I feel the need to counterbalance my last post on trickle down hate – so here’s a story that lives at my core.

I was a teenager in the 1960s. (I know, hard to believe.) Those were socially turbulent years, and my white middle class privileges – liberal parents and a progressive religious upbringing in a NYC suburb – converged with romanticized radicalization, the hippie movement, and counter-cultural fervor to form a well-orchestrated petri dish of rebellion.

If I were to put a positive spin on my rebellion, I was simply, in the words of Carl Rogers, “becoming a person.” (I highly recommend his very approachable classic.) A less nuanced perspective would find me a pretty big asshole, choosing to rebel for its own sake. I caused my parents – and, to a lesser degree, my siblings – untold heartache and many sleepless nights. Those same privileges may have helped me escape any lasting legal fallout, but it was the unconditional love of my parents that prevented permanent damage to family relationships; it was their years of unwavering patience that allowed me to become the person I am. (And I’m still working on it.)

Fast forward to the early 2000s. I’m a father of two, doing an average job of parenting. (I was good at some aspects, poor at others). Sure enough, karma came calling; where was my training for this? While my parents were generally in agreement on parenting style, the little bitch karma made sure that my strong-willed wife (Linda) and I held fast to our formative experiences at opposing ends of the parenting spectrum. Linda’s approach was Crime and Punishment, mine Sense and Sensibility. (I’m writing this, so I get to choose the references.)

I recall many discussions (where “discussion” = argument + time); “What should we do? How can we fix this?” Boarding school (or was it military academy?) was mentioned more than once. I attempted, mostly in vain, to draw parallels with my experiences as a rebellious teen, making the case that rebellion is an important phase in growing up, in becoming an individual. Neither of us made much headway; in fact, it was one of our marriage’s most trying periods. And neither of us was parenting in the “right” way, if there is such a thing. But it gradually became clear to me; I didn’t need to find parenting magic! My role was simpler, more akin to the assembly line worker than to the international diplomat, especially as I was shown how to do the work. Never give up.

Never give up.

That was how my parents treated me; in spite of a years-long barrage of distance and trouble and apathy and incoherent anger, they never gave up, never faltered – even a little – in demonstrating unconditional love and patience. They knew something I didn't, that my anger wasn’t really directed towards them; they were simply convenient targets.

I remember a comment from someone I worked with many years ago – before I got married. He was estranged from his 19-year-old son. He told me that you lose your son to rebellion at about age 14, and you’ll never get him back. It caught me off guard, and made me incredibly sad. I thought of my recent youth, and what could have happened had I been parented differently. And I vowed that would not become my reality.

Steven Covey, in his book The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Families talks about the “emotional bank account.” You can make deposits or withdrawals from each of your relationships. Deposits – accomplished via empathy, integrity, and honest communications, with small courtesies and, where appropriate, sincere apologies – build trust. A negative balance results in discord, in broken relationships. And fixing a broken relationship, especially with a young adult, requires a significant, long-term investment; interest rates are high at this bank. I think of it as a large jar to fill with marbles, and each deposit to the account adds one marble. After you’ve put a few hundred marbles in the jar, you might wonder when the account will mature; that’s difficult to answer except to say that it will someday pay off handsomely. Patience is truly a virtue.

Is there an ending to this story? I hope not. My kids - now adults - make me incredibly proud; not so much because of what they do, but because of who they are, how they’ve navigated difficult times, and because of their optimism. And I’m hoping that, someday, they’ll recall how to use the emotional bank account when it matters most.