There’s been a post Mother’s dustup that started here in Kansas City and has spread like wildfire to the rest of the nation, if not the world. Harrison Butker, the Kansas City Chiefs’ outstanding placekicker, set off a firestorm not long after he had addressed the 2024 graduating class of Benedictine College in Atchison Kansas, not far from Kansas City. If you’d care to, you can link to the full address here.
What was it that got a noisy portion of Kansas City’s, and America’s, easily offended internet sleuths so lathered up? If one dug long enough there would be enough to offend almost anyone. He tackled subjects like abortion, the Gay Pride movement, transgenderism, and even the assimilation of Christian churches, Catholic and Protestant, by what many Christians see as a decadent, godless culture. But there was one subject Butker spoke about that drew the ire of those who weren’t there and only heard what some other offended person had mentioned on Facebook, Twitter, or some other internet gathering place. That subject was marriage and the role of women in modern America. Once it all got started the mob gained the appearance of the lantern toting mob that hunted Frankenstein down. Taunts of “cancel him” and threats dominated the web.
The offending portion of his remarks about marriage and the role of women follows for your edification:
“For the ladies present today, congratulations on an amazing accomplishment. You should be proud of all that you have achieved to this point in your young lives. I want to speak directly to you briefly because I think it is you, the women, who have had the most diabolical lies told to you. How many of you are sitting here now about to cross this stage and are thinking about all the promotions and titles you are going to get in your career? Some of you may go on to lead successful careers in the world, but I would venture to guess that the majority of you are most excited about your marriage and the children you will bring into this world.”
“I can tell you that my beautiful wife, Isabelle, would be the first to say that her life truly started when she began living her vocation as a wife and as a mother. I’m on the stage today and able to be the man I am because I have a wife who leans into her vocation. I’m beyond blessed with the many talents God has given me, but it cannot be overstated that all of my success is made possible because a girl I met in band class back in middle school would convert to the faith, become my wife, and embrace one of the most important titles of all: homemaker.”
Our neighborhood here in Pendleton Heights has a Facebook page that lit up like the Kansas City Plaza’s annual Christmas light display not long after news of Butker’s remarks hit the airwaves. After reading about half of the comments I saw that I would be in the minority if I had said something kind or favorably disposed to Mister Butker and realized discretion is the better part of valor. “Lay low, Phil,” I told myself as fleeting thoughts of going into hiding danced in my imagination. “These are your neighbors, Phil, don’t offend them.” “You don’t want to be cancelled, do you?” “If you say something you’ll become the neighborhood pariah.” “Just lay low and memories of the dustup will fade and you can get back to just nodding your head as you pass your neighbors on the street.”
I really don’t want to be at odds with my neighbors. I really don’t. But, I don’t fit too well in America’s 21st century culture. I grew up in the 1940’s and 50’s. America’s radar then was focused on fighting a world war, followed by another “police action” in Korea. Issues like abortion or the way a child could become an obstacle to a woman’s professional career weren’t on anyone’s radar back in those days.
I’d wager that many modern women think of the women of those days as victims of patriarchy, but that’s far from true. Our generation learned about “Rosie the riveter,” women who nurtured their families at home and did their part in defense plants, assembling warships and fitting out American bombers with their necessary components. My wife’s mother, for example, did work on the wiring in the nose cones of B-25 bombers at a Kansas City defense plant. More than once I heard her talk about praying for “the boys who would be flying those bombers” as she was working on the wiring. She did all this while also caring for her family at home. That grit and determination stayed with her in the post-war years. She gave birth to a total of four children, one of whom eventually became my wife and love of my life and three sons, one who was developmentally disabled. She took loving care of that son, my bother-in-law James, until she was about ninety years old. In all the years I knew her I never heard her ever say or think that James was a stumbling block to a more rewarding career. I never heard her complain about her lot in life. She never had her name plastered on Broadway billboards, nor did she ever become the Chief Executive Officer of a Fortune 500 corporation. She never attained high political office. But all those years she held a title that at first blush probably seems insignificant to many modern minds but was actually far more rewarding and fulfilling. She was a loving mother!
The story of the family I grew up in has some of those same important elements. I was born in Boston. I’m the son of a man who worked as a “chipper.” He cut blocks of ice into smaller segments and delivered them to homes where they were used in ice boxes. It was backbreaking labor. My mother was an immigrant from Newfoundland in the Canadian Maritimes. She was born in the early twentieth century in a small village on the west-central coast of Newfoundland called McIver’s or McIver’s Cove.
I know very little about my father, even now. He died when I was six years old. The story that’s been passed on to me is that when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in 1941, he went to join the Marine Corps. The pre-enlistment physical revealed that he had Tuberculosis and he was devastated. The Marines told him to get treated. “Mr. Dillon, it’s going to be a long war. Get treated and you’ll get your chance to defend freedom.” He was apparently too despondent to listen and decided to crawl into a bottle as his cure. The combination of the booze and TB killed him.
That left my mother as an uneducated immigrant alone in the world to care for her three children. She fought her way through the trials as best she could and eventually had a complete nervous breakdown requiring about three years of hospitalization, including barbaric shock treatments. During that time my brother, sister and I became wards of the state and were placed at a facility called the Prendergast Preventorium. Like so much that our elites tout as compassionate care these days, life at the Preventorium was pure misery for me. I recall crying myself to sleep night after night, begging to go home to be with my family.
My mother was eventually released from the hospital, and we were once again a family of sorts. She weighed less than ninety pounds and some described her as looking like “death warmed over.” The authorities decided it would be best to find suitable places for my brother and sister to stay and found an apartment for me and my mother. The purpose, as I understand it, was to use me as an anchor to promote her healing.
While the approach seemed reasonable to the authorities, it was exceptionally difficult for me. My mother’s neuroses drove me “up the wall.” I took up reading as an escape and it worked well. I was able to tune her out for the most part.
I didn’t understand my mother in those days and it took years of experience for me to grasp how much love, courage and determination it took for her to bring her family back together.
That understanding came in small increments at first. I remember a snowy night when I was walking home to our second story apartment. I was about twelve. The snow was falling at a good clip and as I passed by a streetlight my mother saw me bathed in the light. I walked upstairs and saw her with tears coming down her cheeks. “Are you alright, Ma?” I asked, “I’m okay,” she replied. I just saw you walking in the light, and you looked like my Joe.” That term, “my Joe,” was a term of endearment she used to describe my father. I was amazed. After all she’d been through when my father gave up on life, she still loved him and could think fondly of him.
We lived on state welfare, but my mother always told us that we would climb out of the pit of dependency and poverty someday. She told us that our name was Dillon and that if we worked hard and studied hard we would do well in life. She hated the welfare system and wasn’t above cheating a bit on that system. When I was about twelve or thirteen, she managed to get me a Saturday job with a fruit/vegetable merchant I knew as Mr. Sahady. Like my mother, he was an immigrant. He was Lebanese. He drove around our neighborhood in a small truck full of produce with his loudspeaker blaring, “Raspberries, strawberries, thirty-five cents a quart.” Neighborhood folks would open their tenement windows and shout out their orders. Mr. Sahady would stop his van and fill orders, then gave the baskets to me to deliver to the tenements. At the end of those Saturdays I felt happy and rewarded. I’d collected a pocketful of small tips and Mr. Shaday’s thanks. Before he dropped me off he’d always give me I a small envelope with I learned in time was money. He knew my mother and cared deeply for her. He’d place the envelope in my hand and pat it. “Give this to your Muddah, Butch. You tell her we gonna’ get through this. We gonna’ be okay.”
Oh, how I loved those days. My brother, sister and I learned that we weren’t destined for a life of dependency on government bureaucrats. We were Dillons and we could navigate society’s waters without having to genuflect to our government enablers.
One of the most valuable lessons my mother ever taught me came at a time when I believed there was nothing else she could teach me. I was about twenty-one. I’d competed U.S. Air Force boot camp and was home on leave. I told her I was going to go out with my cousin Edgar and a few buddies to let off a bit of steam. She told me in no uncertain terms as I left. “If you get drunk, don’t bother coming home. I won’t let you in this house drunk. Do you understand me?” “Sure thing, Ma,” I said as I brushed her motherly ultimatum away. Several hours later I approached our apartment door. I was three sheets to the wind and fumbled around trying to get the key into the lock. Before I could finish the process, the door swung open. My mother was standing there. She was a short woman, about five feet-one. Even through the alcohol induced fog I could see that she was really angry. “Didn’t I tell you not to come home like this?’ “Come on, Ma, get out of my way.” The next thing I saw was her right fist heading for my left side of my nose. I saw blood spurt from my nose and heard the door slam. I then stumbled over to the stairs going up to the second floor and sat down. A few minutes later our neighbor from across the hall opened his door. He was an African-American man who was about forty years old. “I heard the commotion, Butch. I’d really like to help you, but if I do I think she’d do the same thing to me that she did to you. You need to go and get that nose checked out on your own. It looks it it’s broken.”
He apparently knew my mother better than I did.
I did go to a local hospital and got my nose patched up. And, I also learned a very valuable lesson. Don’t tangle with Mom when she has a just cause to pursue.
She did come from truly hardy stock. I got the opportunity to visit her family in Newfoundland when I was assigned to Ernest Harmon Air Force Base near Stephenville Newfoundland. In the eighteen months I was there I got to meet many of her brothers and cousins. They all loved her from the depth of their hearts. She was known to them as “The Flower of McIver’s.” She was full of joy and lived life energetically.
My mother really was special. I wish I’d known better earlier in life, but many of those realizatio came later in life. Toward end of her life she had Alzheimer’s. One of of our visits to the nursing home my wife and I sat silently. I didn’t know what to say. She seemed like she was suspended in another world. Nancy encouraged me to say something, but I didn’t know what to say. “There’s no one home, Coach. She doesn’t know who I am anymore.” Nancy leaned over the bed and whispered in her ear, “You’re upset with him, aren’t you Susie? He didn’t visit you last week.” As I sat there I could see her eyes flash. She still knew me, even in what appeared to be a void space. She was still Ms. She was still my mother and she still loved me.
Some might think I was engaging in a flight of fancy, but they didn’t know my mother as I did or know now. She was still there. There’s no doubt in my mind about that.
She was courageous. It took a long time for me to see that and, thanks to Nancy, I finally saw it. We had a long discussion about her once. She was wondering why I spent so much time trying to find my father, who was never really there for me. “Why do you spend so much time chasing him? Can’t you see that your mother was the courageous one. She’s the one who fought through the loss of a man she loved. She’s the one who took care of you, your brother and sister. She’s the one who fought her way through the terror of electroshock therapy so that she could come home to care for you and love you. She was the one had the courage to persevere.”
That truth became even more evident to me a few years later as Nancy and I were watching an episode of “Call the Midwife.” In one part of the episode there was a pretty graphic scene where a woman was undergoing electroshock therapy. I looked excruciating enough viewing it on a television screen, I could only imagine how painful the real-life treatments had been for my mother. All I could do in response was to weep like a child.
Yes, my mother was an educated immigrant. She never did see her name in lights. But she has left a legacy that has stretched far beyond her life and the quiet Newfound village where she was born. One of her sons became a chemical engineer and he and his wife have three children. One studied law and has become a respected attorney. One of his daughters is a highly respected author and public speaker. Their other daughter pursued a professional career in the field of information technology. And, they all are all happily married, which is another way of saying that nurturing a family isn’t a hindrance to a fulfilling life and career
The same holds true for me. I’m blessed to have been able to earn undergraduate and graduate degrees. While my life has had its ups and downs (I’ve been though one failed marriage). But I have three wonderful children and I’m now married to a remarkable woman who has held prestigious professional positions in large corporations. While she is not the birth mother of my children, they love and respect the way she applies the motherly skills she has learned in life.
As I think back at the lives of my mother, my wife, and others from our generation I feel a deep sense of gratitude for the contributions they have made over the years. They have accomplished the things in life that many dream of and did those things without sacrificing the most precious things in life. They pursued their dreams without mocking motherhood and marriage.
Those, I submit to you, are relationships and ideals well worth celebrating, not mocking.
As to where this current generation is heading, I cannot say, but I do admit that I’m concerned about the course they are taking. Like author Charles Caput I often feel like a “stranger in a strange land.” and I find myself praying for the Parousia, the Second Coming of Christ to this world.