A preacher put this question to a class of children: “If all the good people in the world were red, and all the bad people were green, what color would you be?”

Little Linda thought mightily for a moment. Then her face brightened and she replied, “Reverend, I’d be streaky!”

I tried so hard to be a good kid. I ate my vegetables (OK, so my favorite food was spinach, but it was followed closely by hotdogs), I opened the door for people, and I got good grades. I tried to behave myself, unless I was very, very angry. And I was angry a lot.

Despite my love for spinach, bad things kept happening. Being polite didn’t stop the abuse. I was convinced I was bad to the core, and God hated me, all evidenced by the violence in my life. Surely God wouldn’t let things like this happen to a good kid, right? I was determined to prove my goodness, but the abuse continued to happen.

When I was ten, I changed tactics. One day when my father hit me, I turned around and landed a fist in his gut. He doubled over in pain and surprise. “You will never hit me again, or I will fight back,” I told him. I did, too, and sometimes I fought dirty. I knew it was “bad” but being good hadn’t worked.

As it turned out, being bad didn’t work all that well either. I rarely had the upper hand. I hated myself for fighting, and for hurting my father. I labeled myself bad.

But like little Linda, I was actually streaky.

So was my father.

One of the things that time has given me is a general sense of forgiveness. Now I can remember there were good times too. While we were camping when I was six, Dad taught me to shoot. For my birthday party when I was seven or eight, he surprised me with a new bicycle, which he taught me to ride. When I was a young teenager, he gave me the keys to the car and let me drive. Even bigger, when I was born, he announced that he was going to be a better dad than his own father and was no longer going to drink.

My grandfather was intimidating to look at – and a violent drunk. I was well into adulthood before I realized that my father’s behavior was learned. He had set out to be a better parent than his father, and for all I know he may have succeeded. I know my grandfather was a very angry man.

For many years I could only see my father’s brutality. There was no room for his good side. There is nothing that will take away the violence, but today I can remember he was streaky.

In that process comes the ability to see I’m not all good nor all bad either. I’m just streaky.