Defending Dads

“These laws weren’t written for guys like you”, said the gentleman on the phone with knowledge of why my bank account had been frozen.

The “laws” to which he referred were those etched into Pennsylvania’s books regarding child support. The gentleman explained that if a dad in Pennsylvania is in arrears, the feds tip off the state to any of his recorded assets, e.g. bank accounts, property, you name it. You think the modern mob is infested with rats? Trust: They got nothin’ on the feds. Once the state learns of assets, it follows up like a couple of steroid freaks in warm up suits employed by a bookie. A man can’t even have a reserve fund for emergencies…unless he keeps it under his mattress.

The “guys like you” the gentleman spoke of are those who are in no way dodging their responsibilities, but are trying to figure out their next moves while single-handedly addressing a heap of financial obligations once handled by two in addition to support. Guys like me need to double their income to live half as well as we did when married. Now, I’ve never been afraid of hard work or long hours, but for crying out loud, give a brother a chance to breathe before pulling a government-sanctioned Ocean’s Eleven on his Plan B!

The gentleman went on to say that if I could produce the outstanding amount within 35 days of the freeze, Pennsylvania would unfreeze the account. “Hmm”, I thought, “that’s a curious position. If I could do that, the state wouldn’t have had to straight jack my dough in the first place!” I didn’t express my frustration to the gentleman; he all but expressed it for me! Our chat was so amiable, I wanted to invite the guy over for a cookout. I really must get used to the notion of the sympathetic state employee.

The surprisingly pleasant dialogue with a government enforcer aside, what I found most striking about learning that I would never see the frozen money again is my reaction to the news: I barely shrugged my shoulders. I’ve gotten to a point where, when it comes to the aftermath of divorce, I already expect the worst. At this realization, the titular tune came to mind. I’ve had it so much worse.

I remember well those days in the Bronx when I got by on a single meal of 4 greasy, over-cooked fried wings with a side of under-cooked french fries bathed in ketchup from my favorite dingy “Chinese restaurant”. These places were and remain ubiquitous in low-income neighborhoods throughout the five boroughs. They are characterized by nearly identical menu offerings, drop ceiling light panels that often double as mausoleums for cockroaches, floors left filthy from constant foot traffic and “dining areas” furnished with cast-off tables and chairs. They all have imaginative names like “A1 Chinese Restaurant” and are staffed by Asians who may or may not be Chinese that work feverishly in strictly functional, poorly ventilated kitchens behind plexiglass partitions that could stop anti-aircraft missiles.

Today, I eat in Chinese restaurants where not only can I actually touch staff members, though I dare not, but the menus feature healthy eating options. I ain’t giving that up no matter how much money the government takes from me. Yes, it’s all right now.

Dads: No two of us are alike. Accordingly, each of us will react differently to the end of his relationship with his children’s mother and the surrounding circumstances. At the risk of dislocating my shoulder patting myself on the back, it seems my reaction has been more or less positive, though I have found some aspects of this mess to be extremely cumbersome, specifically anything to do with court and lawyers. For those with aversions to the court system as strong as mine had been, I cannot stress enough that you must put your emotions aside, find a good lawyer and get familiar with your rights ASAP. I failed to do these things and it cost me all kinds of money, time, anguish, aggravation, etc. Life is too short and you’ve got to protect your kids from as much of the carnage as possible.

It took better than 2 years, but I am finally able to follow my own advice. By simply going to court as I did this past June 24th, I proved to myself that I really have learned to put the children’s interests ahead of my own. In my world, it’s like being a yogi who has mastered the art of levitation. Great day in the morning.

Now that I am over that hump, I can focus more on self-CARE, which is a cornerstone of any dad’s ability to be self-LESS. Time to get back to eating right, sleeping well, working out…and posting some truly revolutionary content to this blog. Just you watch.

Though some constituents of the American legal system would have us believe their court rooms are bastions of impartiality, reason and justice, too often, they exemplify the worst personality traits of those that run them. This is the basis for my disdain for court.

Pragmatist that I am, however, I know that today’s system is preferable to the anarchy that characterized the American frontier in the nation’s infancy. Odds are that if I dare enter a court room anywhere in the United States today to address a traffic violation, I won’t wind up hanging from a tree behind the court house if I can’t pay the fine —  at least not in 2016. Regardless, I want NO part of ANY court. Period. Ever.

Reality check: Nobody cares what I want, probably not even my kids! But I love my kids. I want and need to be a part of their lives. In order to do that, I need to go through the courts. I need to learn the laws and how they can work to my advantage. I proclaim here and now that my love for my children supersedes my near-compulsion to flip the bird to the court system. I submit.

To that end, I went to the office of Northampton County’s Domestic Relations Section last week. I acted like a gentleman, was treated like a gentleman and took the steps necessary to maintain my connection with my children.

The irony that I walked into that place with the same attitude I would carry into a correctional facility was not lost on me. I knew the rules, what was expected of me and how to conduct myself. My mind was set on two goals: Walking in and walking out. How I came to be there had no bearing on what I needed to do and was therefore irrelevant.

As I walked out of the building, I felt an intense relief. Yes, it took considerable effort and time, but I had identified a phobia, analyzed its source, faced it down and defeated it. I am guilty of no crime and I have quality representation. Now, I’m cool with going to court everyday if need be.

Dads, once you get over the rage engendered by the very idea of divorce court and its inherent biases, you take away her attorney’s most lethal weapon: the ability to manipulate your emotions. Then, just as you would behind bars, you will have earned your respect. Carrying your weight in jail has more to do with mental fortitude than physical strength, although it is definitely helpful to be strong enough to hurt someone if you must. Facing down a big mouthed shyster in a court room? Relatively speaking, that’s a breeze.

Here’s the Nitty Gritty: Get a grip on your emotions, keep your court dates, study the law for your own edification and get your money’s worth from your attorney. If you’re really feeling gung-ho, file a motion or two. You won’t need to get medieval on anyone if you get analytical first.

Growing up poor often prepares young men for certain less-than-desirable rites of passage. Proms? Senior trips? First cars? College tours? Fairy dust. When a poor kid from a broken family develops the perception that, for him and his peers, the American Dream is just that, his aspirations tend to grow darker, his blood colder. “Hope” is for suckers; “compassion” becomes a weakness.

Not only did my divorce rekindle my phobia of court rooms, it initiated a new one for the receipt of deliveries. Over time, the idea of opening the door to a delivery person holding a court document or even discovery of one of these in my mailbox caused me to break into a cold sweat, hyperventilate and froze my digestive tract! These were, by far, the most outlandish physical reactions I have ever felt toward non-lethal threats. I have literally had guns pointed at me and felt less traumatized.

Many of my peers dropped out of school by age 14. That’s too young to work on the books in New York City so those kids “got paper” (earned money) anyway they could. Drug dealing, armed robbery, gambling, stealing from their mothers’ purses, whatever it took. Learning to commit these crimes and — temporarily — get away with them would be their school. Call this class Criminal Behavior 101: Getting Away with It. That class is finished with a student’s first serious arrest and serves as the prerequisite to Criminal Behavior 102: Introduction to the Criminal Justice System.

First up on the syllabus in Criminal Behavior 102 is booking: Peace officers usher youthful offenders through fingerprinting, mug shots and a background check. If an offender must appear before a magistrate, that offender will meet with a defense attorney to discuss particulars of her/his case, then enter a plea before a representative of the prosecuting attorney’s office. Expressions of emotion are necessarily repressed because they interfere with work. For everyone familiar with these procedures, it’s always just another day at the office, only not everyone gets to go home at quitting time.

From the point of view of an offender, getting booked is tedious, dehumanizing and toxic, and it couldn’t be much better for those running the show. Jail is not exactly a breeding ground for high culture and wrangling criminals all day can cast a pall on even the brightest personality.

In my less enlightened days, I was introduced to the court system as described above. I hated it then, I hate it now. Criminal, civil, doesn’t matter. Court is anathema to me and I’m not alone. This is why it took me forever to get my head around being dragged into divorce court when other options were available. As much as the architects and craftsmen do to dress up court rooms, and they are often quite impressive, to me, they always feel like the abandoned factories used to stage the sadistic games played in the “Saw” film franchise.

Not only did my divorce rekindle my phobia of court rooms, it initiated a new one for the receipt of deliveries. Over time, the idea of opening the door to a delivery person holding a court document or even discovery of one of these in my mailbox caused me to break into a cold sweat, hyperventilate and froze my digestive tract! These were, by far, the most outlandish physical reactions I have ever felt toward non-lethal threats. I have literally had guns pointed at me and felt less traumatized.

Bear with me. This is critical background information for the next post, which shall reveal the titular thing…