Three Grandfathers
By Bret Burquest
Every now and then something happens in a person’s life that becomes a turning
point.
When I was in the second grade, my family lived on the edge of a small town in
This kid was very intelligent. His father was a surgeon and his mother was a
southern aristocrat. They lived in a palace compared to my family’s digs. I’d
hang out with this kid on occasion, always at his house, even though I could
sense that his snooty parents considered me to be beneath their social status.
One day this kid and I were talking about our grandparents. His mother was also
in the room. During the conversation I proudly mentioned that I had three
grandfathers. The kid and his mother both broke out in laughter, obviously
laughing at me. I was embarrassed and humiliated.
Later that evening, I had a long talk with my mother about the incident
whereupon I discovered the mathematics of breeding. Nevertheless, I still
insisted that I had three grandfathers. My father’s father had died when my
father was in grade school. His mother remarried several years later to a
fellow I came to know as one of my grandfathers. As far as I was concerned I
had three grandfathers – one dead and two living.
It may have been humorous to others that I thought I had three grandfathers but
I didn’t appreciate people laughing at me, pointing out my ignorance in such an
insensitive fashion. In fact, I was downright upset. I decided I wasn’t going
to allow such a thing to ever happen again yet couldn’t quite figure out a way
to prevent it. After all, I was only seven years old -- a young, dim bulb
surrounded by large, bright people.
Perhaps I could just avoid these types of situations. But avoiding the human race
would not be easy in a world of public schools and corporate workplaces.
Clearly, I couldn’t hide forever.
Perhaps I could retaliate in some manner. However, I couldn’t retaliate
verbally because these people were smarter than I was and would always top me.
And some sort of physical retaliation was out of the question. It would be too
childish -- besides I had enough trouble coping with bullies without becoming
one myself.
Perhaps rolling with the punches was the answer. But that seemed like a sort of
surrender, a form of acceptance and suffering. I would be right back to square
one.
Then came the turning point.
I began to wonder why I was so angry in the first place. Obviously, these
people meant no harm; they were merely the products of their surroundings.
Their insensitivity was a reflection on them, not on me. I wasn’t the jerk,
they were. I suspected I had indulged in anger to mask my own insecurities
about myself. After all, being a second grader in an imperfect world was no
easy task.
Allowing myself to become angry simply because I was
embarrassed made no sense. The key was not to be embarrassed in the first
place. And in order to do so meant acknowledging that I was a worthy person
regardless of what others thought of me. Just because these people felt they
were superior to me didn’t necessarily mean they were. In fact, in an odd way,
their air of superiority made them inferior. Only those who had doubts about
their own worth would behave in such a disgusting manner, propping themselves up
by putting others down.
Thus, the solution became crystal clear. I would no longer allow the actions of
others to affect me, thereby controlling me. I would simply observe without
becoming emotional and spend the rest of my life rising above the pettiness of
the masses. With that, I was now ready to move on to higher planes of
existence, like third grade.
So that’s the true story of why I have three grandfathers.
All of my grandparents are gone now. My original grandparents had five
children, nine grandchildren, fourteen great-grandchildren and six
great-great-grandchildren (so far).
Apparently, my third grandfather was just along for the ride.
* * *
Bret Burquest is
an award-winning columnist and author of four novels. Contact bret@centurytel.net
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