Lucky Man by Michael J. Fox

school career was any indication, I wasn't exactly poised to set the world on fire—not the real world, anyway.
    Sure, in subjects that were outright creative, I excelled; drama, music, creative writing and various art electives, drawing, painting, printmaking, etc., consistently earned me A s. But in any subject that was based on fixed rules, like math or chemistry and physics, my grades tanked.
    I can remember the exasperated look on my mother's face at report card time as I'd try to explain this to her. “These are absolutes, Mom. They're boring. Take math, two plus two equals four, I mean, that's already on the books, right? Somebody's already nailed that down. So what do they need me for?” Mom would sigh and make sure to sign the report card before Dad got home from work.
    When red flags began to pop up on the school front, Dad, army signalman that he was, got right to work. A barely passing grade, or a call from school about a trip to the principal's office, meant a harsh reprimand from Dad, followed by probative questions about what the hell I was thinking and demands that I immediately cease and desist. My failure to comply wasn't rebellion, strictly speaking; it wasn't motivated by anger toward my parents, or anybody else for that matter. In fact, I shared their surprise I wasn't doing better in school. Yet, through junior high my academic grades continued to decline. The instant reprisals from Dad, once automatic, became more rare as he recognized their futility. Instead Dad resorted to curling his lip, throwing up his hands, and stalking off—that is, if I didn't slink off first.
    I preferred to avoid confrontation. During my teenage years that meant avoiding my dad as much as possible. My essential approach to life, my predilection for winging it, was clearly antithetical to his. He just didn't get it. It's not that I consciously sought to flaunt my opposing point of view. To do that would be to provoke his anger, which was the last thing I wanted to do. But I could say things to Dad that seemed perfectly benign, yet in a flash our conversation would somehow shift into a one-sided recitation of the riot act.
    With the benefit of hindsight, I can see that two powerful forces were at play here, the two gravitational fields I've already referred to: Dad's battle-tested pragmatism and Nana's idealistic belief in destiny. It seems obvious now that my reaction to her passing was to do whatever I could to bolster my detachment from the practical world. I instinctively resisted any effort to fit me into the work-a-day mold embraced by my parents and their parents before them.
    So an uneasy standoff developed between Dad and me. When he eventually began simply to throw up his hands, this didn't mean I had worn him down—I was, after all, the fourth of five kids. No, I think the truth of the matter lies in Dad's own inner compass. What was most important to him was that his children be safe, and that meant developing a clear sense of what was expected of them in the world, preparing them to play contributing roles in a society that, if his experience was any indication, wasn't likely to cut them any slack. This was the test that I was failing, and he was at a loss about how to make me understand what was at stake.
    It's not that Dad didn't take pride in my creative pursuits. He and Mom showed up for every dramatic production, and out of the corner of my eye I could always find them in the front row. And when I couldn't actually see his face beaming with enjoyment, I could always hear his laughter booming above everyone else's. He'd even brag about my musical exploits to his co-workers; I was surprised when I went with Mom to pick him up from work one day and all the cops were slapping me on the back, tousling my shoulder-length hair, and referring to me as “the Halex kid.”
    Rock and roll—loud, unintelligible, and antisocial—was anathema to Dad. Even so, he managed to show up at a