When Being Right Is Not Enough Poem by Richard Randolph

In the 70's, teenage girls often wore very short shorts.
It was a treat for me, but my dear Italian grandmother was horrified.
When she'd see one of her granddaughters with their legs exposed,
she'd shake her head and tell them to put some clothes on.
She was truly heartbroken, I could tell, but they'd just laugh,
knowing they were right and she was wrong.
And, they were right, but when my grandmother died,
I found myself wishing they'd listened to her simply for her sake.

When I started college, my mother went to Italy,
and while she was there, she bought me a beautiful gold chain.
She had been raised poor during the depression,
so acts of generosity were always hard for her.
I knew it was a true act of love, but I didn't want it.
I feared it made me look too much like a Russian gangster,
so I gave it back to her. She was a little hurt, I could tell,
but that was okay because I knew I was right.
But then she, too, died, and now I find myself wishing I'd kept it.
If I had, I'd wear it now, Russian gangster or not.

When my first son was born,
my father was hurt we didn't name him after him,
and he became infuriated when he learned
we'd also chosen to hyphenate the last name
to include both my wife's last name with mine.
To him, it was adding insult to injury, as the saying goes.
He started yelling at me, and I told him
in no uncertain terms that it was none of his business.
It was pretty terrible, but at least I was sure
I was right and he was wrong. I still am.
But as a consequence, we didn't talk for years,
and then he also died, and now, sometimes,
I find myself missing him, despite all of his flaws,
and despite the fact that I was right and he was wrong.
It's funny, but I've learned being right is not enough.
I'm just not sure what the alternative is.