Ninja Star Tournament

Growing up, I was always closest to my brother J., eighteen months younger than I. Though I enjoyed dolls and dressing up, there was nothing that made me happier than to traipse along with him, and sometimes his friends, and to do the things that boys did. We would fish, haul wood, gather kindling, play baseball. Smoke stolen cigarettes and feel like celebrities -- until we were caught! Getting in trouble with J. was always better than being in trouble alone.

Back in the mid 80's, ninja stars were very popular. My mother bought J. a ninja star, and a Rambo knife, at the flea market. I was so jealous, but my mother had strange ideas about what she let her daughters have, learn, do. I suppose she was trying to raise my sisters and I to be as dependent on men as she had always been, because she did not teach us to drive or allow us to work. And we were not allowed to arm ourselves with ninja stars or Rambo knives.

But J. did not buy into that dogma. Our sister, A. (four years younger than I am), and I did not have to beg long for him to let us throw that star. Of course, he wanted to bargain with us. He was very keen to throw the star into the newly hung sheet rock wall in my room. While our father was at work, it seemed like a good idea. When we were through, there were probably a few hundred half-inch slender gashes in the sheet rock. But I remember looking at the wall; J. was the only one who felt any fear.

Then Dad came home. Eventually, he made his way to my room. And then he left just as quickly looking for my brother. Not thinking he was in trouble, I did nothing, just stayed in my room and did my homework. Probably listened to a few songs.

Then Dad came back to my room, and he asked me if I had also thrown the star at the wall he had worked so hard to put up and had planned to wallpaper. For me. It was only then that I realized that I had taken the gift he had given me and destroyed it. The look on his face was one I would never forget. Inside and out, I felt awful. And I cried. My poor, sweet Dad, he put his arm around me, and he told me that it would be okay. He made a joke and started laughing, always one to have a sense of humor, but never one to accept anything less than a genuine heart.

Not my biological father, I feel blessed that he came into my life and stayed. He is still my Dad. I think I learned from him the ability to forgive when the apology is genuine. For certain, I learned how to laugh about stupid mistakes -- among safe people who do not use mistakes to intimidate, to bully, to manipulate. Thanks, Dad.

J. was very relieved that A. and I were in on the star-throwing incident. His opinion was that he would have been in worse trouble had he done it alone. I reckon it is harder to blame and punish the lot of one's children than it is to reprimand a single child. When I think of experiences with my own two, just now, I wonder that I never thought of it before. For it has been true that I forgave easier when it was the two of them making mischief than when it was only one of them.

I understood why J. felt better about having partners in crime. One walks a lonely road to redemption when all others point their fingers at her. If I feel unjustly accused or punished, I point my tallest, proudest finger right back. Learned pride from my Dad, too.