Hood. I understood why people said this, but in my family, we never discussed “privilege.” We discussed “responsibility.”

We discussed it with eggs in the morning. We discussed it coming home from school. We discussed it with a worm and a line in the water, waiting for fish. We discussed it at weddings, at funerals, at birthdays, the birthdays I quit counting at fourteen.

I quit counting birthdays at fourteen because that’s when my girlfriend died. If I had any responsibilities, it surely had to include keeping her alive, but I didn’t. I failed.

Boyd, you’re not a failure.

I tried so hard, for so long, not to hear that. I went into the cave to hide myself from the world because I was a failure.

Boyd, you’re not a failure.

When Daddy turned fifty, the nuns at St. Dominic’s painted a two-by-four and wrote “we thought you’d like another board to sit on” on it. Nuns are more fun than you imagine. At the peak, Daddy served on sixteen boards. Only two of them came with any remuneration, and it wasn’t much. At my peak, I was on seven boards at once. None offered any remuneration. The only one I cared about was the Zoo. Becoming friends with an elephant came with its own rewards.

Boyd, you’re not a failure.

Starting almost before I took off my graduation robes, nobody really thought Boyd was too young for the responsibilities that were being heaped on him. Your twenties are a great time to figure out who you are and what you can do. There was no time for that. Mississippi needed things. Mississippi needs them now. Mississippi needs Boyd. But—what does Boyd need?

You’re dying, aren’t you, Buddy?

My father used words very precisely. Taken from me as a child because Mississippi needed him, I never learned to properly throw or catch a baseball. I learned to ride a bike by force of will and training wheels. I learned to bait a hook from a grandfather and a housekeeper.

My father learned to know me, and I learned to know him when I went to work for him. Opening the mail at 6:30 in the morning, six days a week, before trotting off to college, we didn’t even talk that much. I was there, and he was there, and that was enough.

I’m goin’ fishing with Wingate and Deaton. Want to go? Sitting in the boat, in the morning mist, with Cousin Robert and Congressman Deaton, I learned to talk to men, not other boys. I learned about the things that were killing Mississippi. Secret, boring things like bond rates and GDP, failed crops and tight lending practices. The world’s most inefficient political machine.

A man needs to be strong, but he also needs to be weak. He needs soft hands on his shoulders so he can reveal his true self. He needs to pray with the nakedness of soul, admitting his own strength was not enough.

His own strength…

Sometimes, I think becoming as strong as I did was the worst thing I ever did for myself. It certainly wasn’t good for my bones and joints, and the drugs, oh god the drugs, just say no to drugs, kids, especially sports drugs.

You’re not a failure, Boyd.

I can’t be weak.

You haven’t tried.

I didn’t tell my father I was dying. I never would. He surmised it. Part of what made my father what he became was his powers of observation. What he observed in me, nobody else did. Not even my mother.

You’re dying, aren’t you, Buddy?

Sometimes I could see the weight of being on my father. In the quiet times, the not smiling times, smoking quietly, sipping a sip, staring into nothing.

You’re not a failure, Daddy.

I always hated the idea of becoming my father. As miserable as I was, I was sure he was more so. More than that, it was a poor fit. My father was great with numbers. I was great with words. Like most people, Daddy could read two or three times faster than I could. He had a brilliant secretary who always touched my shoulders and settled my hair. I had a typewriter.

You’re not a failure, Boyd.

Coming back to life, I keep catching myself saying the same things, doing the same things, having precisely the same priorities as my father. I am not my father. I am my father, in my own way.

Hi. You don’t know me very well. I don’t accept pastoral care. Let me tell you my story. Don’t pray for me. Pray for the things I pray for. The Lord will find me where he left me.

You’re not a failure, Boyd.

I owe truth beyond all else. I’m not a failure, but I feel like one. The world needs more than I give. Icarus flew too close onto the sun. I flew straight into a mountain of unfulfilled need. The world needs more than I can give.

I’m not a failure for not giving it, but I will give it what I got.

I will pray for you.

Don’t

You aren’t a failure, but you must be weak.

I don’t know how to be weak.

I’ll show you.