GAZETTE COLUMN: HONOR THY FATHER! by John P. Flannery

Dad (and Mom)

As a young Irish Roman Catholic kid in St. Thomas Aquinas parish in the South Bronx. the symbolic end of your childhood, your initiation into young adult life, was confirmed in your early teens by a slight symbolic slap to the cheek by a Bishop standing at the altar in a marble floored church filled with families, candles and clouds of incense.

The sacramental slap symbolized that life may be harsh.

The truth be told, however, I learned most about how to navigate life and death from my father – not that I didn’t also learn from Fathers Byrne, O’Brien, Shea and McDonald (as well as Sister Augustine from the Dominicans and other religious who were not so Irish).

My father subscribed to Proverbs (22:6), “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” 

The way he said it to me was I should do better than he did.

When I was about 5 years old, “Johnny up stairs” beat me up.  I ran to our fourth floor tenement apartment and asked my father to beat up little Johnny, never thinking for a minute that adults shouldn’t be beating up little children.  

My father got down on his knees on the linoleum in our hallway and had me punch his hands, left-right-left, first one, then the other, correcting my pug moves until I said, “This is fine Dad but when are you going to take care of Johnny?” 

My father said, “You have to fight your own battles,” and sent me on my way back downstairs.  

I didn’t believe I could go home if I didn’t beat up Johnny.  Fact is our sparring session was quite effective.  I bested Johnny, learned something both useful (and necessary) to survive in our neighborhood, how to stand up for yourself, for what you believe, and how to fight for others you care about.  I marvel that these days we can’t figure out how to handle bullies, young or old.

I was good at basic Science and Math.  It was because my Dad sat at the kitchen table going over and over math that we weren’t yet doing in school, fractions and decimals especially.  I’d cry literally trying to understand what he was teaching.  He was always patient.  In a way, that made it more important that I “get it.” Soon, I was correcting teachers in class (at some serious disciplinary risk but luckily my math was always right).  When I got to High School I was chosen to study Calculus at Fordham College.  I asked my Dad one night to help me understand a calculus assignment.  He said he didn’t know anything about calculus but was so proud that I was studying something that he knew nothing about.

One evening back from College, my Dad asked me to fix the TV set.  It was one of those consoles with a big tube that had a green tint when on but it wouldn’t go on.  I said, “Dad, I don’t know how to fix a TV set.  He said, “But, you’re studying Physics.”  I said, “It’s not that kind of Physics.”  Dad said, “So what good is it?”  I got mad and slammed my hand down on the top of the TV, jiggling the tube, and the picture flashed onto the screen.  My Dad said, “What have you done?”  I said, “There I fixed the set.”  My Dad laughed, asking “So what principle of Physics allowed you to do that?”  Gamely, I said, “Newton’s law, that is, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”  I’d catch my Dad telling his buddies afterwards about his son, “the Physicist” and “how he fixed the TV by punching it.”

My Dad was surprised when in Grammar School I started competing in oratorical contests.  But both my Dad and Mom encouraged that I participate in conversation when adults gathered in our home and they gave me the floor to tell a story or make a point that probably, looking back on it, was more cute than competent – but gave me the confidence ever after to speak publicly.

My Dad always discouraged me from smoking, although he did.  When, at 68, he was dying of lung cancer, I asked him if he regretted smoking.  I hated myself for asking the question the instant the words escaped my mouth but I hadn’t said it harshly.  Nor did my Dad take it badly.  He said, “We were like cars, although we lasted a lot longer.  Sooner or later a fender comes off or the engine fails.”  He was at peace with his imminent death.  He gave me a gold ring my Mom gave him.  The best gift he gave, however, was his example of how to die after having spent so much time instructing me how to live. 

What more could a Dad do for a son?

DWIGHT DARCY – HIS LAST MOMENTS ON 9-11 by John P. Flannery

Dwight Darcy – playing Major General Lew Wallace (1963)

Suicidal al-Qaeda Terrorists killed Dwight Darcy on September 11, 2001, by crashing a passenger airline into the World Trade Center Tower where he worked on the 66^th floor, and this architectural behemoth, of steel, concrete, and glass, crashed to the earth, becoming an historic memorial to this nation’s lost innocence.

A shower of gray deathly ash covering lower Manhattan, blocking the light of the day, fairly represented the darkness that engulfed America.

Days later, on the evening that Congress was to vote on the Patriot Act, while I was working in Congress as special counsel, I went for a run.

When I arrived at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, there was a large circle of people, each holding a candle, lit to signify a life lost on September 11^th. 

One by one, each spoke of a remembered life.

It was a moving tableau.

I didn’t know that evening about Dwight but this is what I would have shared.

He was the year ahead of me at Fordham Prep, a rigorous Jesuit High School in the Bronx.

He had a soft fleshy face, as the Irish often have, was book smart, warmly friendly (even to underclassmen), favored the Yankees, was a natural leader, a classic debater, and, of course, like all the Irish, a first-class actor.

I remember watching Dwight play the role of Major-General Lew Wallace, the judge who presided over the trial of Henry Wirz, the commandant of the prison at Andersonville, for atrocities that Wirz committed.

It is now bitterly ironic to recall that he played a judge punishing atrocities when his life ended because of an atrocity committed against him.

A sweeter irony is that, like General Wallace, Dwight practiced law after the Andersonville trial.

He became a local prosecutor in the Bronx, where I also served.

He concentrated especially, however, on labor law, dealing with working men and women at the Port Authority, doing so for more than 25 years, and he was head counsel with his office on the 66^th floor of the World Trade Center.

Before practicing law, he taught High School English at Mount St. Michael’s Academy for the Marist Brothers (a real loss of talent to the Jesuits). 

He taught these students how to write but he also taught them about our nation’s history, its politics and about right conduct. 

It’s a wonder whether the role of General Wallace helped to inform Dwight’s life choices afterwards; General Wallace both loved the English language and was a man of faith (wrote the novel, “Ben Hur – a Tale of Christ.”) 

Dwight showed his faith in good works as president of the Catholic Big Brothers of New York, as president of the Parish Council of St. Joseph’s Church, and as an affiliated member of the Marist Brothers (sorry again Jesuits).

As for his last moments on that fateful day, one woman said he had foot surgery and his foot was in a cast on 9-11; she doubted he could have made it down the stairs to escape.

Dwight’s memory lights up the souls of those he knew but especially his wife Veronica and his sons Kieran and Ryan.

That’s what I would have said that evening by the reflecting pool -- had I only known.