Demystifying Excellence:
The Catalyst
 

My dad was unable to follow my brother’s example. He became completely distraught and unable to function as Tracey became sicker. The more my father wasn’t there for us, the more he knew he had let his family down. One day my brother died — I was with him when he passed away — and as the cliché goes, the light went from my father’s eyes too. He was gone. Whether he was home with us, at work, or at alcohol rehab — he was gone. I didn’t take this personally. I knew my father’s soul had been shattered. But I didn’t admire it either. A lot of teens watch their parents transform from being their role models to what they don’t want to be. This is natural. But my dad’s transformation was more extreme than most. The appreciative, charismatic, witty and optimistic man was gone. The man who had quit, and couldn’t find joy in his remaining life and family, remained.
 

I loved my dad, but I vowed to take my brother’s course of empowerment in life: I vowed to dictate my own perspective on life, not allow the unavoidable highs and lows — victories and defeats — of the life cycle to dictate my perspective on it. I became the most philosophical 16-year-old on the planet. I vowed to live my life honoring the spirit my brother had inspired in me, and in many others. He was my hero now.
 

Unable to overcome his setbacks and grieving, my father went out soon after he was released from 30-day rehab, bought a shotgun, and killed himself in the old car he’d given me, eleven months after the death of his oldest son. Last I ever saw of my dad, last I ever saw of my ’65 Chevrolet. It’s weird when you don’t see someone after they die. To this day, sometimes I dream that my childhood dad — the one who was so full of life and generosity to his kids — actually faked the whole thing, and is off somewhere, happy, driving around in my old beater Chevy. I wish it were true.
 

A beloved man in our community, the town was stunned at my dad’s death. So was the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle. I wasn’t. When my dad’s best friend showed up at the front door, nervous as you’ll ever see a man, I knew. I opened the door, and this kind man stood in the doorway motionless for a moment. Then he put his arms around me and began sobbing, unable to let go, guilt-stricken. “He’s gone,” he said. He apologized for what my dad had done. He felt guilty because he had told me months earlier that my dad would never leave my mom and me. But the only reason he’d told me that is because he knew my dad was already gone. It wasn’t his fault, and I told him so.
 

The wreckage a person can leave behind is pretty substantial — matched only by the good a person can leave behind. My mom and I were the only ones left. She had to rebuild her life again and try to be a good parent despite it all. I had to go back to school and watch everyone stare at me and feel sorry for me again. More than anything, I was angry with my dad about that. I didn’t want pity. I was sixteen. I wanted girls to think I was macho, not pitiful. All eyes were on me again, but not with the expression teenage boys covet. It was more like the expression people have when they see a baby bird with a broken leg. Changing people’s perceptions — after an exhausting two years — was gonna take a lot of energy and willpower.
 
Read the next Chapter -> Fear Is For People Whose Family Didn’t Just Die.
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