 |
| Pope Authenticus |
'Yaaaaay you're authentic.
Big deal.
It's just not that cool,
or original anymore.
or original anymore.
Besides, there's a strong possibility most people live authentically everyday, already, and you're just behind.
Now, let's pray.
Zero to Ph.d in 5 Decades
If there's going to be a discussion about authenticity there needs to be a working definition of it. There also needs to be a general understanding of why attaining it is important, or useful.
A lot of the preceding writings have focused on a family system entrenched in dysfunction, and enslaved by the comfort of habit. Those disclosures weren't made to hurt anyone. They weren't made with the hope you'd choose one side over the other. They weren't shared because they're fun to talk about.
They speak to pedigree.
If you decide to write a public journal about something you don't know much about, or something you don't possess, you better be an expert on its opposite. My family history was submitted as proof of my qualifying characteristics as an expert on appeasing others, and as evidence that they were earned from an accredited institution. They are my doctoral thesis. The official title is:
**(just kidding)
When you make the discovery that you're an expert at pretending to be human (because pretending to be human was what kept you alive) there's an overwhelming desire to know what it feels like to behave like a real one. There's an overwhelming desire to know what it feels like to live authentically. You want to know how different life would feel if the truth you lived was your own. And you deserve that.
Defining authenticity needs to be done on two levels. The first definition is a general one that can be applied widely. One that's concrete. A dictionary definition will suffice:
Authenticity: of undisputed origin or authorship; genuine; coming from the author; one who acts independently.
The second definition is more ambiguous, and comes from you. There is no absolute measurement of it because it's perpetually evolving, and adapting, to the progress you make toward maturity, and your willingness to accept humility. It is represented in how you treat others, and just as importantly, how you treat yourself. It comes after a profound, and prolonged, self-examination.
Although the second definition is far more difficult to measure, or to come by than the first, the way it's practiced has a greater potential to either affirm, or destroy, the essence of spirit within you. It's the one you have to live with.
It's easy to reject someone else's way of measuring an individual's standard of worth. It's impossible to escape your own.
My quest to live authentically isn't motivated by a wide-eyed innocence that's seen, but never known it. More accurately, it's motivated by an averted gaze, ashamed of how many times it glimpsed it, but didn't have the courage to own it. Mine is a personal history lacking in fortitude, one best defined by what's been given up, rather than what's been gained. It started when I was young.
One of my earliest memories of it took place during Christmas, in either 1970, or 71. It was the
Christmas before my grandpa on my mother's side, Grandpa DiGiorgio died, and it occurred during one of our last visits. I was around 8 years-old.
We lived in Los Altos, California at the time, and he lived in San Francisco, an hour north. My
mother drove my siblings and I up to visit. As far as I can recall that's all it was, a visit. There wasn't a specific event tied to it, or a pending agreement we were scheduled to discuss. It was slated as a day of merriment between a Grandfather, and his grand-children.
My Grandfather was a relatively important man, I've been told. He was part of the DiGiorgio
family that came from Italy, and built the DiGiorgio Corporation, whose holdings included Tree Sweet, S&W Foods, and Sun Aire. I just remember him as the guy in the suit, or the bathrobe, depending upon which memory is being called into question.
As we entered the stark white interior of his apartment, he summed each of us up. I was about to receive a lesson in commerce, and trade that would stick. He gathered us around and made this announcement:
"I'll take you all to get the toy of your choosing from F.A.O. Schwartz if....... Pat agrees to get a haircut."
Excuse me?
My hair was long, but no one ever complained about it, or told me I needed to cut it. No one was afraid it gave me strength. It just hung off my scalp like a cheap mop, and looked cool, I thought.
The instant my Grandpa's proposition was uttered all that changed, and people were determined to take it. They reeled in their attention, and their affection, and waited. My mother disappeared into the kitchen with Grandpa, and I was alone with the steel-eyed stares of my siblings. "Cut your hair", they said, before lowering a cold shoulder.
"Cut your hair, Cut your hair, Cut your hair, Cut your hair...".
Does this happen in other families?
They reacted the same way any kid would have acted given the same circumstance. I just didn't understand why it was always me in the middle of it.
I remember thinking 'fuck you, I won't' cut it'. I wanted to stand up to him, stand up to them, but didn't. My Grandpa was a smart, patient man. He let time pass, and pressure build. My siblings held their gaze, and ate the Jordan Almonds he'd left out. I don't know how much time it took ,but I caved.
They celebrated the new toy they'd be getting while I was regretting the integrity I'd lost. I remember being ashamed of myself, and feeling a swell of self-hatred. I wondered why no one stood up for me, including my mother.
We drove to my Grandpa's barber where an electric razor was employed on me as if I was a sheep getting sheered, and then to F.A.O. Schwartz, the happiest toy store on Earth. I don't think any one of my siblings could tell you what toy they chose. I remember what I gave up, however, like it was yesterday. I agreed to be a coward, and gave up my self-respect.
My hair is long again, and has been since my divorce. No one demands that I cut it, or withholds love if I don't. In either case, I wouldn't.
I'm not the smartest guy, or the most competent.
But I'm resilient as hell, and I'm proud of that.
If I stick with this, I'll figure it out.
And when I'm certain I can sleep with the answers I give I tell that person 'no'. I don't deny the story they have. I deny it's supplanting my own.
A lot of the preceding writings have focused on a family system entrenched in dysfunction, and enslaved by the comfort of habit. Those disclosures weren't made to hurt anyone. They weren't made with the hope you'd choose one side over the other. They weren't shared because they're fun to talk about.
They speak to pedigree.
If you decide to write a public journal about something you don't know much about, or something you don't possess, you better be an expert on its opposite. My family history was submitted as proof of my qualifying characteristics as an expert on appeasing others, and as evidence that they were earned from an accredited institution. They are my doctoral thesis. The official title is:
"The Urgent and Essential Mimicking Habits of the Psychologically and Emotionally Under-Developed Adolescent Child of an Alcoholic Whose only Noticeable Skill is a Brilliant Ability to Read the Needs of Others, and Instantly Adopt the Behaviors Necessary to Fulfill Them, and Preserve Life, While Gaining Insight about How to Fill A Vacancy the Size of an Abusive, Absentee Father".**(available online now at Amazon, and other online retailers. $1.35)
**(just kidding)
When you make the discovery that you're an expert at pretending to be human (because pretending to be human was what kept you alive) there's an overwhelming desire to know what it feels like to behave like a real one. There's an overwhelming desire to know what it feels like to live authentically. You want to know how different life would feel if the truth you lived was your own. And you deserve that.
Authenticity Defined
Defining authenticity needs to be done on two levels. The first definition is a general one that can be applied widely. One that's concrete. A dictionary definition will suffice:
Authenticity: of undisputed origin or authorship; genuine; coming from the author; one who acts independently.
The second definition is more ambiguous, and comes from you. There is no absolute measurement of it because it's perpetually evolving, and adapting, to the progress you make toward maturity, and your willingness to accept humility. It is represented in how you treat others, and just as importantly, how you treat yourself. It comes after a profound, and prolonged, self-examination.
Although the second definition is far more difficult to measure, or to come by than the first, the way it's practiced has a greater potential to either affirm, or destroy, the essence of spirit within you. It's the one you have to live with.
It's easy to reject someone else's way of measuring an individual's standard of worth. It's impossible to escape your own.
- It's the difference between what makes you ignore a feeling inside to satisfy the demands of an external request that requires you go against it.
- It's the difference between a guiding intuition, and the choice to deny it for a false promise of what you'll gain if you do so.
- It's the difference between a hairstyle that reflects who you are, and a proposition that say's who you're allowed to be.
Authenticity Denied
My quest to live authentically isn't motivated by a wide-eyed innocence that's seen, but never known it. More accurately, it's motivated by an averted gaze, ashamed of how many times it glimpsed it, but didn't have the courage to own it. Mine is a personal history lacking in fortitude, one best defined by what's been given up, rather than what's been gained. It started when I was young.
One of my earliest memories of it took place during Christmas, in either 1970, or 71. It was the
We lived in Los Altos, California at the time, and he lived in San Francisco, an hour north. My
My Grandfather was a relatively important man, I've been told. He was part of the DiGiorgio
family that came from Italy, and built the DiGiorgio Corporation, whose holdings included Tree Sweet, S&W Foods, and Sun Aire. I just remember him as the guy in the suit, or the bathrobe, depending upon which memory is being called into question.
"I'll take you all to get the toy of your choosing from F.A.O. Schwartz if....... Pat agrees to get a haircut."
Excuse me?
My hair was long, but no one ever complained about it, or told me I needed to cut it. No one was afraid it gave me strength. It just hung off my scalp like a cheap mop, and looked cool, I thought.
The instant my Grandpa's proposition was uttered all that changed, and people were determined to take it. They reeled in their attention, and their affection, and waited. My mother disappeared into the kitchen with Grandpa, and I was alone with the steel-eyed stares of my siblings. "Cut your hair", they said, before lowering a cold shoulder.
"Cut your hair, Cut your hair, Cut your hair, Cut your hair...".
Does this happen in other families?
They reacted the same way any kid would have acted given the same circumstance. I just didn't understand why it was always me in the middle of it.
I remember thinking 'fuck you, I won't' cut it'. I wanted to stand up to him, stand up to them, but didn't. My Grandpa was a smart, patient man. He let time pass, and pressure build. My siblings held their gaze, and ate the Jordan Almonds he'd left out. I don't know how much time it took ,but I caved.
They celebrated the new toy they'd be getting while I was regretting the integrity I'd lost. I remember being ashamed of myself, and feeling a swell of self-hatred. I wondered why no one stood up for me, including my mother.
We drove to my Grandpa's barber where an electric razor was employed on me as if I was a sheep getting sheered, and then to F.A.O. Schwartz, the happiest toy store on Earth. I don't think any one of my siblings could tell you what toy they chose. I remember what I gave up, however, like it was yesterday. I agreed to be a coward, and gave up my self-respect.
Attempted Re-engage
My hair is long again, and has been since my divorce. No one demands that I cut it, or withholds love if I don't. In either case, I wouldn't.
I'm not the smartest guy, or the most competent.
But I'm resilient as hell, and I'm proud of that.
If I stick with this, I'll figure it out.
So when I receive a message on Facebook from one of the siblings I claimed 'abandoned' me (one who is apparently reading this after refusing to hear it) a message claiming I got it all wrong and they didn't,
and demanding equal space here, with my story, on my blog,
I ask myself the following:
- I ask myself how many times this individual contacted me for any reason prior to this self-serving message on Facebook, over the past 8 years.
- I ask myself how many times they agreed to hear me, and my story, when I asked.
- I ask myself if my intent is to harm those involved in my story, or to offer help to anyone stuck in a similar one.
- I ask myself if this story tells my truth, the one I've lived, and need to tell, and if it tells it for that reason, alone.
- I ask myself if I have less right to tell my story than others.
- I ask myself if telling it has me closer to authenticity than I was before
 |
| Hey Grandpa! Maybe for a car.... |
I tell them if they want a toy they can trade their own hair, because this time, I'm keeping mine, and I'm a footstep closer to real.
