I recently had a disturbing
conversation with my eighty-seven year old mother, which isn’t unusual because
so many of my conversations with Mom these days are unsettling. While it’s
common for the elderly to focus on the past, claiming everything was better in
the “old days,” my mother has chosen to see the world through a dark lens. For
her, everything is horrible. The world is tearing apart at the seams. America
is on its last legs. Our freedoms are being whittled away and all politicians
should be taken out and shot.
In truth, my mother has always been as
supportive of the Federal government as a bootlegger hiding a still during
Prohibition. When I point this out to her she claims I’m telling a big fat lie.
I’ve encouraged her to prove me wrong.
A recent conversation went like this:
“Mom, if it’s true you don’t hate your government, say one good thing about
it.”
“There isn’t anything good about it.
Socialism is destroying America, and if you weren’t so blinded by your liberal
views, if you didn’t swallow all the malarkey you read on that computer machine
of yours instead of learning to think for yourself, you’d see that I’m right.”
I ignored the socialism comment because,
like most Americans, Mom doesn’t understand what socialism is. “I notice, Mom,
that you didn’t answer my question. Surely there’s something good about the
government. Your Social Security checks arrive on time, your mail is delivered
promptly, you have fine healthcare cover—”
“I pay for those things!” she snapped,
cutting me off.
I listened patiently as she continued to
disparage not only our country (offering a feeble excuse for not voting even
though our state has mail-in ballots) but also religion (Muslims in particular), healthcare
and young people everywhere. “Prices on everything are too high,” she said,
“and there’s nothing to watch on TV in spite of all the channels.”
I pressed on. “Mom, I’ve known you for
nearly sixty years, and in that time you’ve managed to detail all the things
you don’t believe in. But I’m curious;
what do you believe in?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Yes you do. Mom, I know you don’t
normally take me seriously, but this is important; I need your help because
you’ve been blessed with eighty-seven years of life and who’s in a better position
to answer my question than you. So I ask again: What do you believe in?”
“It’s a trick question. I refuse to
answer.”
That was as far as I got, except to
suggest to my mother that I’d hate to sit at the banquet of life at her age
only to find myself starving. My mother is an unhappy camper, and since she’s
blessed with great health and a sharp but cynical mind I can plan on her being
unhappy for many years to come.
A philosopher once said: The unexamined
life isn’t worth living. I believe this, more so as I approach the sunset of my
life. I was disappointed that, at the very least, my mother didn’t say she
believed in her family. In me! But Mom
did provide something I desperately need—she prompted the question I must
answer for myself: What do I
believe in?
After considerable thought I had my
answer: I believe in my family and know I am loved, and capable of returning
love. I believe in my imperfect country. I haven’t given up on the dream that
is America even though we’ve often diluted our principles with arrogance and
greed. I believe that people everywhere want the same things I do—dignity,
security and opportunities for their children in a world free from fear. I
believe terrorists will never speak for the vast majority of people on this
planet, and that building schools and hospitals will always be more rewarding
than blowing them up. I believe that good-hearted people will always make a
difference in the lives of those they touch.
People often ask, “What is the meaning of
life? Are we flukes of nature, cosmic mistakes, or is there a reason we are
here? I’m beginning to think we’re here to answer this simple question: What do
I believe in?
