This is a time when it’s nearly impossible to say anything of substance without concern. Someone will find fault. Righteous, smug, knee jerk, condemnation. A habit. Yet often the detractors have a point.

The world has become a jumble of poorly expressed points. Sound bites. Or, when online, sound bytes.

Sometimes the only choice is withdrawal, which feels like defeat. In those moments I do what any smart person does.

I blame my dad.

Ray Triggs. Born in England. Emigrated to the United States as a child. Served in the military, as did all five of his brothers. One, my Uncle Greg, died in Korea years before I was born. Dad was Infantry. 14th Armored Battalion. He once said he killed an enemy soldier. He’d weep over that when he was drunk.

Then Ray got wounded. His leg was ripped apart. Nearly amputated. He begged the doctor not to do it. A high school athlete. 21 years old. He couldn’t imagine the rest of his life with one leg. Better to risk infection and die.

The doctor complied, but shrapnel was left behind. Raymond was in pain the rest of his life, but he didn’t die. He went on to become a very complicated man. Perhaps defined by trauma that he didn’t have the tools to process. I’ve played therapists in various shows and sketches but I’m not a professional. I’m just opinionated, which ironically, I probably got from my dad.

My parents took exciting trips. I remember being very jealous. They were getting passports to go to South America. Exotic in 1970s Wisconsin. 

My mother’s arrived in the mail. My father’s didn’t. Instead, he got a letter from the U.S. Department of State. “We are unable to verify your citizenship.”

He smirked before picking up the beige dial trimline phone to call the number on the letterhead. An office worker answered. Dad shared a reference number and read the letter aloud. Pause. A drag on the dangling cigarette hanging from his mouth.

“Someone sure as hell managed to verify my citizenship when I was drafted and served this country and my leg to nearly get blown off.” Pause. “Oh, you can use my military records to verify the application. Thank you.” 

The phone put back in the cradle. A chuckle.

“Aren’t you angry, Dad?”

A smile. A head shake. “No one got shot, Greg. This too shall pass.”

The passport arrived soon after and off they went to South America. He brought me home a llama wool sweater from Peru.

I was not the son my dad thought of when he dreamed of his future. I’m just the son he got. Two men probably couldn’t be more different than me and Ray. But we loved each other. A lot, I think. Never perfect, but honest. I’m proud to be his son.

Especially when I’m feeling overwhelmed by the world and I hear his voice in my head saying, “This too shall pass.”