Blindsided

I wasn’t sure I was going to watch the Oscar winning The Blind Side. I have nothing against Sandra Bullock. I know that she’s having a tough stretch. I just can’t understand a universe where a woman who made n career of flashing those gorgeous doe eyes in romantic comedies steals an Oscar from Meryl Streep. I was certain that watching The Blind Side would just awaken countless questions about evil and God’s morality.

Amy knows that I venerate Streep’s acting. She’s heard me complain about the Bullocks and the Julia Roberts of the world. There’s just not enough good leading ladies in this generation. Not like Meryl. Somehow she didn’t pick up on my disillusionment, and she rented The Blind Side. Oblivious to my pain, she told me I should watch the movie with my sons.

I relented. I started fighting back tears within the first ten minutes of the film and remained choked up until the credits rolled. This was my story, and Sandra was playing the part of my mom.

I grew up on the shores of Lake Erie. My parents bought a brick home on Route 5. The beach and bluffs were just a quarter of a mile away, a five minute walk on the dirt road that ran between our property and the woods. Behind our home was a motel that was buzzing with activity until President Eisenhower commissioned the Interstate Highways. Traffic and commerce shifted to Route 90 and the string of motels along the lake became low rent apartments.

The motel in our backyard was just something between me and the lake. That’s where the adventure was. My brother and I would climb the bluffs, explore the woods, and walk the creek that poured into Lake Erie. I didn’t pay much attention to the motel or even think it was curious that we had a motel in our backyard.

My mom was more observant. One winter, she noticed a boy standing out in the cold. He wasn’t wearing much of a coat. He had no hat, gloves, or boots. The boy never actually played in the snow. He just stood in the parking lot and shivered. My mom noticed this a few times and decided to get to the bottom of it. She discovered the boy’s name was Scott and that his mother, Ada, was a prostitute. Whenever Ada had a job, Scott was banished from their room, lake effect snow be damned.

Mom took action. She started by buying Scott some decent winter clothes and finished by convincing Ada to let Scott live with us.

In The Blind Side, the family received Oher and dealt with the racial prejudice of others. My family had already crossed that bridge. When I was seven, my parents came into Richard and my room and asked if we cared if they adopted two girls. I wasn’t sure what adoption meant, but we had an empty bedroom. And mom and dad’s seriousness was cutting into our playtime. So Richard and I nodded our heads and got back to our GI Joes. A few trips to a blighted neighborhood in Stuebensville, Ohio and a visit to the court house later, and I had two bi-racial sisters. I never thought anything about it, but I later learned that my grandfather was indignant. No “colored child” was going to enter his home. Mom informed him that he would either accept the girls as family or never see us again. Grandpa relented. His bigotry melted after Terri and Trish climbed into his lap.  So adding a little more color into the house was no big deal, even living in our pearly white community.

The similarities between our family and the Tuohys ended there. The Tuohys were rolling in dough with their fast food franchises. My dad provided by working as a mechanic in steel foundries.  The economy was in bad shape, and the union had to settle for a pay cut shortly after my parents bought the home. I remember wearing hand-me-down catholic school uniforms to public school. This helped cement my status in the junior high pecking order. Still, my parents saw a need and met it. There was enough love and food to go around.

Scott didn’t grow up to play in the NFL, and unlike Michael Oher, he wasn’t grateful for the opportunity my parents were giving him. I don’t think I remember Scott ever smiling. What he did do was swear and push and fight Richard and me. He shared our bedroom and made a point to destroy our belongings, even though my parents had outfitted him with his own toys. The last straw for me was when Scott smashed a model tall ship that I had proudly displayed on my dresser. I had worked for weeks on this ship, meticulously painting details on each cannon and mast. I walked in on Scott dismantling the model. He snapped each mast, one at a time, with cold malice. When he was done, he glared at me and walked out of the room.

I begged mom to make Scott leave. It was too much. She saw the look in my eyes and agreed. Several phone calls later, she found Scott’s biological father and convinced him to step up and raise his son. When his blue station wagon pulled out of the driveway with Scott and his clothes and unbroken toys, I thought I’d feel relief. I was wrong. I was flooded with guilt. My parents did the Christian thing and opened their home to a boy in need. I insisted they kick him out. I had reoccurring nightmares for a month. In the dreams, Scott was either homeless or screaming at me. The dreams eventually stopped and life went back to normal.

The Blindside made me cry because instantly I realized how special my parents are. It took watching the movie to realize my parents’ compassion was exceptional. Everybody doesn’t rescue the child of a prostitute and make room in their home. But my folks did. Their generosity was devoid of drama, and it just felt natural.

I recently taught a class with an English literature professor that drew applications from elements of story. The curriculum asked us to explore the setting of our own personal stories. I told the story of Scott. Bill, the professor, explained to me just how defining this event was in my life. He pointed out my years of working with kids with mental health issues at a residential treatment center and then my work with kids in a church setting. I never considered this. It was just, well, my life. I suppose that story has something to do with why I’m drawn toward the work of The Mentoring Project.  Not out of guilt from having Scott removed from our house. Looking back on those years with adult eyes, I know that he was acting out from the rage he felt over his life. It was OK that was I overwhelmed by him. I was just a kid.

What I’m trying to say is that my parents created a life template that set a course for me. They taught me that chaos is only as far away as your backyard and that you invite it in and transform it with love.  I’m better for it. So, Sandra, thanks for reminding me just how fortunate  I am to have the mom and dad I have. And you were pretty awesome in the movie, as well.