Dad’s teachings and examples were confusing and downright criminal at worst. Dad openly encouraged us to cheat and steal. He saw himself as a kind of Robin Hood, taking from the rich and giving to the poor. It was all okay, but don’t get caught.
We were taught never to start a fight, but if a Menard had been wronged, all was fair. We were taught to fight to win, elimi‐ nate, and destroy our opponents
While walking to my lesson one summer day, the town bully Scut Farkus stopped me. He was a giant of a boy with two years and fifty pounds on me. I have long forgotten his name, so “Scut” is what I’ll call him here.
“Where you goin’?” asked Scut as he blocked my movement.
“To my guitar lesson,” I replied.
“How much money you got?” Scut demanded.
“Two dollars for my lesson.”
“Give it to me, or I’ll smash your guitar.”
He would, so I quickly handed over the two dollars and retreated home. I was no match for Scut; he would have creamed me. My brother Jamie was the fighter; I was the lover and now, musician.
Dad arrived home on summer nights wiped out, exhausted, and almost shuffling across the kitchen floor. He listened to my story about Scut, and he understood. He showed no emotion, no anger, no clenched fist. He knew and taught us well that anger clouds judgment and response.
“Go to bed, Mike, and we will talk and make a plan on Saturday.”
First thing Saturday morning, Dad, Jamie, and I met in the basement. Dad walked Jamie and me through the plan. I didn’t like it. The plan was to have me handle the retaliation without Jamie or Dad—a bad dream.
Dad explained that I couldn’t rely on Jamie fighting fights for me, that it was time I manned up. “You can do it, Mike,” Dad and Jamie said. (And if it doesn’t work, Jamie will take care of it later.) Hello! It “not working” meant I’d lose another two dollars and get my face smashed. But I could tell by Dad’s eyes and tone that his mind was made up. I had no choice.
That following Tuesday, I began the death march to my lesson. “Cross the same intersection at Court and Washington at 3:45 p.m., the same time and place that Scut stopped you the week before,” Dad had said.
Like Pavlov’s dog, Scut was on the corner, salivating as I arrived.
“When Scut asks for the money, tell him you put the two dollars in the change slot of the pay phone inside the phone booth at that corner. When he goes to get the money, as he will surely do, put your guitar down; he will have to wedge his huge body into the booth, and he will be facing away from you, so he will have trouble raising his arms,” Dad explained in slow detail.
Scut did precisely what we wanted him to do: stepped into the booth and reached for the change return.
“When Scut steps into the booth with the folding door open, reach down and grab this club that I will place on the right side of the phone booth floor.” Dad held out the club made from a two-by-two board with electrical tape wrapped around the rounded handle he had turned on a lathe.
“Swing as fast and as hard as possible; go for his head. If he turns around, go for his face. Don’t stop until he is on the ground.”
It worked just as Dad said it would. I hit his head twice before he covered his head with both hands. Next, I hit his hands, and I’m sure I broke his fingers. Blood was everywhere. It was horrible.
“Once he’s on the ground, drop the stick and walk to your lesson.”
My hands were still trembling when I got to Mr. Stone’s house. I waited a few minutes before I knocked on Mr. Stone’s door and forced myself to stop shaking.
That was a big day, my “Clair De Lune” performance for my teacher and his sons. I never experienced performance jitters. As I played the song, my mind replayed the beating in slow motion. It was as if my music was the soundtrack to a movie.
We were taught never to start a fight, but if a Menard had been wronged, all was fair. We were taught to fight to win, eliminate, and destroy our opponents.
***
In 1985, I was forty-four years old and the Director of Engineering at the Johnson & Johnson company in Skillman, New Jersey. Based on my position, I was offered wonderful opportunities for self-improvement and advanced training.
My boss was Dr. Phil Stevenson, who had white hair and a white mustache that he stroked when thinking. Dr. Stevenson was one of the original Johnson & Johnson gentlemen who built the corporation through the sixties and seventies. Dr. Stevenson was kind, gentle, and wise, much like King Solomon. He called me “young Michael.”
Dr. Stevenson was responsible for innovating and developing new products, and reporting to Dr. Stevenson was Dennis Holtman, Director of Research and Development. Dennis was the head of the department that brought new products to reality; I was the head of the department that designed and built the machinery and shipped those machines to factories around the Johnson & Johnson world. Dennis and I couldn’t get along; we had an open and long-standing feud that got in the way of getting things done. At the heart of the problem was my passion and talent for innovation. I would develop a product idea, file a patent application, and then hand the product idea to Dennis. Dennis believed it was his job to innovate new products and didn’t appreciate the head of engineering upstaging him. Getting my new products through the research and development process (called R&D for short) became agonizing.
Dr. Stevenson called Dennis and me to a late morning meeting. “Your childish backbiting is getting in the way of getting things done. I don’t care who is to blame; I say both of you might be wrong. Here’s twenty dollars. Please go to lunch, work it out, and then see me so you can tell me the war is over. If you can’t do that, I’ll fire both of you.”
We had a great lunch and an honest talk. We emptied our suitcases of shit on each other and agreed to be best friends. We walked into Dr. Stevenson’s office after lunch, holding hands. Dr. Stevenson broke out in the open mouth, panic-stricken laugh he was known for. It worked.
During my annual performance reviews, Dr. Stevenson heaped praise on me. “You are a superstar, young Michael. You make work disappear as soon as I give it to you.” He gave me the highest raise and bonus possible.
Yet one review wasn’t so enjoyable. “I need you to work on something for me. When you engage in a disagreement, I know that you are always right, and you know you are right, or you wouldn’t engage in the fight. You always win because you are always right. But winning isn’t enough for you; you aren’t happy until you destroy your opponent. It would be best if you stopped once you’ve won. Here is Gert’s phone number; she is a psychiatrist and trainer specializing in assertiveness training. She will teach you the difference between aggression and assertiveness; it will do wonders for your career.”
I met with Gert every Wednesday for six weeks in downtown Manhattan. Gert developed a series of workshops and lessons; it was an excellent experience. I graduated with honors; never again would I go for the jugular.
Gert reinforced what my dad had taught me when I was twelve, “When you are angry, you will flail and swing wildly. Your anger will blind you.” Gert taught me that calm in the storm is power and phrases like, “Be that as it may…” “Here’s how I feel when you say things like that…”
She videotaped us while we role-played. She gave me homework, I was engaged. I needed this training because it helped unknot my dad’s teachings. “In the fight, don’t stop until you are sure they won’t get back off the ground.”
Gert’s training and coaching made me an even stronger fighter; words replaced my fists.
Assertiveness training was the most impactful education of all the classes I took from Johnson & Johnson over my twenty-five-year career. Gert and I became great friends. I was so impressed with Gert and my newfound tools that I worked with her to develop a three-day class approved by the Johnson & Johnson University. This group organized adult learning classes on a wide variety of topics. I made the training mandatory for the 200 engineers in my department. Word spread, and the program became popular. Gert knew that women benefited more than men from the training, and she created a second course, Assertiveness Training for Women. The classes were taught onsite at the Johnson & Johnson headquarters twice a year. I had lunch with Gert whenever she was in town.
a narrative of resilience and hope from the threads of his
challenging childhood. Raised amidst poverty and
complex trauma, Menard was one of 14 siblings, each
uniquely shaped by their shared experiences. His memoir
transcends mere storytelling; it’s a journey through the
harrowing and the humorous, the unbelievable and the
universal, resonating deeply with the human spirit of
overcoming adversity.
Menard’s life is a beacon of triumph, demonstrating that
out of the darkest circumstances can emerge the brightest
futures. His account is not just his own but a voice for
those who have faced similar trials. From laugh-out-loud
anecdotes to heart-wrenching realities, the book navigates
through a spectrum of emotions, offering readers a raw,
unfiltered glimpse into a life less ordinary. At its core, this
book is a testament to the indomitable human spirit. Menard’s mother, Arletta, emerges
as a hero, imparting lessons of love, hope, and resilience. In contrast, his father, Paul,
embodies the complexities of a man shaped by his own trauma, offering a nuanced
portrayal of parenthood and survival.
The Kite That Couldn’t Fly isn’t just a memoir; it’s a mirror for us all, reflecting the
universal journey of struggle and success. It challenges readers to confront their pasts,
understand their present, and rekindle hope for their futures. This book is a must-read
for anyone seeking to find light in their darkness, strength in their struggles, and a
reminder that even a kite that couldn’t fly can soar to unimaginable heights.
BUY ON AMAZON
PRAISE FOR THE KITE THAT COULDN’T FLY
What a truly superb and beautiful book! Michael Menard is a master storyteller, whose tales
brought me from laughter one moment to tears another. The Kite That Couldn’t Fly is chock full
of wisdom, humor, and insights about why we thrive and why we stumble. It shows how
unconditional love, hope, faith, and a strong spine overcome the most difficult circumstances.
I’m grateful for the pleasure of reading it and know it will be an inspiration and uplift to all who
read it.
– GLENN R. SCHIRALDI, PH.D., LT. COLONEL, AUTHOR, THE ADVERSE CHILDHOOD
EXPERIENCES RECOVERY WORKBOOK
An amazing journey from violence and poverty into triumph! The stories are compelling and
touching but it’s more than a story. This book can help heal the wounds we carry from
childhood. I couldn’t put it down.
– DAVE FARROW, INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR
Menard has written a midwestern version of Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes and even the
malignant nuns make a cameo. It’s the storytelling and the unique structure of the book that
makes The Kite That Couldn’t Fly so compelling.
– JAMES MURRAY, PHD
CONNECT:
To learn more, visit his website, www.thekitethatcouldntfly.com, or follow him on social media:
LinkedIn: Mike Menard
Facebook: Michael Menard
Instagram: @thekitethatcouldntfly
TikTok: @thekitethatcouldntfly
Now labeled as an “exemplary creator”, he has received fourteen US and multiple international patents including the inventions of infant disposable diapers with elastic legs and sanitary napkins with wings for women. His inventions are now responsible for over $50 billion in annual sales. Menard went on to co-found The GenSight Group, a company helping corporations find a systematic approach to strategic choice and resource optimization. Through GenSight, Menard has advised senior leadership at institutions such as the US Department of Energy, Pfizer, Coca Cola, NASA and the United Nations. Menard has contributed to numerous professional publications including Harvard Management Update, Gartner Research, and The Journal of the American Management Association.
He is also the author of two best-selling business books and remains the president of GenSight. Living in Tennessee with his wife, Emilie, he is a proud father of five daughters and grandfather to nine.
iStock featured image
