Chapter 5: My drummer was too fast

When I finally fell back down to earth off my lofty perch, I discovered I had
grown much, much smaller.

In my rebellious years around college I had pushed the envelope of social values. My hell-raising, such as it was, was part of my generation’s struggles in the name of civil rights, anti-Vietnam war,  feminism and gay rights. I also directed energy  to organizing migrant grape pickers in New York State – nothing to do with the famous California grape workers group; college professors at CUNY as a member of the negotiating committee of the first union-CUNY contract; and hospital social workers at NYU on behalf of my then-wife’s employer Local Union 1199. Eventually all of the causes got melded into  routine American values. I had solid proof my aspirations weren’t always completely out of whack.

For four plus years – from the moment the guy in the elevator served me with divorce papers to the one note funeral oratorio of my child’s apartment door slamming behind me – my life was brimming with optimism. Futurist talking heads convinced the world that women and men of tomorrow will not be like women and men of the past. Women in droves were already abandoning their aprons and vacuum cleaners to venture into the world of jobs and careers. It struck me as more than plausible to expect men to stake out new territory too. It seemed inevitable that the world would be making room for a brave new kind of Father. I invested all my chips on that bet.

Nevertheless, despite residing on that high plane, I put my very own signature on the bottom line of a formal Separation Agreement that reeked of backward looking. I was now just another divorced Dad on New York’s Upper West Side smelling of the odor of defeat. Four years of righteous sacrifice trying to be a path-breaker left almost no traces.

My gender role drummer was too fast. I signed on to be an every-other weekend, once a weekday afternoon intruder into my child’s busy schedule.

I found an apartment seven blocks from our son’s home. Other than being close, my new living space had naught to recommend it. The two rooms were tiny; the atmosphere was old and stale. The windows – the symbol of my opening to the world – faced an air shaft, so I never saw the sun or street life or even a leaf of green. To rest my dream-shattered head it took a few months before my bed graduated from a blow-up camp mattress to a sanitized pre-owned professional-strength posture-pedic.

The next task after the reality of my failed experiment sank in was to reorganize my shrunken self.

My former wife and I began our separated lives with a few respectful gestures. We swapped access to our son here and there so he could make family visits and such. We kept our conversations brief and quite civilized — nothing nasty or hostile. If we had differences, we pedaled them softly.

In the last few weeks of our negotiations my former wife sounded reasonably amenable to my ambitious plan of significant parental input. The document we finally produced had to pass certain standards to meet the court’s requirements:  specifying times and days of visitation, naming exact amounts of money to change hands, etc.

When negotiations started to move favorably, I was given verbal assurances that my former wife intended to be flexible and I could expect more closeness and contact with my son than doled out to the average divorced Dad. I dismissed as a gross honey trap the possibility she held out that once in a while I might sleep overnight at my former marital residence.

With nothing more substantial to rely on, I took her kind-of-sort-of promises to mean there’s still the sliver of hope. My lawyer had previously stopped me from writing my long list of high-octane complaints about her character. So she hadn’t seenthe pile of grenades I harbored in reserve. Because of that omission her pride hadn’t been savaged, so she had fewer reasons to hold a grudge.

She kept herself out of the money-earning labor market. It was not up to me to be concerned about her finances beyond the alimony and child support dollars we had recently negotiated – and the gift I gave of my life savings thrown in as sweetener. She was on her own. We had declared our mutual financial independence.

Nevertheless, when the first weeks of our new lives unfolded in an agreeable manner, I swayed.

Our finances caused both of us to live within miserably narrow limits. Every penny mattered. I could follow a  hard nose and walk away. No power on earth could force me to hand over one penny more than what the paper said.

Or I could look at the Big Picture. Money might be scarce at the moment, but I had myself convinced the future would be cushier. Something in the air – not a judge or lawyer – told me I would soon have a clear mind to focus on improving my income. If a boost of twenty or thirty percent more income in a year or two or three was on the horizon, why not spend part of those future dollars now if they would insure a smooth foundation for the long haul?

Making my bare cupboard barer won out. I donated food, clothing and a few other essentials. I paid for nursery school classes for a few days a week. Summer was coming on, so when she suggested he needed a fan for his room, I gladly supplied one. In tune with the poverty role she was playing, she assured me paying the electricity for air conditioning would be too rich for her.

Maybe one of Nature’s hidden fingers tapped me and pointed out that being a Parent was more important than Getting Even. Hoping against hope, despite all that had happened, there was a teensy weensy chance we could put our years of hostility into a sealed time capsule and begin a reconciliation.

Our former marital residence is located on the corner of a busy two way Manhattan cross street. Traffic can be heavy, and turning traffic can be inconsiderate. About two months after being dethroned from my former apartment I was walking toward the same building en route to visit a friend.

It was dusk, a little after 7PM, when light from the sun is fading. A baby stroller emerged out of the front door of the building. Our son was the rider. The person pushing the carriage was not my former wife, but a young girl — a girl so short her head was hardly taller than the top of the stroller. Hello, I said to the pusher. What’s happening? The girl said she is babysitting, and is on the way across the street. She planned to go to her own apartment across the street until 8PM, less than an hour away. Then she would again cross the street to return our son to his mother at the end of her babysitting assignment.

I made a snap decision. I thanked the young girl for her assistance, and took our son and the stroller from her – and from the peril of becoming a crash test dummy for a little girl hardly tall enough to have any vision over the top of a stroller on two more trips across a busy street in fading light. I valued our son’s survival more than any fine point of our arrangement.

I returned our son to his mother less than an hour later and explained my reasons for protecting him. She didn’t appreciate my difference with her judgment. On the spot she made threats to go to court.

On the phone two days later, she reported she had already spoken with three lawyers in her quest to teach me the new rules. She eventually hit the jackpot. A few days later, my lawyer called to report getting a long, accusatory letter from an Elder Stateswoman of Family Law. This distinguished lawyer, who now represented my former wife, wagged a menacing finger at me for the stroller episode, and added several
other alleged breaches of our two-month old agreement to make a surprisingly long list of my supposed deficiencies. She wanted me to straighten out and fly right. Or else.

Back in combat mode once again, I typewrote a very long reply to the new lawyer’s letter, going into excruciating detail about my honorable intentions during the stroller episode, and refuting each of the other claims in her menacing blast. I had receipts. Despite what her letter alleged, yes, I did pay for this and that; yes, I did send that payment on time; yes, I had already paid for more than twice the insurance I was obligated to get etc etc etc. Get off my back, I implied. I don’t need threats from lawyers before I do what is right for our son.

As her final act before Madame Distinguished Stateslawyer disappeared from my life, she sent my lawyer another letter. She conceded I was a good guy on all the financial issues. She also seemed to appreciate my desire to see my son more often, as she wrote “…I will be advising my client to try and be flexible in her attitude toward your client’s desire to spend as much time as possible with [our son]” – quite a healthy endorsement of my side of the equation.

However she wouldn’t concede that my spontaneous judgment on seeing the stroller/stroller-pusher mismatch was permissible. In her scheme of things, when it’s not my visitation time I am to ignore my human protective instincts – and my hard-won status as a joint custodial parent -and cede all judgment to my former wife.

In any event, as a lawyer she would do no more since my former wife stopped communicating with her, so she couldn’t justify hanging onto the case any longer.

I might have won this particular skirmish on points. But I learned a new lesson: A contract is a contract except when it’s about a child. When a contract is about a child it means whatever you don’t expect it to mean.

Things started going downhill from there. A few weeks later I experienced the depressing episode of having our son’s birthday pass with only a telephone chat but no in-person hugs.

In about ten more days my former wife and our son crossed paths with me further down the block where they lived. With them was a neighbor and her young daughter, both of whom I knew a tad. When the young daughter recognized from the conversation and gestures that I am my son’s father, she bolted away in what looked like terror. This was the first of several instances that that left the nasty impression that someone was telling very frightening tales about me.

Later our son added some unexpected spice to a dinner table conversation. He said his mother told him his family name was the same as his mother’s maiden name, not Raphael, his parents’ compromise name. I stiffled any overt emotional response, as galling as his report was. All I did was emphasize our common name, and suggest perhaps he misunderstood what his mother said.

After I dropped our son off at the end of another weekend he held his mother’s hand and looked forward as they walked away. He was unaware that his mother had her head turned around and was mugging nasty faces at me.

When I appeared at a Halloween party sponsored by the block association she loudly threatened to call the police.

On another occasion his mother and I walked together part of a short city block while our son reached up gripping one of each of our hands. This opportunity to hold onto both of us at the same time came to him only once in his lifetime.

Having amply demonstrated that her signature on the bottom line of a document sharing joint custody with me was fake, the onion continued to peel to its rotten core. Things I did which I thought were good, she reacted as if they were bad. What I thought was a graceful concession; she treated as the least that was owed to her. Things I thought were above and beyond the call of duty, she acted as if they were pulled from the dark bottom of my bag of tricks.

Her mask off, I readjusted. If that’s the way she wants to play, so be it, and good luck to her. Another round in court might have bent her more to my side. But enough!

Even if I won the next round – despite all the odds – what were we going to live on?  She had maneuvered herself to be virtually financially judgment-proof. California had a policy in divorce disputes called “imputed income.” If a person earned x but their training set them up to earn x+5 the court obligated them to earn x+5. That was not a policy in New York. She earned x-5 and could get away with it.

My fallback? Stick to our rules, don’t stray far from our rules, and if I stray from our rules don’t expect any rewards. While I was trying my best to be cooperative, it sure seemed to me my former wife was tearing our agreement to shreds, undermining me, mocking me, and being downright nasty and underhanded.

I felt like the characters in a cartoon I saw long ago. Two scruffy looking men are dangling next to each other by their chained arms and legs high on a wall of what appears to be a maximum security prison . One man turns to his mate and says, “Now here’s The Plan….”

My plans were not made of the same stuff as my reality.

Since I was a couple of years shy of forty years of age when the final stamp was put on this divorce, our son would probably be my only child. I owed it to him to give him my unswerving commitment. Whatever else he might think of me, he should never doubt I tried to be available to him, to be reliable and a constant in his life.

There is a term the legal community uses when one party to a contract, say a divorce agreement, takes matters into their own hands and acts as their own judge and jury. The term is “self help.” Judges usually become quite righteous when one party tries to straighten out perceived wrongs by administering self help, sometimes called ‘vigilante justice.’ As cumbersome, drawn out and expensive as it might be, the proper thing to do in the court’s opinion is to bring your case before a judge.

Resorting to self help is a known way to commit legal suicide. With so many
years left in our son’s life, abusing self help in his pre-school years made no sense if I would ever have need to turn to the courts for actual help in the future.

I stayed in my lane.

 

How our shared progressive society will thoroughly annihilate every last vestige of wife beating in two short centuries.
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