Poet Laureate of Sherman, SD

You know where sympathy is in the dictionary? Between shit and syphilis.


Ben Franklin and Winston Churchill have nothing on my dad. He is a blue collar wordsmith. My first memory of my father’s manipulation of the vernacular came early. When we would fall down and cry, as small children do, he would say, “Come over here, and I will pick you up.” This always seemed odd to me. If I could get up, I probably wouldn’t be crying. I have no memory of my dad ever picking me up.


My father did not show any of his children extended physical affection. That is not to say he that was not physical with us. My father liked to boast, “Some people call it fear; I call it respect.” In truth, he was probably more right than I wish. I did fear my father. He was quick to spank, and I was no stranger to the power of his hand wrapped around a razor strap. I was first introduced to the strap after an extended game of kick the can in the Brandon hood. The sun had gone down and so did the drama in my house. I received my last physical punishment at the age of 16. I got home past a curfew - that was never established - after being out with a boy he disliked. “You know when late is too late” he would say.


It was 2 am. There he stood, belt in hand. As I had to walk up gauntlet - up the three steps to the kitchen – instead of running downstairs to my room. I wish I would have hissed “Let them eat cake” as I peed the on my mother’s kitchen carpet. However, I was never as articulate as my father is those trying times. Our home was a landmine of unspoken, but punishable if infracted, laws.


A few years later, I visiting home from college on a Saturday. In truth, I probably came home to take advantage of my mom who would wash my clothes, pack me homemade food and slip me a twenty. I had plans for the evening which included dancing at the Revolution in downtown Sioux Falls, drinking 3.2 beer and crashing at my cousin Lori’s. Before heading out, my dad reminded me that church was at 9 am. This was not part of the plan. Since I was now in my second year of higher learning, it was official; I had more education than my parents. I knew things. I informed my father that I did not have to be in a building in order to pray and serve the Lord, and the tradition of Sunday church was archaic. My father sighed, “It is amazing that someone who is spending money to be smarter can become so dumb.” I may not have been the loudest voice singing “This is my Father’s World” the next morning, but my butt was in the pew.


My father had a mantra. From what I can tell, Dad’s “Pride will kill ya,” was his bumper sticker adaptation of his AA influenced “The Serenity Prayer.” We heard this phrase a lot. All through high school, this was his answer to everything….well, that followed close by “either you fix it or I will,” and “kill ‘em with kindness.” The later of these – in retrospect – seems odd advice from a man, who loves the fresh blood of landing a verbal kill.


I never talked back to my parents; I still don’t. However, I do have one moment of burning glory. My dad had just laid down a “pride will kill ya,” to which I responded, “I don’t think you are suppose to say that to your kids. I participate in every sport possible, serve in every club, have a part-time job all while getting mostly ‘A’s.’ Why aren’t you proud of me? Why shouldn’t I be proud of myself?” Frankly, I was could not have been more proud of myself at that moment….but as the Greeks can attest, pride can topple the biggest and best of us. Dad’s response was textbook Sylvin, “Pride will kill you” he muttered as he wickedly smiled, shook his head and walked to the other room.


Fast-forward to January 1984. I am a single parent of a 3 month old son, living in a low-income housing, receiving my monthly Aid to Dependent Children check, and reporting to WIC every other Saturday at the 4H Building for baby formula, KIX cereal and blocks of free cheese the size of my torso. Only once did I complain in front of my parents about my financial dependence on the State to which my father quickly retorted, “I have been working and paying taxes since I was 17, - your mother too – to help girls just like you. Suck it up, take the help, get an education, find a job, pay taxes, and help the next girl.”

Not long after that I was in the Brookings Hy-Vee using food stamps to buy groceries. The woman behind me had an opinion about my choices and had no problem sharing them with me. Evidently, she was acutely aware that her taxes were helping this girl. It was my father’s echo of “pride will kill ya” that allowed me to take my bags, smile (kill her with kindness) and just walk away.


If my sister was to contribute to this story, she would say that her favorite “dadism” is “how much corn do you think that would hold?” This question works whether visiting the Smithsonian, the Vatican or the neighbor’s silo. If you asked my children, they would instantaneously – complete with a Sylvin accent – harmonize a “Oh, Yeah.


Me? I may resemble his frequent assessment of someone who “is talking just to hear their head rattle,” but it was a calm morning in June when I witnessed my father at his most colorful and articulate. Evidently, dad found himself behind my son Tyler on a Sioux Falls street. Forever a motorhead, dad had been waiting 15 years to buy Tyler his first vehicle. He had also been waiting 15 years to teach Tyler the rules of the road. After tailing him around town and witnessing excess speed and other breeches of the driving handbook, my dad followed Tyler home. By the time I open the back door, dad was mid-rip. “Who do you think you are? Dale Earnhardt? Kid, if your head was any further up your ass, we are going to have to insert a plate glass window in your stomach just so we can have a conversation.”


Take that Eleanor Roosevelt. I could not have said it better. Copy. Print.