The last lockdown drill we had at school was announced earlier in the week on a memo. As usual, I read "lockdown" but never confirmed the date in my lesson plans or reminders. The drill, like so many others, never registered much recognition. This past week we had a fire drill during a time when my students were in Music class. I was working on my week's lesson plans. All I wanted to do was close the door and continue working. Let the invisible flames of disobedience consume me.
A Level 1 is free allows free movement within the building but with doors locked. Typically these are designated for emergencies outside of school, perhaps even outside of our vicinity. The drill is practiced, life resumes. A level 2 is to lock doors, cover the windows and does not allow for free movement. Perhaps a shooting or some disturbance in the area has caused the lockdown. Once we had a shooter who ran through the playground. Another threw a gun under a modular trailer. Typically some fight spills into the streets after the high school kids are dismissed, cops are called and we continue to teach. This drill was a Level 3.
Level 3 lockdowns are more serious in nature. Lights off, doors locked, kids in a huddle--quiet. Teaching fourth and fifth graders the last several years, the kids typically rush to their favorite spot in a cubby, they laugh and snicker until the high-heeled footsteps of the principal enters the room, threatens to take away their recess as I give them the I-told-you-so look. It's the same with most drills. Tornado drills are something else. All the kids worry about is bending over showing their undies and they make farting noises until we yell at them. On the day I disregarded the memo, my principal unlocks my door, steps in with safety and security (the district "heavies") and gives me a polite reprimand about being a level 3. At the time I was still teaching and the kids were working.
I doubt in the upcoming weeks I will take a lockdown drill less seriously after the events this weekend at Sandy Hook ES.
Two weeks ago, a member of our Life Group, who is also a teacher, said his high school was conducting a mock-lockdown in which students were actually going to enter rooms. Sadly, these are the kinds of things schools do now, perhaps not always, but once a month is enough. How do you reenact the events of Columbine? Why would anyone want to?
Amid the outpouring of grief around America, I've been consumed with my own thoughts on the matter this weekend. Upon first glance, the day reminded me of my first year teaching. The same year 9/11 occurred. The lasting memory of that school day was walking through the halls (on another lockdown) and seeing kids watching cartoons--oblivious to the events--just innocently ignorant.
When my wife told me of the events over the room phone, I didn't tell my fifth graders. I did not even look up info on the computer. Perhaps my desensitization caused an otherwise "again?" response but nothing more. Telling the kids was out of the question. Most of them have a naive understanding of the world around them. Arguments have ensued in class ranging from topics as diverse as Halloween=devil worship, goth=devil worship, Osama bin Laden was hired by the government to terrorize us with death planes, and so on. We've almost finished reading The Giver, a beautiful young adult novel about a controlling society. The discussion this past week was euthanasia. I tried finding an appropriate video to argue both sides of the issue. Is it suicide? Murder? We read together in chapter 19 the moment the main character's father injects a baby with a lethal dose to "release" it, thereby extinguishing a young life and keeping the balance of the community in tact. Chilling.
The terror of the chapter subsided (one of my girls who had read ahead asked to leave the room. She officially hates the novel.) and we continued the day. Now a new terror, a real terror, entered their lives when they set foot into their houses on Friday.
My room is literally the last room on the left of a Y-wing designed building. I keep thinking that if something horrific were to befall our school, I'm exiting with my kids stage left and running to the junior high. Get them to safety. I think I would storm the shooter like the Sandy Hook principal. Who knows? For years I was frightened of my own shadow. Now I feel more defiant. No one knows for sure. Who would want that decision?
Stories like teacher Victoria Soto who was gunned down just after telling the shooter her kids were in the gym, inspire the type of heroism within me. There were many other heroes that day too--and devils.
Facebook has been rife with memorials and opinions. The best ones have nothing to do with guns and everything to do with trying to understand the motives. We can blame more than guns (more on that in a moment). Video games, divorce, the lack of prayer in schools, violent movies and now even autism.
People have blamed God. I'm not going to defend God here. He has a Bible for that and He doesn't need my limited understanding to defend the events of the world--the evil or the appraised.
And I wont defend guns either. Some of my friends have used the incident for their own political rants. God Bless America one reads, then lists the amount of deaths attributed to guns in America compared to other countries. Another post tells how arming a teacher would have eliminated the threat almost immediately. I know teachers that barely read emails (or memos), burn their popcorn in the microwave and can't operate a Smartboard. Arming them is the issue? Oh yes, cause that's what a teacher needs to have strapped around their belts during parent-teacher conferences. Perhaps the gun would come in handy to begin wind sprints.
I respect people with legal guns. I have many friends with handguns and rifles for hunting. None of them are posting insensitive posts about the right to bear arms or impeaching Obama. I've begun to think that less guns, like less abortions or less prisoners dying from lethal injections and less wars, would be a great idea. Why are there semi-automatic clips even available? Even the shooter in question Friday had access to 5 guns. 5? I don't think I've even seen 5 guns that weren't attached to a cop's belt in m life. Even with gun laws, gun control, how are you going to get the remaining guns off the streets when we can't even eliminate drugs.
The most gut-wrenching of all was looking into the eyes of my own son during another one of his tantrums. While he hasn't been diagnosed with nothing more than ADHD, if he continues to curse when he is angry or kick the walls in his room when he is punished, how long will it be before he's labeled something else? Is it more counseling? Perhaps it's nothing more than a "boy" thing. Then I read this article--I Am Adam Lanza's Mom. I'm not the only parent with a son who snaps. While his words and actions aren't as extreme, how many times can these events happen before we all take a look at our kids and wonder how we're raising them, and what we allow them to have access to.
My son's major flareups lately have been related to electronics--his iPod. A seemingly innocent device used for music and games. But for him, he can lose hours playing games. Not violent ones, but disconnected nonetheless. How disconnected was this kid who killed children?
There's other gut-checks to come. The next one is Monday when my kids come in with their questions and misconceptions. All I want to do is hug them and tell them it will be okay. But it's not okay. Not this time.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
The Routine of Beauty
It comes to no surprise I don't quite understand women. This goes for little girls like my youngest daughter, young adults the age of my oldest daughter, or even the students in my class. I'm reminded of the phenomenon described as girls behavior every Monday when I take Milly (my youngest) to dancing class.
Let me set the scene. Imagine walking into a dance studio which is more like a large apartment building where 2 rooms are designated for dancing, one for the office (where on any given night, three or four mom-owners fold clothes, jabber and eat their dinners as patrons walk by), and one a waiting room. In the waiting room there are 3 neon green sofas, with one of them being a love seat. Although the sofas could sit about 8 people altogether comfortably, there is usually only one person at each sofa. The rest of the seats are piled with laptop cords, discarded jackets, shoes, kids in diapers who trampoline the cushions and the awkwardness of having to sit in a plush seat next to someone you really don't know. As a man, and one of the few males ever in the place (I'm not counting the hipster guy who sits next to his pregnant girlfriend who always seems to be genuinely amused when random children walk by handing him their toys), it is especially awkward sitting next to any mom. Not that I don't want to talk to anyone, it's just that the look of me, all 300 pounds of me, the seriousness of myself coming off from school (where I have already been in a crowded room full of kids for 8 hours) of what it must seem as I converse (and when I converse I converse, all talk with my hands kind of guy), act charming, nod my head in that almost condescending you-know-what-I-mean-because-we're-both-parents-kind-of-way way.
So typically I walk in with Milly with some kind of book, papers to grade and my headphones to drown out the noise. In any place there are 90% women, like say a Panera, the place is loud. Not even really kid loud, because there are plenty of them, but just the type of talk that women do when they are trying to one-up one another.
Oh, my daughter does that too.
That's all my husband does nowadays.
Well, at my school....
By the time Milly twirls herself to class, the room is overrun with several little girls stretching, running around the sofas, and planning their routine before their class starts. Girls are either amazingly self-promoting divas or they have so little self-esteem that they must make sure everyone in the room looks at them. Perhaps it's the culture as well on display. How many girls watch X-Factor and American Idol and hope that all their twirls and bends will magically enhance their popularity?
There has been a liberal agenda of late, before the election especially, titled the "war on women." And anytime some old Republican answers a question about abortion or defunding Planned Parenthood, news organizations like the Huffington Post blare headlines about how men are trying to wrangle women back into the stone ages. (Ironically, Jay-Z was performing for Obama before the election. What does he think of women? He pours champagne on them and calls them "hoes") But to me, the real war is with women amongst themselves. Does anyone realize the magnitude of insults and bullying that goes on among fifth grade girls? What about junior high girls (and this goes way beyond bullying girls who are homosexual)? What about adult women? For every 100 commercials that promote sex and women's curves, there might be one special on the View about loving the large woman, or being yourself where the audience (who are always moms with nice hairdos like the ones who nod approvingly in Milly's dance class) claps and cries and vows to change the culture. Then they go out and order salads and diet cokes because they have to fit in the smaller sized jeans for a party on Saturday.
I shouldn't put the burden entirely on the culture. In truth, the culture is defined by us, the consumers, and are primarily organized by the men who own them. Husbands like me are to blame as well. We rescue the beauty, we win her heart only to revert to pornography, our no-women-allowed activities and not helping out at home. I'm to blame too. I say nothing here that I haven't done before, or that I'm noticing to change.
In the book Boys Adrift, Dr. Sax details the criminally large amount of single guys who have this failure to launch. They are stuck in adolescence--their video games, their porn, their joblessness. They are outnumbered almost 4-1 in american colleges. We sure have closed the gender gap, but has this been at the disadvantage of young men? The boys today shirk from responsibility, from manhood and from a woman who is demanding (and this is not demanding in a nagging sense, but demanding as a wanted and valued member of a home) more of them. These are the type of young men seeking the companionship of my oldest daughter in college. These are the young men who have not been taught to open doors, or to ask a father for permission to date. They have not been taught simply because many men have twisted the responsibility of what being a man is in exchange for something quicker and less demanding. Why work on a marriage when the pretty girl on the computer gives you anything you want for free?
Take this statement from another book: Every woman needs to know that she is exquisite, and exotic and chosen. Is this why Eve was tempted in the garden? Is this why she was tempted first, because she wanted control of her surroundings? Did she long for Adam to pay attention to her instead of plowing the fields? Again, back to fathers. The same fathers who have wounded their young sons can also do irreparable harm to their daughters as well. Not having a father is just as worse to an impressionable young girl. Or what about the abusive father, the uncles who went a little to far during the holiday over-night? Or the fathers who loved their daughters with silence.
So we now have a world full of broken men and women all trying to outwit and determine what the other one wants. Women can sure arouse our masculinity, but no matter how much or how many we pour our lives into, nothing can ever fulfill the emptiness of a broken heart.
Back to my little girls at home.
Dance class is about over. Just before the next round of classes begin, another onslaught of girls enters to stretch, dance and text. Almost all of them are thin, petite or gymnastic-tiny. Again, in our world, only the beautiful can dance. I stand to look at my daughter through the parent-view two-way mirror. When she twirls she rotates an extra 90 degrees too much. She bends too low at times, falls over when she should keep her balance. I love every bit of her awkward dances, the routine of her beauty. She's the only one I want to dance with. The one for which I'm willing to fight.
Let me set the scene. Imagine walking into a dance studio which is more like a large apartment building where 2 rooms are designated for dancing, one for the office (where on any given night, three or four mom-owners fold clothes, jabber and eat their dinners as patrons walk by), and one a waiting room. In the waiting room there are 3 neon green sofas, with one of them being a love seat. Although the sofas could sit about 8 people altogether comfortably, there is usually only one person at each sofa. The rest of the seats are piled with laptop cords, discarded jackets, shoes, kids in diapers who trampoline the cushions and the awkwardness of having to sit in a plush seat next to someone you really don't know. As a man, and one of the few males ever in the place (I'm not counting the hipster guy who sits next to his pregnant girlfriend who always seems to be genuinely amused when random children walk by handing him their toys), it is especially awkward sitting next to any mom. Not that I don't want to talk to anyone, it's just that the look of me, all 300 pounds of me, the seriousness of myself coming off from school (where I have already been in a crowded room full of kids for 8 hours) of what it must seem as I converse (and when I converse I converse, all talk with my hands kind of guy), act charming, nod my head in that almost condescending you-know-what-I-mean-because-we're-both-parents-kind-of-way way.
So typically I walk in with Milly with some kind of book, papers to grade and my headphones to drown out the noise. In any place there are 90% women, like say a Panera, the place is loud. Not even really kid loud, because there are plenty of them, but just the type of talk that women do when they are trying to one-up one another.
Oh, my daughter does that too.
That's all my husband does nowadays.
Well, at my school....
By the time Milly twirls herself to class, the room is overrun with several little girls stretching, running around the sofas, and planning their routine before their class starts. Girls are either amazingly self-promoting divas or they have so little self-esteem that they must make sure everyone in the room looks at them. Perhaps it's the culture as well on display. How many girls watch X-Factor and American Idol and hope that all their twirls and bends will magically enhance their popularity?
There has been a liberal agenda of late, before the election especially, titled the "war on women." And anytime some old Republican answers a question about abortion or defunding Planned Parenthood, news organizations like the Huffington Post blare headlines about how men are trying to wrangle women back into the stone ages. (Ironically, Jay-Z was performing for Obama before the election. What does he think of women? He pours champagne on them and calls them "hoes") But to me, the real war is with women amongst themselves. Does anyone realize the magnitude of insults and bullying that goes on among fifth grade girls? What about junior high girls (and this goes way beyond bullying girls who are homosexual)? What about adult women? For every 100 commercials that promote sex and women's curves, there might be one special on the View about loving the large woman, or being yourself where the audience (who are always moms with nice hairdos like the ones who nod approvingly in Milly's dance class) claps and cries and vows to change the culture. Then they go out and order salads and diet cokes because they have to fit in the smaller sized jeans for a party on Saturday.
I shouldn't put the burden entirely on the culture. In truth, the culture is defined by us, the consumers, and are primarily organized by the men who own them. Husbands like me are to blame as well. We rescue the beauty, we win her heart only to revert to pornography, our no-women-allowed activities and not helping out at home. I'm to blame too. I say nothing here that I haven't done before, or that I'm noticing to change.
In the book Boys Adrift, Dr. Sax details the criminally large amount of single guys who have this failure to launch. They are stuck in adolescence--their video games, their porn, their joblessness. They are outnumbered almost 4-1 in american colleges. We sure have closed the gender gap, but has this been at the disadvantage of young men? The boys today shirk from responsibility, from manhood and from a woman who is demanding (and this is not demanding in a nagging sense, but demanding as a wanted and valued member of a home) more of them. These are the type of young men seeking the companionship of my oldest daughter in college. These are the young men who have not been taught to open doors, or to ask a father for permission to date. They have not been taught simply because many men have twisted the responsibility of what being a man is in exchange for something quicker and less demanding. Why work on a marriage when the pretty girl on the computer gives you anything you want for free?
Take this statement from another book: Every woman needs to know that she is exquisite, and exotic and chosen. Is this why Eve was tempted in the garden? Is this why she was tempted first, because she wanted control of her surroundings? Did she long for Adam to pay attention to her instead of plowing the fields? Again, back to fathers. The same fathers who have wounded their young sons can also do irreparable harm to their daughters as well. Not having a father is just as worse to an impressionable young girl. Or what about the abusive father, the uncles who went a little to far during the holiday over-night? Or the fathers who loved their daughters with silence.
So we now have a world full of broken men and women all trying to outwit and determine what the other one wants. Women can sure arouse our masculinity, but no matter how much or how many we pour our lives into, nothing can ever fulfill the emptiness of a broken heart.
Back to my little girls at home.
Dance class is about over. Just before the next round of classes begin, another onslaught of girls enters to stretch, dance and text. Almost all of them are thin, petite or gymnastic-tiny. Again, in our world, only the beautiful can dance. I stand to look at my daughter through the parent-view two-way mirror. When she twirls she rotates an extra 90 degrees too much. She bends too low at times, falls over when she should keep her balance. I love every bit of her awkward dances, the routine of her beauty. She's the only one I want to dance with. The one for which I'm willing to fight.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Fortune Cookie Aspirations
Who doesn't like fortune cookies? In my long history of devouring 2 plates at Chinese buffets and inhaling a fortune cookie afterward is one of my hungerous highlights. They have even evolved over time. When I was a kid they simply had a saying. Now, they have lucky numbers, lucky months and word of the days in Chinese.
When people use fortune cookie phrases in daily conversation, it's the kind of cookie you need not unwrap. Sometimes it's annoying to hear a quip from an unknown author about how you should be more grateful, or thankful, or full of something. Your parent says one and they sound so wise (or annoying) and when you say one you come across as enlightened (or a douche bag).
I told one of my daughter's coaches last year that she had a fortune cookie mentality when my daughter needed her the most. Perhaps I was being a bit dramatic. I was compressing her years of experience by taking one quote out of context. Control the controllables was just not the one thing I wanted to hear as my daughter sat the bench. I know she probably told my daughter many other things that season that I didn't hear.
Two years previous when a different coach said the phrase to my daughter at practice, the fortune cookie zen-like Control what you can control sounded like the best advice for a struggling hitter. Get the umpire's erratic strike zone out of your mind--can't control it. Get the idea out of your mind the pitcher is trying to walk you or hit you--can't control what she's throwing. Stop thinking about who will be mad at you if you strike out--can't control it.
During a contentious staff meeting on Wednesday, the same phrase leaked back into my conscious--Control the controllables.
And I made a list, like any good teacher would do. A graphic organizer of things I can control and things I cannot. Like my bosses decisions. I cannot dictate any of those decisions just to suit me. Or my student's attendance. This past week with onyl 4 days of school to attend, there were a total of 8-10 different absences, at least 4 kids who left early and over 5 tardies. I cannot control the lack of transportation, or the unwilling feet of a child walking to the school bus.
What I can control is my attitude. I can control my reaction to the kids who misbehave, smack their lips or forget their homework. I can control how I treat my colleagues, too. Five years ago I left my old building in a flaming, bridge-destroying melee. I felt there was a lack of leadership, a lack of passion in my fellow hallmates, appreciation for the man sitting in room 16 who was undoubtedly the reason the school was still operational. Five years later, the school still stands. My friends have moved on, the principal has since left, and the kids have graduated and transferred to the awkwardness of junior high.
This year has come with an onslaught of challenges. 35 kids in the beginning of the year. Two grades. Coaching 2 different sports. An entire new curriculum to comb through and decipher. I began to build walls around me. The kids in room 160 would have the best education I could give them. I would single handedly solve all their ills and inspire a film director someplace to document that success to the silver screen. I needed someone at that moment to unravel my own fortune cookie aspirations to remind me what was important.
Silence and humility eventually won. Keeping silent is never something I handle easily. Saying sorry is something I'm working on. I admit my faults to a certain degree. In a room full of people, I act just like my students. I shrug my shoulders and roll my eyes. One on one, I can be sincere. A true man can be sincere, should be. Hypocrite, I am thee!
So after erasing and switching categories of my graphic organizer I came to the conclusion that I am in control more than I think. I'm a humanist by no means. God will place obstacles and people along the way to teach me something about myself. I don't always ask Him what lesson I am supposed to learn along the way, simply because I haven't trained myself to do so.
The cool thing about God's training program? It has a lifetime warranty.
When people use fortune cookie phrases in daily conversation, it's the kind of cookie you need not unwrap. Sometimes it's annoying to hear a quip from an unknown author about how you should be more grateful, or thankful, or full of something. Your parent says one and they sound so wise (or annoying) and when you say one you come across as enlightened (or a douche bag).
I told one of my daughter's coaches last year that she had a fortune cookie mentality when my daughter needed her the most. Perhaps I was being a bit dramatic. I was compressing her years of experience by taking one quote out of context. Control the controllables was just not the one thing I wanted to hear as my daughter sat the bench. I know she probably told my daughter many other things that season that I didn't hear.
Two years previous when a different coach said the phrase to my daughter at practice, the fortune cookie zen-like Control what you can control sounded like the best advice for a struggling hitter. Get the umpire's erratic strike zone out of your mind--can't control it. Get the idea out of your mind the pitcher is trying to walk you or hit you--can't control what she's throwing. Stop thinking about who will be mad at you if you strike out--can't control it.
During a contentious staff meeting on Wednesday, the same phrase leaked back into my conscious--Control the controllables.
And I made a list, like any good teacher would do. A graphic organizer of things I can control and things I cannot. Like my bosses decisions. I cannot dictate any of those decisions just to suit me. Or my student's attendance. This past week with onyl 4 days of school to attend, there were a total of 8-10 different absences, at least 4 kids who left early and over 5 tardies. I cannot control the lack of transportation, or the unwilling feet of a child walking to the school bus.
What I can control is my attitude. I can control my reaction to the kids who misbehave, smack their lips or forget their homework. I can control how I treat my colleagues, too. Five years ago I left my old building in a flaming, bridge-destroying melee. I felt there was a lack of leadership, a lack of passion in my fellow hallmates, appreciation for the man sitting in room 16 who was undoubtedly the reason the school was still operational. Five years later, the school still stands. My friends have moved on, the principal has since left, and the kids have graduated and transferred to the awkwardness of junior high.
This year has come with an onslaught of challenges. 35 kids in the beginning of the year. Two grades. Coaching 2 different sports. An entire new curriculum to comb through and decipher. I began to build walls around me. The kids in room 160 would have the best education I could give them. I would single handedly solve all their ills and inspire a film director someplace to document that success to the silver screen. I needed someone at that moment to unravel my own fortune cookie aspirations to remind me what was important.
Silence and humility eventually won. Keeping silent is never something I handle easily. Saying sorry is something I'm working on. I admit my faults to a certain degree. In a room full of people, I act just like my students. I shrug my shoulders and roll my eyes. One on one, I can be sincere. A true man can be sincere, should be. Hypocrite, I am thee!
So after erasing and switching categories of my graphic organizer I came to the conclusion that I am in control more than I think. I'm a humanist by no means. God will place obstacles and people along the way to teach me something about myself. I don't always ask Him what lesson I am supposed to learn along the way, simply because I haven't trained myself to do so.
The cool thing about God's training program? It has a lifetime warranty.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Red Rubber Ball
There was this moment, I think it was my 4th or 5th grade year, when I felt what it was like to be made fun of. I had not remembered up until this point. My kindergarten memory is one of carpet squares and naps. First and second get mixed in together. I had 2 different schools and about the only thing I have fondness for is my grandmother's apartment complex and walking to school. But third is when kids became mean. And I did too.
Walking in line from lunch, I kicked a confessed "booger eater" in the shin. I had to hold my lunch tray above my head during lunch. We had "put down" contests at lunch, too. We worked on perfecting the "your momma is so fat" jokes and our intention was to make other kids cry. No one made fun of me much in third, simply because I became the bully, the loudmouth and the jokester.
In 4th and 5th, I moved to another school. I was the last one picked in class for games, the one who always seemed in trouble, the one who had something to prove. One of my first activities at recess was bopping a kid in the eye with a pine cone--not a great first impression. I made friends, the wrong ones. I translated Michael Jackson's Thriller album lyrics into pornographic fantasies. (In the meantime, I was writing short stories about a fictional GI Joe team who kicked communist butt.) I had friends but I lived on the fringe. This became more evident by the lack of skill I presented in kickball.
So I did something about it. I kicked the one kickball we had against the brick wall we had at my house. Catching it and kicking it, over and over. I had my other fringe friend Kevin Hebert meet me, roll the ball my way and kicked it high into the air. All the adventure a boy could muster hinged on the flight of that red rubber ball.
It was the one time I remember when I fought for something. The bully who fought for his line among the pack. No more getting picked last. No more making fun of this guy.
Afterwards, the wages of my self-reliance led to a mountain of problems. I didn't fight again. I argued, yes, but I never fought. I argued with my mom over who to spend my time with Surely not that girl? I argued with my step-father over the path he had taken with Jesus. We're talking about you, right? I argued with a Wal-Mart employee over an unassembled grill I purchased. I even cursed. Wearing my school t-shirt.
None of them made me feel like a man. At the time it did, I'm sure. The rush of saying the f word in a public setting (it's not just for white people to say anymore, my mind told me) will do that. Fighting for the right to be a jackass is easy, I learned. Anyone can do that.
This past week, I have been delivering one message to my fifth graders. Doing well, making good grades, being here in attendance is hard. Failing is easy. Throwing a temper tantrum is easy. Not doing homework, making excuses and losing your papers is always easy. But work is called work for a reason. Do you want an easy life? Or one you're proud of because you stepped up?
And the lessons continue. Especially for me.
A quote from my men's study: Let the world feel the weight of you and let them handle it.
After the foul-mouthed kid grew up, he found outlets for his cravings. Pornography made it easy to stay at home and fail at relationships. Why make a girl happy when this one on the computer screen, in this glossy magazine, does it for nothing. I ate everything in sight simply because everyone expected me to eat. I dropped out of school because that's what minorities do anyway, right?
I had to learn to fight.
For my students. For my kids. I want to fight battles that other people probably don't want me to enlist for. Saying the one line in a staff meeting that raises eyebrows ignites those flames. Getting fired up about a kid's effort and capacity to learn instead of the usual you-annoy-me cathedral is music in my room. " When I'm done teaching, I'm sweating," a professor at college once told me. And he sure looked the part. As a future teacher, I wanted that passion. Ray Rotella was one of the first men I met along the way. God placed him in my path before I even knew God was pursuing me. Ray and I never even talked about Jesus or God, but he was there in that part of my life for a reason. Have passion!
So I'm fighting. Joining the battle. I just finished writing notes after dinner for the men's study. I'm enlisting men into battle like some Tio Sam. I want warriors. I want wounded men who are ready for purpose. I want to love my wife like when we first met. And you know what happens when you fight for your loved one? The passion returns. Oh yes.
And now I know what Kevin Hebert must have felt awaiting the return of the red rubber ball. Is it ever going to return? Not today, my friend. Not today.
Walking in line from lunch, I kicked a confessed "booger eater" in the shin. I had to hold my lunch tray above my head during lunch. We had "put down" contests at lunch, too. We worked on perfecting the "your momma is so fat" jokes and our intention was to make other kids cry. No one made fun of me much in third, simply because I became the bully, the loudmouth and the jokester.
In 4th and 5th, I moved to another school. I was the last one picked in class for games, the one who always seemed in trouble, the one who had something to prove. One of my first activities at recess was bopping a kid in the eye with a pine cone--not a great first impression. I made friends, the wrong ones. I translated Michael Jackson's Thriller album lyrics into pornographic fantasies. (In the meantime, I was writing short stories about a fictional GI Joe team who kicked communist butt.) I had friends but I lived on the fringe. This became more evident by the lack of skill I presented in kickball.
So I did something about it. I kicked the one kickball we had against the brick wall we had at my house. Catching it and kicking it, over and over. I had my other fringe friend Kevin Hebert meet me, roll the ball my way and kicked it high into the air. All the adventure a boy could muster hinged on the flight of that red rubber ball.
It was the one time I remember when I fought for something. The bully who fought for his line among the pack. No more getting picked last. No more making fun of this guy.
Afterwards, the wages of my self-reliance led to a mountain of problems. I didn't fight again. I argued, yes, but I never fought. I argued with my mom over who to spend my time with Surely not that girl? I argued with my step-father over the path he had taken with Jesus. We're talking about you, right? I argued with a Wal-Mart employee over an unassembled grill I purchased. I even cursed. Wearing my school t-shirt.
None of them made me feel like a man. At the time it did, I'm sure. The rush of saying the f word in a public setting (it's not just for white people to say anymore, my mind told me) will do that. Fighting for the right to be a jackass is easy, I learned. Anyone can do that.
This past week, I have been delivering one message to my fifth graders. Doing well, making good grades, being here in attendance is hard. Failing is easy. Throwing a temper tantrum is easy. Not doing homework, making excuses and losing your papers is always easy. But work is called work for a reason. Do you want an easy life? Or one you're proud of because you stepped up?
And the lessons continue. Especially for me.
A quote from my men's study: Let the world feel the weight of you and let them handle it.
After the foul-mouthed kid grew up, he found outlets for his cravings. Pornography made it easy to stay at home and fail at relationships. Why make a girl happy when this one on the computer screen, in this glossy magazine, does it for nothing. I ate everything in sight simply because everyone expected me to eat. I dropped out of school because that's what minorities do anyway, right?
I had to learn to fight.
For my students. For my kids. I want to fight battles that other people probably don't want me to enlist for. Saying the one line in a staff meeting that raises eyebrows ignites those flames. Getting fired up about a kid's effort and capacity to learn instead of the usual you-annoy-me cathedral is music in my room. " When I'm done teaching, I'm sweating," a professor at college once told me. And he sure looked the part. As a future teacher, I wanted that passion. Ray Rotella was one of the first men I met along the way. God placed him in my path before I even knew God was pursuing me. Ray and I never even talked about Jesus or God, but he was there in that part of my life for a reason. Have passion!
So I'm fighting. Joining the battle. I just finished writing notes after dinner for the men's study. I'm enlisting men into battle like some Tio Sam. I want warriors. I want wounded men who are ready for purpose. I want to love my wife like when we first met. And you know what happens when you fight for your loved one? The passion returns. Oh yes.
And now I know what Kevin Hebert must have felt awaiting the return of the red rubber ball. Is it ever going to return? Not today, my friend. Not today.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Arms of a Desperate Man
The one thing about class sizes I've learned over the past ten years as an educator, is that the more kids you have doesn't necessarily make you a better teacher. (I'm sure I'll be quoted in some Republican-led website that bashes unions.) It gives you less papers to grade, yes, and it makes your management style look better when the class silences themselves in 10 seconds rather than 30. But the one thing that class size does is it makes a teacher realize how much more work they really have. At 30 or more, a teacher can overlook the cracks that unfold around a student simply because there isn't time to fully digest the situation. Paperwork is filed, calls are dodged, administrators are placed on various levels of defcon alerts, but the simple fact is, if a kid can go an entire week without being suspended, it means you've reached them. The kid who is chronically absent is forgotten by the time the papers are passed out. And the students with the suspected and undiagnosed learning disability? Where did those papers go I was trying to complete?
Recently I've been relieved of the overcrowding. Down to 24 students is nice. Teaching one grade is even better. I find the off-topic voices and can trace the eyes lingering off much faster. It has also magnified their issues. One quarter down and I'm barely finding out about kids bounced from homeless shelters. The emergency forms of others have already become obsolete by the time I try to reach them. Conferences are around the corner and I have but a fraction of the parents I want to see. And it's always the parents who I've met with before--the smart ones are their kids. The achievers. They want more homework. Challenge them, they tell me. They're the kids who attend school 90% of the time.
The biggest challenges I face are a copier machine that doesn't work. Honestly. There isn't much that grabs my attention these days. Reward kids, pump them up, help them find themselves. Each year brings new obstacles and mixtures of plots and themes that have played out in previous episodes. The frustrations are sometimes adult related (oh, I could write a book about that one) and bureaucratic. I listen to the presidential debates and hear nothing of how their policies will help the parents, the ones I desperately need the support of.
I can play the class war that's evident on the news. Rich v poor, the job producers and unemployed, the victims and the middle class. The amount of taxes one pays won't amount to much in the long run. What's fair? I always tell my students life isn't fair. Hell, they know this just looking around at each other. We're reading novels that feature a distinct vision of our future. One is a utopia where every aspect of your life is controlled for the common good. One is a dystopia where you are forced into coercion. The difference between the two are the costumes.
Both are fantasies. Perhaps I'm teaching about these societies to draw attention to today's wrongs. Perhaps it's my way of saying the world, as beautiful and broken as it is, continues to devolve. I was reminded that even the Isrealites demanded a king to rule them like every other nation around them. Saul, the one whose ears felt the please, felt as if he had failed. God reminded him that he had not. They didn't turn from Saul, they turned from God.
And next week I'm supposed to vote? It's becoming a harder decision to make these days. No one inspires me to do more in my community. Neither one of them gives a radiance of approval. I'm reminded that humans are imperfect. They never keep their promises. Will any administration bring jobs back from China? From India? Why electrify the borders when my fellow brown people are doing much of the grunt work? They are today's dangerous men, like the Chinese working on the railroads in the Old West. I once read that Asian workers handled much of the nitro glycerin needed to blow holes through mountains. Imagine how much blood was spilled for progress? How much blood is spilled for our progress now?
Women feel like the right wing is at war with them. Attacking Planned Parenthood isn't the way to diminish the numbers on abortion. I'd love to see less of them, but no one is attacking the root of the problem. It's too late for that now. The word rape is tossed around so much, I'm waiting for my son and little one to ask awkward questions.
Muslim fears are perpetuated online. Some of the videos can be frightening when you view them in the middle of the night. Exposed in the light of day, they are nothing more than distractions. You think my parents care? My fifth graders are consumed with illuminati conspiracies, Halloween myths (does it mean you're worshiping the devil if you trick or treat, Mr. Cordova?), and what they can buy in school store. The faces change but the questions remain. And desperately they cry for more. I don't have enough arms to hold everyone together.
Recently I've been relieved of the overcrowding. Down to 24 students is nice. Teaching one grade is even better. I find the off-topic voices and can trace the eyes lingering off much faster. It has also magnified their issues. One quarter down and I'm barely finding out about kids bounced from homeless shelters. The emergency forms of others have already become obsolete by the time I try to reach them. Conferences are around the corner and I have but a fraction of the parents I want to see. And it's always the parents who I've met with before--the smart ones are their kids. The achievers. They want more homework. Challenge them, they tell me. They're the kids who attend school 90% of the time.
The biggest challenges I face are a copier machine that doesn't work. Honestly. There isn't much that grabs my attention these days. Reward kids, pump them up, help them find themselves. Each year brings new obstacles and mixtures of plots and themes that have played out in previous episodes. The frustrations are sometimes adult related (oh, I could write a book about that one) and bureaucratic. I listen to the presidential debates and hear nothing of how their policies will help the parents, the ones I desperately need the support of.
I can play the class war that's evident on the news. Rich v poor, the job producers and unemployed, the victims and the middle class. The amount of taxes one pays won't amount to much in the long run. What's fair? I always tell my students life isn't fair. Hell, they know this just looking around at each other. We're reading novels that feature a distinct vision of our future. One is a utopia where every aspect of your life is controlled for the common good. One is a dystopia where you are forced into coercion. The difference between the two are the costumes.
Both are fantasies. Perhaps I'm teaching about these societies to draw attention to today's wrongs. Perhaps it's my way of saying the world, as beautiful and broken as it is, continues to devolve. I was reminded that even the Isrealites demanded a king to rule them like every other nation around them. Saul, the one whose ears felt the please, felt as if he had failed. God reminded him that he had not. They didn't turn from Saul, they turned from God.
And next week I'm supposed to vote? It's becoming a harder decision to make these days. No one inspires me to do more in my community. Neither one of them gives a radiance of approval. I'm reminded that humans are imperfect. They never keep their promises. Will any administration bring jobs back from China? From India? Why electrify the borders when my fellow brown people are doing much of the grunt work? They are today's dangerous men, like the Chinese working on the railroads in the Old West. I once read that Asian workers handled much of the nitro glycerin needed to blow holes through mountains. Imagine how much blood was spilled for progress? How much blood is spilled for our progress now?
Women feel like the right wing is at war with them. Attacking Planned Parenthood isn't the way to diminish the numbers on abortion. I'd love to see less of them, but no one is attacking the root of the problem. It's too late for that now. The word rape is tossed around so much, I'm waiting for my son and little one to ask awkward questions.
Muslim fears are perpetuated online. Some of the videos can be frightening when you view them in the middle of the night. Exposed in the light of day, they are nothing more than distractions. You think my parents care? My fifth graders are consumed with illuminati conspiracies, Halloween myths (does it mean you're worshiping the devil if you trick or treat, Mr. Cordova?), and what they can buy in school store. The faces change but the questions remain. And desperately they cry for more. I don't have enough arms to hold everyone together.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Now Showing: Just Enough
Just enough.
They don't make movies about guys that do just enough. You make movies about champs, warriors, and against-the-odds over achievers. The next movie coming to your town will not be called Mediocre.
But that's been the marquee film playing in the background of my life. I'm the star. The director, the scriptwriter. I work the lighting and produce the film. It shows everyday, 7 days a week. And it's free.
The crucial Oscar winning scene comes midway through my high school years. Playing football up until my sophomore year had never been much of a priority. I can't ever remember wanting to actually play the game other than watching the Oilers on tv. I took advantage of meeting new people and friends before school started during 2-a-day practices. I liked hitting 7th graders when I was in 8th grade. I did an Arsenio Hall when I tackled a quarterback for my first ever recorded safety. My step-dad told me at the time someone in the stands said, that kid is intense.
No one has ever said it since.
By the time high school came around, kids my size were expected to play football. What the hell else would I have done? I quit my freshman year. That's when the quitting started. Quitting is like a drug to me. It became easy afterwards. Not showing up for a commitment Backing out at the last minute. Saying yes then not being around to say no was my favorite game. I can't even remember why I quit. No one caused a fuss. When I turned in my equipment, the coach didn't even snicker. Just another kid.
He doesn't have what it takes, anyways.
When I transferred schools my sophomore year, football again became the way to meet people. Football guys in Texas were always the most popular kids. No fringe element existed on the high school football team. Even awkward, heavy-set kids like me fit in with the random douche bags that groped the pretty girls at lunch.
But by the time became a junior, there was no looking back. I wrote for the sports column on my high school newspaper, the editor in chief! I knew the inter workings of the team and the subtleties of the game. I read the Houston Chronicle avidly during this time. They were always brutal in their commentaries, as was I. My senior year I was forbidden to write about the football team because my insight proved to be awkwardly accusing.
And that's about when my step dad made a surprise visit to see me at practice.
Most of my practices showcased a varying degree of mediocrity. Stumble during drills, get yelled at, hit someone harder, get an obligatory ass-pat or helmet . The motivation to succeed was never intrinsic. Mostly, you didn't want to get embarrassed by your peers. The second end of practice was performing tackling dummies for the varsity. Perhaps that's why our team never made the playoffs the 4 years I was there, we simply weren't up to par.
Then came the sprints.
There were always 2 guys who continually were last running up the field. One was me. I can't imagine what the other guys thought about us. Fat ass. Lazy mexican. I'm sure I would have been the soldier that Jack Nicholson would have easily code redded. And sure enough, my step-dad was there to witness it all.
And to understand what transpired in the parking lot, that conversation that was buried in my mind until just recently, you have to understand him. There wasn't a trophy he didn't have, a sport he hadn't mastered. And here, in this moment, he's witnessing his son (who he had been raising for years now) loafing it, waddling through sprints that he himself could have run better than the varsity.
A few weeks later, I didn't have to quit. A knee injury took me out during the one week when I gave a damn. There's a metaphor in that experience too. Do just enough and no one notices you, do too much and someone is going to chop block you into an injury. I limped my way through the halls that fall with the knowledge I wouldn't have to set foot on that football field ever again.
No matter what I did afterwards, however, the wound stayed with me. Perhaps it's why I have to fight the urge to phone in a day at work, or to vedge out in front of a computer screen (haha, like now) or to crumble at the sight of adversity. There has been an assault on that man for years now. I understand it is a battle to be waged simply because winning would mean I wouldn't need anyone else to be there for me. That couldn't be further from the truth.
Still, the fact remains. Someone once told me that I didn't have what it takes. Another never answered. The wound remains. And the marquee sign neon flickers in anticipation. The red carpet awaits the return of its star. The lie is always inviting.
They don't make movies about guys that do just enough. You make movies about champs, warriors, and against-the-odds over achievers. The next movie coming to your town will not be called Mediocre.
But that's been the marquee film playing in the background of my life. I'm the star. The director, the scriptwriter. I work the lighting and produce the film. It shows everyday, 7 days a week. And it's free.
The crucial Oscar winning scene comes midway through my high school years. Playing football up until my sophomore year had never been much of a priority. I can't ever remember wanting to actually play the game other than watching the Oilers on tv. I took advantage of meeting new people and friends before school started during 2-a-day practices. I liked hitting 7th graders when I was in 8th grade. I did an Arsenio Hall when I tackled a quarterback for my first ever recorded safety. My step-dad told me at the time someone in the stands said, that kid is intense.
No one has ever said it since.
By the time high school came around, kids my size were expected to play football. What the hell else would I have done? I quit my freshman year. That's when the quitting started. Quitting is like a drug to me. It became easy afterwards. Not showing up for a commitment Backing out at the last minute. Saying yes then not being around to say no was my favorite game. I can't even remember why I quit. No one caused a fuss. When I turned in my equipment, the coach didn't even snicker. Just another kid.
He doesn't have what it takes, anyways.
When I transferred schools my sophomore year, football again became the way to meet people. Football guys in Texas were always the most popular kids. No fringe element existed on the high school football team. Even awkward, heavy-set kids like me fit in with the random douche bags that groped the pretty girls at lunch.
But by the time became a junior, there was no looking back. I wrote for the sports column on my high school newspaper, the editor in chief! I knew the inter workings of the team and the subtleties of the game. I read the Houston Chronicle avidly during this time. They were always brutal in their commentaries, as was I. My senior year I was forbidden to write about the football team because my insight proved to be awkwardly accusing.
And that's about when my step dad made a surprise visit to see me at practice.
Most of my practices showcased a varying degree of mediocrity. Stumble during drills, get yelled at, hit someone harder, get an obligatory ass-pat or helmet . The motivation to succeed was never intrinsic. Mostly, you didn't want to get embarrassed by your peers. The second end of practice was performing tackling dummies for the varsity. Perhaps that's why our team never made the playoffs the 4 years I was there, we simply weren't up to par.
Then came the sprints.
There were always 2 guys who continually were last running up the field. One was me. I can't imagine what the other guys thought about us. Fat ass. Lazy mexican. I'm sure I would have been the soldier that Jack Nicholson would have easily code redded. And sure enough, my step-dad was there to witness it all.
And to understand what transpired in the parking lot, that conversation that was buried in my mind until just recently, you have to understand him. There wasn't a trophy he didn't have, a sport he hadn't mastered. And here, in this moment, he's witnessing his son (who he had been raising for years now) loafing it, waddling through sprints that he himself could have run better than the varsity.
A few weeks later, I didn't have to quit. A knee injury took me out during the one week when I gave a damn. There's a metaphor in that experience too. Do just enough and no one notices you, do too much and someone is going to chop block you into an injury. I limped my way through the halls that fall with the knowledge I wouldn't have to set foot on that football field ever again.
No matter what I did afterwards, however, the wound stayed with me. Perhaps it's why I have to fight the urge to phone in a day at work, or to vedge out in front of a computer screen (haha, like now) or to crumble at the sight of adversity. There has been an assault on that man for years now. I understand it is a battle to be waged simply because winning would mean I wouldn't need anyone else to be there for me. That couldn't be further from the truth.
Still, the fact remains. Someone once told me that I didn't have what it takes. Another never answered. The wound remains. And the marquee sign neon flickers in anticipation. The red carpet awaits the return of its star. The lie is always inviting.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Trembling Quivers
I knew this fall would be a huge undertaking in terms of scheduling and manufacturing time (as if it's some ore you can mine, polish and keep forever). I signed up to coach my son's baseball team, my daughter's soccer team, teaching a Wednesday night Bible study, work of course and perhaps making a day trip to see my daughter play softball at Malone. I must have been thinking there were extra days on the calendar for Christians.
School has been a litany of meetings and proposals, plans and imperfect management. I have 35 students this year, the most I've ever had and 5 over contract. I keep telling people the number as if miraculously it would diminish into something like they show on tv. Didn't Mr. Kotter have like 6 students?
The kids from last year who have looped with me are comfortable in their surroundings. They want to eat lunch with me, have no shame in asking and know I hate to say no. Testing all of them has taken weeks. The district finally decided to join the digital age and bought iPods. Awesome, except they are used for testing purposes only. The kids reads three passages, they retell what they've read in broken phrases and run-ons, and some computer database assesses colors, levels and kids who need intervention. One of the kids thought the "pitcher and the crow" was the "pitcher and the cow."
My mood has gone from positive to exhausted melancholy to frustration, and that could be all before lunch. I attributed much of my bad attitude to my lack of Bible reading and devotions. This week they picked back up and I've felt more relaxed. By the end of the day, I'm talked out. No wonder my voice has trembled into a quiver this week. Hoarse and broken.
The last time my numbers were high and my attitude low was about 6 years ago. I had 31 to start the year, and the year before I had requested to leave but was denied by my principal. My teaching partner went to fifth grade and I felt working with a veteran who was moving up into 4th was beneath me. By the end of the year, I remember her telling me we could have done so much more for the kids. She forgave me, I felt, with those words. She loved me the only way she could after an unsuccessful campaign. I felt young and inexperienced.
And that's what it really boils down to, the kids. My wife was in the stands for Cruz's baseball game the other day when the frustrations of a Dad were unleashed upon her ears. I was playing favoritism, mocked for not knowing the kids' names on the team (I had two very similar names), other verbal taunts. They questioned my parenting after Cruz threw a royal meltdown at a practice and was still able to play a few days later.
I responded the only way I typically do, I killed him with eloquent words of an email. The end result was a "sorry", and, "it would be awkward for me to help" when I called for him to act instead of talk. Of all the teams, I am stuck with one assistant. Every team has 4. I'm leading a men's Bible study, trying to dangle rewards in front of church-going men to find something more significant in their lives and secular men can't even come and throw ball with their boys.
I make phone calls when I can to parents. They want homework explained, why their son was sent to PEAK explanations, why their son isn't getting tutoring explanations. I always want to ask, "Does your kid ever get punished at home," or, "does your child sleep enough or have some bed time?" and "did you know your child needs supplies?" The common excuse for their children is medication, apathy and boredom. I think, not enough (medication), "you think you have apathy" and "they must have been too bored to finish their work." I pepper kids with calm-downs and redirections.
The GT teacher comes to speak with me at the end of the day. We talk strategies and way she can help. Seems their directive is different from the past pf pulling kids out for one on one time. I like talking about my best practices, the books and lessons that have favorably showcased my skills. It's not so much the implementation of tools and strategies, it's having the time to reflect and track their learning somehow. I told the kids that I will hound them all year for their very best. I hound myself.
And at the end of the day when the looks on my colleagues faces mimic a series of sarcastic, defeatist mimes, I wonder if I've lost some perspective. My wife got a new kid today. Poor girl slept in class. Imagine her first day. Or the girl who is moving today to a new city. Completing her homework must be the last thing on her mind. She's already left.
I think I know how she feels.
School has been a litany of meetings and proposals, plans and imperfect management. I have 35 students this year, the most I've ever had and 5 over contract. I keep telling people the number as if miraculously it would diminish into something like they show on tv. Didn't Mr. Kotter have like 6 students?
The kids from last year who have looped with me are comfortable in their surroundings. They want to eat lunch with me, have no shame in asking and know I hate to say no. Testing all of them has taken weeks. The district finally decided to join the digital age and bought iPods. Awesome, except they are used for testing purposes only. The kids reads three passages, they retell what they've read in broken phrases and run-ons, and some computer database assesses colors, levels and kids who need intervention. One of the kids thought the "pitcher and the crow" was the "pitcher and the cow."
My mood has gone from positive to exhausted melancholy to frustration, and that could be all before lunch. I attributed much of my bad attitude to my lack of Bible reading and devotions. This week they picked back up and I've felt more relaxed. By the end of the day, I'm talked out. No wonder my voice has trembled into a quiver this week. Hoarse and broken.
The last time my numbers were high and my attitude low was about 6 years ago. I had 31 to start the year, and the year before I had requested to leave but was denied by my principal. My teaching partner went to fifth grade and I felt working with a veteran who was moving up into 4th was beneath me. By the end of the year, I remember her telling me we could have done so much more for the kids. She forgave me, I felt, with those words. She loved me the only way she could after an unsuccessful campaign. I felt young and inexperienced.
And that's what it really boils down to, the kids. My wife was in the stands for Cruz's baseball game the other day when the frustrations of a Dad were unleashed upon her ears. I was playing favoritism, mocked for not knowing the kids' names on the team (I had two very similar names), other verbal taunts. They questioned my parenting after Cruz threw a royal meltdown at a practice and was still able to play a few days later.
I responded the only way I typically do, I killed him with eloquent words of an email. The end result was a "sorry", and, "it would be awkward for me to help" when I called for him to act instead of talk. Of all the teams, I am stuck with one assistant. Every team has 4. I'm leading a men's Bible study, trying to dangle rewards in front of church-going men to find something more significant in their lives and secular men can't even come and throw ball with their boys.
I make phone calls when I can to parents. They want homework explained, why their son was sent to PEAK explanations, why their son isn't getting tutoring explanations. I always want to ask, "Does your kid ever get punished at home," or, "does your child sleep enough or have some bed time?" and "did you know your child needs supplies?" The common excuse for their children is medication, apathy and boredom. I think, not enough (medication), "you think you have apathy" and "they must have been too bored to finish their work." I pepper kids with calm-downs and redirections.
The GT teacher comes to speak with me at the end of the day. We talk strategies and way she can help. Seems their directive is different from the past pf pulling kids out for one on one time. I like talking about my best practices, the books and lessons that have favorably showcased my skills. It's not so much the implementation of tools and strategies, it's having the time to reflect and track their learning somehow. I told the kids that I will hound them all year for their very best. I hound myself.
And at the end of the day when the looks on my colleagues faces mimic a series of sarcastic, defeatist mimes, I wonder if I've lost some perspective. My wife got a new kid today. Poor girl slept in class. Imagine her first day. Or the girl who is moving today to a new city. Completing her homework must be the last thing on her mind. She's already left.
I think I know how she feels.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
The Sigh of Pauses
Communication has always been my greatest strength, and my biggest nemesis. When I was younger, I could pen stories of adventure and daring, labyrinthine plots and dastardly villains. I could wax poetic about most subjects given the right audience. I would have gladly placed an article posted in the high school newspaper in anyone's hands in high school.
And then came college. My first semester in community college, we had the simply assignment to introduce the person sitting in front of us. Easy. Except the pressure to be funny, to be unique, to speak eloquently about the lineage of the stranger before me. And then I bombed. And I never went back to the class.
The warning signs had been there. The girls who I never spoke to and asked out. The times when I was sarcastic with a teacher, stubborn and adolescent. Even as a child, the way I communicated with the arrival of my step-dad was noteworthy. I asked my mom who was the man eating all of our food. I banged on their door at night refusing to sleep. I'm pretty sure I told him I hated him in the looks I gave him, even if I did say it in words.
And I let myself stumble through the relationship with my father. I ask questions without any confidence, feeling that the answer I get must be filtered through some bitter-Mexican man translator. Even today, we talk about surface issues. There's an emptiness at times. The sigh of pauses.
And then there's home. Early in my relationship with Delcina I probably should not have spoken at all. I don't want kids. Yeah, that one worked out. Or the times I tried to break up with her when all I really wanted to do was tell her I was scared of my future. Women know when our communication needs professional development.
Work communication is cyclical. When I was a young teacher, I spoke loudly to the kids. I used my size to win the proximity wars. My crazy stares had been well trained driving the streets of Houston where even the snow cone vendor in the suburbs gave you dirty looks. I didn't ever want to be a mexican until I moved away from Texas, and then the lowrider was all I used to assert authority. Do your work, holmes.
In staff meetings I was bored and twitchy. I made jokes and undermined the authority. The attitude of a room of teachers after a long day with kids is not one that would be likened to nurturing. We were wolves.
My spiritual communication was void of substance. I didn't pray. I lashed out at others. I mocked and rarely apologized.
There then becomes a conversion period in a man that either kills him, narrows his path or ignites the fire. The narrow path is narrow for a reason. I don't think there's a line for the sarcastic belly-scratchers in heaven. The ones who play with fire eventually lose. And the ones that die? Maybe they are the unlucky ones who failed to choose a side before it was too late.
And I tiptoe around a room of children. How many aren't used to hearing the voice of man with conviction and sternness on his voice? How many look upon disdain upon their own fathers, the step-fathers who bark from their x-box-but indented couch from blocking the television as they walk past? The principal who awaits my misstep lurks behind the door. There is no safety net. I walk around as if someone is following me with one of those annoying interview mini-recorders I used to carry as a budding freshman journalist. I would rewind it and listen back, edit the questions and answers like I was some big shot. Somehow, that tape could capture the essence of speaking to someone live, when in reality you can't catch the looks, the pauses, the sighs.
Today was voice was hoarse. I struggled to communicate. I stuttered too much in class like some robot that needed more oil. In my first Bible study class I didn't have enough eye contact. I feel like a young, inexperienced man in a room full of gentleman.
Son, you have no idea.
And then came college. My first semester in community college, we had the simply assignment to introduce the person sitting in front of us. Easy. Except the pressure to be funny, to be unique, to speak eloquently about the lineage of the stranger before me. And then I bombed. And I never went back to the class.
The warning signs had been there. The girls who I never spoke to and asked out. The times when I was sarcastic with a teacher, stubborn and adolescent. Even as a child, the way I communicated with the arrival of my step-dad was noteworthy. I asked my mom who was the man eating all of our food. I banged on their door at night refusing to sleep. I'm pretty sure I told him I hated him in the looks I gave him, even if I did say it in words.
And I let myself stumble through the relationship with my father. I ask questions without any confidence, feeling that the answer I get must be filtered through some bitter-Mexican man translator. Even today, we talk about surface issues. There's an emptiness at times. The sigh of pauses.
And then there's home. Early in my relationship with Delcina I probably should not have spoken at all. I don't want kids. Yeah, that one worked out. Or the times I tried to break up with her when all I really wanted to do was tell her I was scared of my future. Women know when our communication needs professional development.
Work communication is cyclical. When I was a young teacher, I spoke loudly to the kids. I used my size to win the proximity wars. My crazy stares had been well trained driving the streets of Houston where even the snow cone vendor in the suburbs gave you dirty looks. I didn't ever want to be a mexican until I moved away from Texas, and then the lowrider was all I used to assert authority. Do your work, holmes.
In staff meetings I was bored and twitchy. I made jokes and undermined the authority. The attitude of a room of teachers after a long day with kids is not one that would be likened to nurturing. We were wolves.
My spiritual communication was void of substance. I didn't pray. I lashed out at others. I mocked and rarely apologized.
There then becomes a conversion period in a man that either kills him, narrows his path or ignites the fire. The narrow path is narrow for a reason. I don't think there's a line for the sarcastic belly-scratchers in heaven. The ones who play with fire eventually lose. And the ones that die? Maybe they are the unlucky ones who failed to choose a side before it was too late.
And I tiptoe around a room of children. How many aren't used to hearing the voice of man with conviction and sternness on his voice? How many look upon disdain upon their own fathers, the step-fathers who bark from their x-box-but indented couch from blocking the television as they walk past? The principal who awaits my misstep lurks behind the door. There is no safety net. I walk around as if someone is following me with one of those annoying interview mini-recorders I used to carry as a budding freshman journalist. I would rewind it and listen back, edit the questions and answers like I was some big shot. Somehow, that tape could capture the essence of speaking to someone live, when in reality you can't catch the looks, the pauses, the sighs.
Today was voice was hoarse. I struggled to communicate. I stuttered too much in class like some robot that needed more oil. In my first Bible study class I didn't have enough eye contact. I feel like a young, inexperienced man in a room full of gentleman.
Son, you have no idea.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Squandering the Gift
Motivation.
When I was in high school, my step-dad would pop the leather belt he wore to hold him his work pants on the route and say, "When you think about doing something other than school, remember this." So motivation to succeed was felt upon the lashes of a belt and the worrisome notion that the most sensitive skin was found on your behind. It kept me straight most of the time. I still hung around idiot jocks, laughed to impress and searched for meaning in poems, action-hero short stories and the in the eyes of pretty girls.
In college, it canyoned during stress and cascaded with specific professors. My freshman year in college, the professor who assigned Babylon AD and Ethan Fromm will forever be remembered as the year I realized I could back out of something and momentarily feel no consequences, rebuke or shame. Backing out of college the way I did after my first year was a work of art. Waking every morning, driving to an undisclosed parking lot, park or abandoned road, reading the paper, daydreaming, people watching. Spending money on lunch, then driving back home in a rush as if I had homework to do. Eventually I think I wanted someone to notice I wasn't in class. Community college registrars don't call when you're absent. It was a friend of mine who eventually turned me in, albeit he was an unwitting accomplice in my demise. He called looking for me after weeks of ditching class. At least someone was worried.
The summer I met my wife I dedicated myself back to studies. It's not like I had another choice. When you have a proficiency for laziness and your hands are too soft for work, going to school is the next best thing. Getting a degree was always ingrained in my life. My parents spoke of it often, it's just that I hadn't quite seen it being worked out in the lives that were closest to me. The struggles didn't hit home, the speeches about being more than your parents. The struggles I saw around me were from people's own abuses, addictions and fear. What failures did I really have at 20? A bad break up with a girlfriend? Being fired at Target for throwing away merchandise I refused to bag and tag for returns? A flat tire on a broken down Delta 88?
Even being in college was different in every form. Culturally, there weren't many people of color. I held college at bay like some preppy white-boy fantasy Hispanics could only see in movies. I thought toting the books across the quad would make me better. Get me laid. Get me appreciated. I failed to realize the hard work that went into it.
So that summer I had a lady who read over our compositions with a fine tooth comb for erroneous colons and wayward apostrophes. I worked hard, I read Faulkner, I turned in 12-paper essays when the assignment called for 10. By the time I moved to Ohio, I again found myself in familiar territory. The people who looked like me were not here to remind me the struggle it took to get me there. I felt at home actually. No one pressured me into spanish guilt (on the contrary, it was cool to be different. To be brown. To be unique), no one wondered why I wasn't hanging with the chucos and vatos.
When I entered the teaching field, the motivation to do well stemmed from the fear of failing. I was thrown into a rough class with 2 new teachers and one veteran. I only knew what the guides and books told me about teaching. The management and frustration of kids whose basic needs were not being met had not been taught. I screamed, I yelled, I erased so many mistakes on the chalk board my hands became ashy and gray. 9/11 happened my first year, too. I remember being on lockdown on a gorgeous September afternoon and ranting at a student who was pissed we didn't go outside to play. Like he understood anything I told him was beyond the moment. It was anything I could do to explain walking the halls with kids watching cartoons for recess juxtaposed with the rest of us watching the news. Ashes, paper, bodies. The things that fell that day were more than memories.
Four years later I was looking for reasons to give extra recess. I stalked the parking lot for the administrators SUV, and seeing none, knew that doing the minimal would suffice. There was no motivation. I took it for granted. I wasn't thankful.
Moving schools. Again, a change of venue leads me back to the beginning. New face, new opportunities. Fear motivates. Then God stepped in because He had enough of my ways. The fear.
And the blogs I have written since then have been a part of that transformation. Still new, still learning under the authority of the grand professor who goes through the compositions of my life with a fine toothed comb. I felt inspired not because I was scared for failing, but in letting Him down. In doing the minimal, I was inherently squandering the gifts.
And now this year. 34 kids. New curriculum. A desk of papers that need homes. Kids that need a home too. Last night, one of my students may have slept on a tile floor. I'm sleeping under a fan with a shitzu dog at my feet. And I'm the one that needs motivated.
Good conversations today. Sarcastic frustration. Eye rolling. There seems to be such a vast distance between the people who make educational decisions with the ones who do the grunt work. Do they know of the third grader who barely can write his name and leaves at 2 in the afternoon every other day? Where is the book about the helpless look of a girl whose mom could die any day from cancer? Or the kid from a tough city with something to prove? The girl who gets bullied?
This morning, the computers didn't work. My student teacher comes in, smiles and energy. The kids are eating mini-pancakes. Not one kid asked me to help open packages. Pancakes was the only motivation they needed.
And they didn't even have any syrup.
When I was in high school, my step-dad would pop the leather belt he wore to hold him his work pants on the route and say, "When you think about doing something other than school, remember this." So motivation to succeed was felt upon the lashes of a belt and the worrisome notion that the most sensitive skin was found on your behind. It kept me straight most of the time. I still hung around idiot jocks, laughed to impress and searched for meaning in poems, action-hero short stories and the in the eyes of pretty girls.
In college, it canyoned during stress and cascaded with specific professors. My freshman year in college, the professor who assigned Babylon AD and Ethan Fromm will forever be remembered as the year I realized I could back out of something and momentarily feel no consequences, rebuke or shame. Backing out of college the way I did after my first year was a work of art. Waking every morning, driving to an undisclosed parking lot, park or abandoned road, reading the paper, daydreaming, people watching. Spending money on lunch, then driving back home in a rush as if I had homework to do. Eventually I think I wanted someone to notice I wasn't in class. Community college registrars don't call when you're absent. It was a friend of mine who eventually turned me in, albeit he was an unwitting accomplice in my demise. He called looking for me after weeks of ditching class. At least someone was worried.
The summer I met my wife I dedicated myself back to studies. It's not like I had another choice. When you have a proficiency for laziness and your hands are too soft for work, going to school is the next best thing. Getting a degree was always ingrained in my life. My parents spoke of it often, it's just that I hadn't quite seen it being worked out in the lives that were closest to me. The struggles didn't hit home, the speeches about being more than your parents. The struggles I saw around me were from people's own abuses, addictions and fear. What failures did I really have at 20? A bad break up with a girlfriend? Being fired at Target for throwing away merchandise I refused to bag and tag for returns? A flat tire on a broken down Delta 88?
Even being in college was different in every form. Culturally, there weren't many people of color. I held college at bay like some preppy white-boy fantasy Hispanics could only see in movies. I thought toting the books across the quad would make me better. Get me laid. Get me appreciated. I failed to realize the hard work that went into it.
So that summer I had a lady who read over our compositions with a fine tooth comb for erroneous colons and wayward apostrophes. I worked hard, I read Faulkner, I turned in 12-paper essays when the assignment called for 10. By the time I moved to Ohio, I again found myself in familiar territory. The people who looked like me were not here to remind me the struggle it took to get me there. I felt at home actually. No one pressured me into spanish guilt (on the contrary, it was cool to be different. To be brown. To be unique), no one wondered why I wasn't hanging with the chucos and vatos.
When I entered the teaching field, the motivation to do well stemmed from the fear of failing. I was thrown into a rough class with 2 new teachers and one veteran. I only knew what the guides and books told me about teaching. The management and frustration of kids whose basic needs were not being met had not been taught. I screamed, I yelled, I erased so many mistakes on the chalk board my hands became ashy and gray. 9/11 happened my first year, too. I remember being on lockdown on a gorgeous September afternoon and ranting at a student who was pissed we didn't go outside to play. Like he understood anything I told him was beyond the moment. It was anything I could do to explain walking the halls with kids watching cartoons for recess juxtaposed with the rest of us watching the news. Ashes, paper, bodies. The things that fell that day were more than memories.
Four years later I was looking for reasons to give extra recess. I stalked the parking lot for the administrators SUV, and seeing none, knew that doing the minimal would suffice. There was no motivation. I took it for granted. I wasn't thankful.
Moving schools. Again, a change of venue leads me back to the beginning. New face, new opportunities. Fear motivates. Then God stepped in because He had enough of my ways. The fear.
And the blogs I have written since then have been a part of that transformation. Still new, still learning under the authority of the grand professor who goes through the compositions of my life with a fine toothed comb. I felt inspired not because I was scared for failing, but in letting Him down. In doing the minimal, I was inherently squandering the gifts.
And now this year. 34 kids. New curriculum. A desk of papers that need homes. Kids that need a home too. Last night, one of my students may have slept on a tile floor. I'm sleeping under a fan with a shitzu dog at my feet. And I'm the one that needs motivated.
Good conversations today. Sarcastic frustration. Eye rolling. There seems to be such a vast distance between the people who make educational decisions with the ones who do the grunt work. Do they know of the third grader who barely can write his name and leaves at 2 in the afternoon every other day? Where is the book about the helpless look of a girl whose mom could die any day from cancer? Or the kid from a tough city with something to prove? The girl who gets bullied?
This morning, the computers didn't work. My student teacher comes in, smiles and energy. The kids are eating mini-pancakes. Not one kid asked me to help open packages. Pancakes was the only motivation they needed.
And they didn't even have any syrup.
Friday, September 7, 2012
Snake Mazes
My biggest complaint of late has been the most regrettable. And like all complaints, there's enough of a glaring, piercing light on the deficiency that you carry that complaining about it only means you basically don't like yourself. And like all complaints, we shake our fists at God as if to say, thanks for nothing." It's as if we don't like our jobs, the days of the week, the food at a restaurant, our kids or the amount of time we squander everyday. We shake our fists and lament the traffic, the wasted time, the glitches in the system that keeps you from enjoying some selfish "me" time.
But we complain anyway, don't we?
This is the first year of teaching in many years that I can ever remember that could easily be May. Education has always been a rather fluid profession. I have never had the same management system or incentive program. What works for one group may not work with another. If you don't tweak something, you get labeled that teacher who everyone thinks they get from movies like "Waiting for Superman". Curriculum changes on a whim. New books get purchased, old ideas are given new names. I still have old files on disks of great tests questions for a basal reader kids use in Borneo now.
The numbers are always the enemy. Not enough of a percentage have passed a test--probation for you. You have a very high number of free lunch candidates--you get funding! Not enough kids in a classroom--you get staff reduced and sent to the place no teacher in the district even wanted to interview for. Too many kids in the classroom?--not a problem, we'll get back to you in a month.
I have 33 kids from my last count. One kid returned from being on vacation, missed the first 8 days of school, and has joined an already packed room. Getting to the front of the room requires a few stretches, some snake-mazing, a pole vault and some belly tucks. We're a jovial group. I have a combined fourth and fifth grade class, generally called a "split" among the people who work in Columbus. I say that word elsewhere to teachers in other districts and I get 200 tweets about calling my union. I'm trying a new management system, teaching math for the first time in 5 years and trying to implement a virtual bevy of materials and strategies to give them the best that they deserve.
Motivation comes in many forms, now that I've found ways to harness it. My wife, the pictures of old students on the walls, the looks of my future students who want to hi-five and hug me as I pass them in the halls. God should be my initial source of information. I want him to be. At times He is. At times, I'm just a fan (from a great book by Kyle Idleman). I have brushed past my newly purchased "Jesus shirts" in the closet during the weekends. I'm ho-hum. Lukewarm. While God is still close to me, I keep turning, asking Him, "Are you sure you want me?" I'm fickle.
And in the middle of a complaint, God spoke (again).
Recess duty is always interesting. I get to watch kindergartners shoot airballs, fifth graders double-dribble and girls who attempt to jump into a double dutch rope only to see it tangle in their braids. Some kids follow me like I carry bacon. Some come and want me to watch them run across the pavement in mach speed. Some dance and others even sing. The stories they tell are sometimes tragic, funny, fantastical and gruesome. They tattle too. They hate getting kickballs snatched from their grasps and they don't mind snitching on a fellow classmate if the degrading of moms break the rules of decency. Poor moms always get degraded on blacktop playgrounds.
So it is inevitable that kids become rogue investigative reporters. Crickets get thrown in kids, girls scream and fingers get pointed, water break. In the course of rounding up a suspect, I notice a group of about 10 girls seated around one of the tables. Their heads are down, holding hands, eyes closed.
Are they praying?
So I join in like the kid I am. And sure enough of the the girls says a prayer.
Dear Lord we're thankful for bibles and our friends and school. We're sorry for the bad things we have done and hope you forgive us.
That was a the short version.
In my quest to find my suspect, I rejoined the hands I was holding and left. (now, that story will have to be told another time. I'm not sure how lesbians, truth or dare, and spin the bottle relate to a group of praying girls, but there's no logic to blacktop freedom)
Coming back later, I see the same prayer girls crying. Like sobbing. I go over and they tell me they are thinking about all the bad things they have done and it made them sad. So here's the door I'm always praying about. Lord, I'm not always faithful. Show me a door, open an opportunity to show my faith.
Girls, there's no need to be sad. That's what prayers are for. We lift those concerns to Him. That's why He died for us, so we wouldn't be sad anymore.
I think they cried more.
One of my sidekicks begins talking again. I think they need their sins washed away.
Yeah, don't we all.
But we complain anyway, don't we?
This is the first year of teaching in many years that I can ever remember that could easily be May. Education has always been a rather fluid profession. I have never had the same management system or incentive program. What works for one group may not work with another. If you don't tweak something, you get labeled that teacher who everyone thinks they get from movies like "Waiting for Superman". Curriculum changes on a whim. New books get purchased, old ideas are given new names. I still have old files on disks of great tests questions for a basal reader kids use in Borneo now.
The numbers are always the enemy. Not enough of a percentage have passed a test--probation for you. You have a very high number of free lunch candidates--you get funding! Not enough kids in a classroom--you get staff reduced and sent to the place no teacher in the district even wanted to interview for. Too many kids in the classroom?--not a problem, we'll get back to you in a month.
I have 33 kids from my last count. One kid returned from being on vacation, missed the first 8 days of school, and has joined an already packed room. Getting to the front of the room requires a few stretches, some snake-mazing, a pole vault and some belly tucks. We're a jovial group. I have a combined fourth and fifth grade class, generally called a "split" among the people who work in Columbus. I say that word elsewhere to teachers in other districts and I get 200 tweets about calling my union. I'm trying a new management system, teaching math for the first time in 5 years and trying to implement a virtual bevy of materials and strategies to give them the best that they deserve.
Motivation comes in many forms, now that I've found ways to harness it. My wife, the pictures of old students on the walls, the looks of my future students who want to hi-five and hug me as I pass them in the halls. God should be my initial source of information. I want him to be. At times He is. At times, I'm just a fan (from a great book by Kyle Idleman). I have brushed past my newly purchased "Jesus shirts" in the closet during the weekends. I'm ho-hum. Lukewarm. While God is still close to me, I keep turning, asking Him, "Are you sure you want me?" I'm fickle.
And in the middle of a complaint, God spoke (again).
Recess duty is always interesting. I get to watch kindergartners shoot airballs, fifth graders double-dribble and girls who attempt to jump into a double dutch rope only to see it tangle in their braids. Some kids follow me like I carry bacon. Some come and want me to watch them run across the pavement in mach speed. Some dance and others even sing. The stories they tell are sometimes tragic, funny, fantastical and gruesome. They tattle too. They hate getting kickballs snatched from their grasps and they don't mind snitching on a fellow classmate if the degrading of moms break the rules of decency. Poor moms always get degraded on blacktop playgrounds.
So it is inevitable that kids become rogue investigative reporters. Crickets get thrown in kids, girls scream and fingers get pointed, water break. In the course of rounding up a suspect, I notice a group of about 10 girls seated around one of the tables. Their heads are down, holding hands, eyes closed.
Are they praying?
So I join in like the kid I am. And sure enough of the the girls says a prayer.
Dear Lord we're thankful for bibles and our friends and school. We're sorry for the bad things we have done and hope you forgive us.
That was a the short version.
In my quest to find my suspect, I rejoined the hands I was holding and left. (now, that story will have to be told another time. I'm not sure how lesbians, truth or dare, and spin the bottle relate to a group of praying girls, but there's no logic to blacktop freedom)
Coming back later, I see the same prayer girls crying. Like sobbing. I go over and they tell me they are thinking about all the bad things they have done and it made them sad. So here's the door I'm always praying about. Lord, I'm not always faithful. Show me a door, open an opportunity to show my faith.
Girls, there's no need to be sad. That's what prayers are for. We lift those concerns to Him. That's why He died for us, so we wouldn't be sad anymore.
I think they cried more.
One of my sidekicks begins talking again. I think they need their sins washed away.
Yeah, don't we all.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Pushing Play
I don't think there would have been many tears throughout the last few days leading up to taking my daughter to college. The night before was stymied by exhaustion from getting my room ready (of course freshman move-in day was the first day back for my fourth and fifth grade students). As the night came to a close it was frustration from Lisa's last minute bye-bye-a-thons and instagram pictures before she left. I doubt she slept much that night. Once the morning came the tears were thwarted by the speed of the moment. I think Lisa had the keys in the can ignition before I was even out of the shower. We stopped for coffee at our local Tim Horton's, where the normal wait was an unbearable knife in the expectation of the trip.
The road trip. Kids asking to turn movie volume up, start them over. Parents asking kids to stop kicking the back of the seats, to be nice, to finish their breakfast. We drove through fog that slowed us by 10 mph. I think Lisa slept some. I wanted to pull through Amish country (exit 83!) and pick up some wine. No time.
Arrival was one event after another. I felt like my younger daughter's van-swept hair. Nametags and tables of bananas. Mom, I need my social security number. Cruz complaining to take his medication with orange juice instead of milk. Pretty college girls. Reycina almost tipping over her orange juice. Playing juggle master with folders, water bottles and complimentary coffee mugs.
Move in to a legion of helpers who unpacked the van with smiles. Lisa went into a unpacking and interior design zone. Her roomate's dad and i arranged loft beds, raised them, lowered them. We pushed cabinets into closets and lifted totes. The moms made suggestion-decisions for their daughters then retracted them with the I-really-meant-you-should-take-my-advice, "Whatever you want to do," statement. More pretty college girls.
We drove over to Target to get towels, and a few things mom's always find they need once they ever arrive at a destination. Kids were hungry. Milly's hair looked as if someone rubbed a balloon on her head. Cruz ran into the crosswalk to raise the percentage of his death by stupidity. Their snack ended up being freezer-burned fries I carried through the store like a man wearing one of those side man-bags.
Back to college for lunch. Burgers, pizza and italian subs. We met another player. Cruz at one point grabs the brownie tongs and bites from it. Contamination. Did I mention he had not yet taken his medication? The parents and I talked about the drunks at Walsh College, how God had set the girls' paths in a unique way, softball and boys.
By the time we went back to the dorm, Cruz had began a game on the Wii, Milly had lost her flip slops and Lisa had rearranged the items on her desk several times. When I checked my phone I read a text that told me my school was on lockdown from a shooting that took place on school grounds. The perps even ran through our playground. I'm sure someone tried to blow a whistle at them to stop running or forfeit their recess.
The kids did cry. I took pictures of them hugging her. And then we said goodbye. No speeches. Not that it mattered at that point. And not that I would have had anything profound to say that wouldn't end up sounding like a complaint, or a cautionary warning from a parent who didn't really know any better.
I didn't know much when we brought her into our home at age 10 (I have not previously mentioned that we adopted our daughter until now. She's all my kids ever know of a big sister. She's certainly more than I could have ever asked from my own genetics.). At age 12, we dropped her off at a birthday party without getting a phone number. My wife and I ruined our anniversary dinner fretting about her whereabouts. She ended up being safe and sound at the parent's home she was originally entrusted with. We've always had to share her--with her friends because we wanted her to have the life of a typical white, suburban girl. Sleepovers and hangouts. We shared her with softball. After the games were over, Lisa always went on her way. Even when she made the commitment to college we were not there. There are 100 other stories about her independence. All of them were training for the time when she would mature and grow and leave to live on her own. She's halfway there.
She's always been that gift I never asked for. Who knows what they get themselves into when they become a parent? I surely didn't deserve her presence. What a kid.
And by the time we started the van and headed out of the parking lot, my little one reminds me there's still more work to be done.
Daddy, will you start it all over?
And I push play everyday.
The road trip. Kids asking to turn movie volume up, start them over. Parents asking kids to stop kicking the back of the seats, to be nice, to finish their breakfast. We drove through fog that slowed us by 10 mph. I think Lisa slept some. I wanted to pull through Amish country (exit 83!) and pick up some wine. No time.
Arrival was one event after another. I felt like my younger daughter's van-swept hair. Nametags and tables of bananas. Mom, I need my social security number. Cruz complaining to take his medication with orange juice instead of milk. Pretty college girls. Reycina almost tipping over her orange juice. Playing juggle master with folders, water bottles and complimentary coffee mugs.
Move in to a legion of helpers who unpacked the van with smiles. Lisa went into a unpacking and interior design zone. Her roomate's dad and i arranged loft beds, raised them, lowered them. We pushed cabinets into closets and lifted totes. The moms made suggestion-decisions for their daughters then retracted them with the I-really-meant-you-should-take-my-advice, "Whatever you want to do," statement. More pretty college girls.
We drove over to Target to get towels, and a few things mom's always find they need once they ever arrive at a destination. Kids were hungry. Milly's hair looked as if someone rubbed a balloon on her head. Cruz ran into the crosswalk to raise the percentage of his death by stupidity. Their snack ended up being freezer-burned fries I carried through the store like a man wearing one of those side man-bags.
Back to college for lunch. Burgers, pizza and italian subs. We met another player. Cruz at one point grabs the brownie tongs and bites from it. Contamination. Did I mention he had not yet taken his medication? The parents and I talked about the drunks at Walsh College, how God had set the girls' paths in a unique way, softball and boys.
By the time we went back to the dorm, Cruz had began a game on the Wii, Milly had lost her flip slops and Lisa had rearranged the items on her desk several times. When I checked my phone I read a text that told me my school was on lockdown from a shooting that took place on school grounds. The perps even ran through our playground. I'm sure someone tried to blow a whistle at them to stop running or forfeit their recess.
The kids did cry. I took pictures of them hugging her. And then we said goodbye. No speeches. Not that it mattered at that point. And not that I would have had anything profound to say that wouldn't end up sounding like a complaint, or a cautionary warning from a parent who didn't really know any better.
I didn't know much when we brought her into our home at age 10 (I have not previously mentioned that we adopted our daughter until now. She's all my kids ever know of a big sister. She's certainly more than I could have ever asked from my own genetics.). At age 12, we dropped her off at a birthday party without getting a phone number. My wife and I ruined our anniversary dinner fretting about her whereabouts. She ended up being safe and sound at the parent's home she was originally entrusted with. We've always had to share her--with her friends because we wanted her to have the life of a typical white, suburban girl. Sleepovers and hangouts. We shared her with softball. After the games were over, Lisa always went on her way. Even when she made the commitment to college we were not there. There are 100 other stories about her independence. All of them were training for the time when she would mature and grow and leave to live on her own. She's halfway there.
She's always been that gift I never asked for. Who knows what they get themselves into when they become a parent? I surely didn't deserve her presence. What a kid.
And by the time we started the van and headed out of the parking lot, my little one reminds me there's still more work to be done.
Daddy, will you start it all over?
And I push play everyday.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Honoring the Moment
I've been trying to express the feeling of complete wholeness I've felt in recent days being back in my hometown of Houston. I can easily go the movie route--the final scene in Titanic when DiCaprio triumphantly applauds Kate as she descends the spiral, decadent staircase. Everyone is applauding. If life were as simple as the relationships we strive to fulfill, the "heaven" scene just about hits that pinnacle. But it's also a bit self-serving. Why am I surrounded by my family and friends as they applaud me? Am I that self centered? Is this indicative of how I treat others?
I can go the way of the existentialism, the thought that the individual creates their own consciousness. Humans, therefore, in our infinite wisdom (was that sarcastic?) determine their own meaning for themselves. Sounds so great. When I was jet skiing on Lake Houston I will admit a sliver of this conceitedness awoke within me. There was a moment when the sun hid behind the clouds and the ripples of the lake turned a grayish blue. In that pinnacle of self-contentment, my thoughts went back to God. Wow. That's all I could muster--a wow. Of all my classes in descriptive language, fiction writing and poetry, the one word I share with God and the world is a "wow." So much for being some great human being.
In the midst of these descriptions, the best way to acknowledge the feeling I had was to simply express them the way I always have--in sharing the experiences. Some of the people you may not know. The in jokes you might not get. But I share these moments as if you were there sitting next to me. That's the best way to honor the moment.
Grandma's kitchen. The setting has changed somewhat. The oil painting Jesus does not remind me of the guilt of tortillas filling my belly. The table feels smaller but more intimate to. Close enough to pass the bowls of vegetables back and forth. Recipes remembered and practiced over years of dinners and occasions. There's something about fried chicken that transcends memories, the sense of my grandmother's hands. Working the breading into the meat, the delicacy of hands that have been worn from labor, love and age.
Old viejita lying in bed, simply because their legs aren't strong enough to hold up their frames any longer. Her skin was the texture of silk, unlike skin is supposed to feel--rugged and tight. Nails glisten with purple polish that remind me of cascarones eggs.
Ninfa's house. The traditional colors of spanish culture--the reds, the yellows, burnt browns and parrot-feather green--adorn the several rooms. Catholic reminders hang in crucifix, the family portraits capture her children in their best poses. One of the patients in the house/nursing home is a woman suffering from spina biffida, perhaps worse. The patient's mom has permanently removed her teeth from biting her caregivers. It's probably the only motion she can muster. Her arms sit curled above her chest as if she's awaiting to be tickled--frozen. Her feet twisted and tiny, and I'm thankful they are covered in kid-sized white socks. I want to at least say "Hi" but whould she even know it? Otherwise just seems rude. Talking as if she weren't in the room.
Road trips. The short ones in Houston where conversation takes the place of talk radio and top 40 hits. There's a flip side to being in town you're familiar with. You notice the new storefronts, the expressways widened for traffic. But you also remember the old as well. Like dates, awkward memories and the laughter you once had when you had no direction. Street signs road map my sins.
And eventually the road trip ends. We were chased out of Arkansas with lightning storms. Tennessee awakened us with a sunset that flirted with the mountain top fog. There was a moment when I felt we were driving into a cloud. I could have. It's that easy.
I can go the way of the existentialism, the thought that the individual creates their own consciousness. Humans, therefore, in our infinite wisdom (was that sarcastic?) determine their own meaning for themselves. Sounds so great. When I was jet skiing on Lake Houston I will admit a sliver of this conceitedness awoke within me. There was a moment when the sun hid behind the clouds and the ripples of the lake turned a grayish blue. In that pinnacle of self-contentment, my thoughts went back to God. Wow. That's all I could muster--a wow. Of all my classes in descriptive language, fiction writing and poetry, the one word I share with God and the world is a "wow." So much for being some great human being.
In the midst of these descriptions, the best way to acknowledge the feeling I had was to simply express them the way I always have--in sharing the experiences. Some of the people you may not know. The in jokes you might not get. But I share these moments as if you were there sitting next to me. That's the best way to honor the moment.
Grandma's kitchen. The setting has changed somewhat. The oil painting Jesus does not remind me of the guilt of tortillas filling my belly. The table feels smaller but more intimate to. Close enough to pass the bowls of vegetables back and forth. Recipes remembered and practiced over years of dinners and occasions. There's something about fried chicken that transcends memories, the sense of my grandmother's hands. Working the breading into the meat, the delicacy of hands that have been worn from labor, love and age.
Old viejita lying in bed, simply because their legs aren't strong enough to hold up their frames any longer. Her skin was the texture of silk, unlike skin is supposed to feel--rugged and tight. Nails glisten with purple polish that remind me of cascarones eggs.
Ninfa's house. The traditional colors of spanish culture--the reds, the yellows, burnt browns and parrot-feather green--adorn the several rooms. Catholic reminders hang in crucifix, the family portraits capture her children in their best poses. One of the patients in the house/nursing home is a woman suffering from spina biffida, perhaps worse. The patient's mom has permanently removed her teeth from biting her caregivers. It's probably the only motion she can muster. Her arms sit curled above her chest as if she's awaiting to be tickled--frozen. Her feet twisted and tiny, and I'm thankful they are covered in kid-sized white socks. I want to at least say "Hi" but whould she even know it? Otherwise just seems rude. Talking as if she weren't in the room.
Road trips. The short ones in Houston where conversation takes the place of talk radio and top 40 hits. There's a flip side to being in town you're familiar with. You notice the new storefronts, the expressways widened for traffic. But you also remember the old as well. Like dates, awkward memories and the laughter you once had when you had no direction. Street signs road map my sins.
And eventually the road trip ends. We were chased out of Arkansas with lightning storms. Tennessee awakened us with a sunset that flirted with the mountain top fog. There was a moment when I felt we were driving into a cloud. I could have. It's that easy.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
My So Called Education
I'm watching the first season of "My So Called Life." Perhaps when the show had come out in '94, I was not ready to relive certain parts of my high school experience. Maybe I was so into the lives of Brandon Walsh and Kelly Taylor to immerse myself in anything remotely angst-ridden. About as far as I got into grunge at that time was jamming to "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and trying to decipher the lyrics when singing in the car.
I was 2 years out of high school in '94. I was a borderline wreck. Pretty much a wreck. Failed relationship with a girlfriend, recent community college dropout. Failed writer of poetry. There was absolutely no reason to traverse the hallways of teenage problems. Age 19 had its share.
In the first and only season of the show, episode 6, amply called "The Substitute" details how a mysterious sub amps up the safe lives of the literature magazine crowd. It's very Dead Poet-esque. In one of those great montage scenes that all educational movies have, the teacher walks through the throng of students whose attention he holds for the first time in their lives. Desk arrangements change from rigid rows to concentric circles of creativity. Kids are walking through the hallway actually interested in school. Inevitable, the courage to write thoughts on paper becomes troublesome to the powers that be--namely the school principal, the dogged administrator who lives simply to squash independent thought at every turn.
I'm blogging as I watch the turn of events. Students publish "radical" lit magazine, principal denounces such thoughts, bans magazine. Out heroine takes it upon herself to print her own version. These kind of episodes, even as scripted as they are (ironic considering the freedom of not playing it safe is exactly what their conceit is), get me fired up. I've cried at enough versions of these movies and episodes you'd think I had seen them and their plots for the first time. I'm a writer at heart, torn between the lure of writing the Great American Novel for fame, and the obscure sweater-porn beatnik who chills boothside in a coffee shop hoping to share his words for the "moment" and nothing else.
In college I was part of a literature group that met weekly in a local Chinese restaurant to hash out story ideas, critique on another and provide feedback for becoming published. It was the kind of group any lit teacher would hang their hat on as an essential of kids learning and working beyond what happens in the classroom. Since I know I have written about this topic before, I won't go much further into detail, but these are the times when I'm so in love with writing, education and the process of creativity that I could see myself teaching one of those standard-tv-issue lit classes and firing up a group of high school kids who never realized their true potential.
Much of this thought goes into my normal, everyday process for teaching my elementary students. I've tried several classroom management and self-directed behavioral strategies over the years to warrant my own screenplays. However, I don't typically have those, "captain, my captain" moments. I doubt many teachers actually do. The best I get are the picture captions I display on cork board every year behind my computer.
Mr. C is the best.
You're the best teacher ever.
We love Mr. C.
Lately there's been frustration on my part of my own performance. The nagging perfectionism debates, the Mr. Hand episodes of lecture v. rant (I chuckled at watching "Fast Times" the other night when Mr. Hand shows up at Spicolli's house to "square the account" of wasted time in his room. Oh, my kids are lucky I am married and not readily available during the summer). The pressure of late for many in my profession is raising test scores (or, "why are my kids failing?"), motivating kids (especially boys) school funding. Any of these 3 topics can dispel a month-long professional development training to cynicism. Outside of a teacher's lounge, you're liable to hear even more. Teachers are being asked to do more, with less parental support, with less administrative support than ever before. Many studies claim that teacher performance is the number one determination of a child's ability to succeed, even when other studies claim outside factors like poverty or support at home rank higher. There are magnet schools, charter schools, voucher programs and on-line schools. Sometimes I wonder if parents were involved in their own neighborhood schools, and consequently, the admins and teachers invited the community in (besides sending flyers home for Open House--any monkey can do this), that there wouldn't be a need for the schools that seem to help drain public schools dry.
We're testing kids more than ever. One reason is to assess a child's growth, true, but this has manifested itself into a new culture of number crunching addicts. America loves the scores so much, they've added more and more it seems each season. Online tests are coming soon. Why? Saving paper and paying test graders can be mighty expensive when a computer database can do it for you. I'm not terrified of the new online testing coming to Ohio in a few years, but I can't say I'm thrilled either. You know what my kids do when they take a test online? They don't read the passage, they click to be done fastest, and generally bomb the test more than they would on paper. In some states, the new tests are crashing servers. In others, they don't have the computers in place to administer them.
Back to before. I can't see the same episode of "My So Called Life" focusing on testing, much less movie about it (although "Stand and Deliver" comes close, albeit the test was designed to prove to the world that Latino students in impoverished LA could outshine their suburban counterparts). Perhaps one day, a student of mine will leap upon a desk and cry out, "Captain, My Captain." More than likely, they are going to throw their test down in disgust and scurry from the room in search for their own creative outlets (in a charter school, no less). Will I clap or ask the kid to sit back down?
I was 2 years out of high school in '94. I was a borderline wreck. Pretty much a wreck. Failed relationship with a girlfriend, recent community college dropout. Failed writer of poetry. There was absolutely no reason to traverse the hallways of teenage problems. Age 19 had its share.
In the first and only season of the show, episode 6, amply called "The Substitute" details how a mysterious sub amps up the safe lives of the literature magazine crowd. It's very Dead Poet-esque. In one of those great montage scenes that all educational movies have, the teacher walks through the throng of students whose attention he holds for the first time in their lives. Desk arrangements change from rigid rows to concentric circles of creativity. Kids are walking through the hallway actually interested in school. Inevitable, the courage to write thoughts on paper becomes troublesome to the powers that be--namely the school principal, the dogged administrator who lives simply to squash independent thought at every turn.
I'm blogging as I watch the turn of events. Students publish "radical" lit magazine, principal denounces such thoughts, bans magazine. Out heroine takes it upon herself to print her own version. These kind of episodes, even as scripted as they are (ironic considering the freedom of not playing it safe is exactly what their conceit is), get me fired up. I've cried at enough versions of these movies and episodes you'd think I had seen them and their plots for the first time. I'm a writer at heart, torn between the lure of writing the Great American Novel for fame, and the obscure sweater-porn beatnik who chills boothside in a coffee shop hoping to share his words for the "moment" and nothing else.
In college I was part of a literature group that met weekly in a local Chinese restaurant to hash out story ideas, critique on another and provide feedback for becoming published. It was the kind of group any lit teacher would hang their hat on as an essential of kids learning and working beyond what happens in the classroom. Since I know I have written about this topic before, I won't go much further into detail, but these are the times when I'm so in love with writing, education and the process of creativity that I could see myself teaching one of those standard-tv-issue lit classes and firing up a group of high school kids who never realized their true potential.
Much of this thought goes into my normal, everyday process for teaching my elementary students. I've tried several classroom management and self-directed behavioral strategies over the years to warrant my own screenplays. However, I don't typically have those, "captain, my captain" moments. I doubt many teachers actually do. The best I get are the picture captions I display on cork board every year behind my computer.
Mr. C is the best.
You're the best teacher ever.
We love Mr. C.
Lately there's been frustration on my part of my own performance. The nagging perfectionism debates, the Mr. Hand episodes of lecture v. rant (I chuckled at watching "Fast Times" the other night when Mr. Hand shows up at Spicolli's house to "square the account" of wasted time in his room. Oh, my kids are lucky I am married and not readily available during the summer). The pressure of late for many in my profession is raising test scores (or, "why are my kids failing?"), motivating kids (especially boys) school funding. Any of these 3 topics can dispel a month-long professional development training to cynicism. Outside of a teacher's lounge, you're liable to hear even more. Teachers are being asked to do more, with less parental support, with less administrative support than ever before. Many studies claim that teacher performance is the number one determination of a child's ability to succeed, even when other studies claim outside factors like poverty or support at home rank higher. There are magnet schools, charter schools, voucher programs and on-line schools. Sometimes I wonder if parents were involved in their own neighborhood schools, and consequently, the admins and teachers invited the community in (besides sending flyers home for Open House--any monkey can do this), that there wouldn't be a need for the schools that seem to help drain public schools dry.
We're testing kids more than ever. One reason is to assess a child's growth, true, but this has manifested itself into a new culture of number crunching addicts. America loves the scores so much, they've added more and more it seems each season. Online tests are coming soon. Why? Saving paper and paying test graders can be mighty expensive when a computer database can do it for you. I'm not terrified of the new online testing coming to Ohio in a few years, but I can't say I'm thrilled either. You know what my kids do when they take a test online? They don't read the passage, they click to be done fastest, and generally bomb the test more than they would on paper. In some states, the new tests are crashing servers. In others, they don't have the computers in place to administer them.
Back to before. I can't see the same episode of "My So Called Life" focusing on testing, much less movie about it (although "Stand and Deliver" comes close, albeit the test was designed to prove to the world that Latino students in impoverished LA could outshine their suburban counterparts). Perhaps one day, a student of mine will leap upon a desk and cry out, "Captain, My Captain." More than likely, they are going to throw their test down in disgust and scurry from the room in search for their own creative outlets (in a charter school, no less). Will I clap or ask the kid to sit back down?
Friday, June 29, 2012
Side Dishes
There's something fearful about storms, always has been. The obvious reminder of who controls the heavens becomes blatantly obvious when clouds begin to roll in like some supernatural army. It's poetry, really. And reading enough novels and poems over the years, no author can really capture the essence of nature. Walt Whitman comes close, and in a pinch, I'd take the cinematography of some random Oscar winning movie where the landscape plays more of a role than a villain.
Tonight's blackout of the Cordova home was proceeded by the typical ominous signs--the porch umbrella that twists and jostles, an upturned flower pot, the ripples of the pool water, grayness. The lights flicker, the computer inevitably has to be shut down, and you wonder how long before the fan begins its final twirl, if just maybe this once, that will be the end of power for a very long time.
The kids had already fallen asleep from the rigors of play, their sweat and stick already enveloping my wife. The anxiousness of sweat dotted my forehead, despite the opening of windows after the storm had passed. The kids eventually awoke. The seeds of hunger escape from their lips. Plans are made, money transferred. Movie or dinner? I rigged the garage door to free us from captivity, the lonesomeness of lost electricity.
So the trek begins. This is the scene of the Armageddon movie you never witness. That first drive onto the road, spotting downed trees, wondering if you really heard the sound of an ambulance in the distance. The initial traffic jam is inevitable and so begins the patience. Years ago, in Houston perhaps, there would have been no driving around on a blackout. The traffic there is bad enough when electricity is working. We pass the first fried chicken joint before the flood of indecision comes between my wife and I. Flavor v. budget. Budget v whims. Whims v kids' preference. The hamburger joint we decide on has no empty seats. We both realize the wait for anything, with the entire town blacked out, is going to be a long one. Our attire is hoping we don't decide to walk from the car in public. People may stare.
We head back into town with the onslaught of residents already taken a head start. The right side of the strip blinks with electricity. The left side is vacant. Further ahead, after about 30 minutes of driving, we realize our second destination is without power. We forge ahead, suburbanites on a trek for sustenance. The lines around McDonalds curve around the parking lots.
We make another 20 minute drive to another chicken joint. The parking there hasn't been as well thought out as the one in the suburbs. The inside is closed. Vans are backing up into the line dangerously close to the sides of the car. People look hurried. One man, the stereotypical redneck in large-tired truck and jeans, is accompanied by a young female in the type of shorts a father would disown a daughter for. The drive through line does not move, albeit for the two cars that inched out of line for a greater trek to be blogged about on other websites. Choices are made. We follow suit.
By the time we circled back to our original point of destination, at least an hour and a half had passed. The van DVD had played, restarted, finished and replayed again. Both our phones were charged 20% (they too suffered from the impatience of their users after the blackout), I had a 17 minute conversation with my father about Batman and family reunions while contemplating how many mashed potatoes we would order with our meal.
On the drive home I was thankful for the time. Ironically, the movie the kids watched heavy-handedly God-spoke these well worn mantras about spending quality time with your kids, lest they end up on a movie screen somewhere fighting secret agents without their parents' whereabouts. The conversation with my dad, the summaries of our jobs and our attitudes, the day we had at the pool serving our many friends and their kids.
Sometimes I read how many think prayers aren't answered, or how the prayers are self-centered or materialistic. In my case, I too become jaded. That wondering says more about us than God. If he can give me, a man who deserves little, the extra time to plan, to talk, to be with my family, why can't I turn the dial on the heavy-handed God-speak all the time? I wish it was as simple as ordering mashed potatoes.
Tonight's blackout of the Cordova home was proceeded by the typical ominous signs--the porch umbrella that twists and jostles, an upturned flower pot, the ripples of the pool water, grayness. The lights flicker, the computer inevitably has to be shut down, and you wonder how long before the fan begins its final twirl, if just maybe this once, that will be the end of power for a very long time.
The kids had already fallen asleep from the rigors of play, their sweat and stick already enveloping my wife. The anxiousness of sweat dotted my forehead, despite the opening of windows after the storm had passed. The kids eventually awoke. The seeds of hunger escape from their lips. Plans are made, money transferred. Movie or dinner? I rigged the garage door to free us from captivity, the lonesomeness of lost electricity.
So the trek begins. This is the scene of the Armageddon movie you never witness. That first drive onto the road, spotting downed trees, wondering if you really heard the sound of an ambulance in the distance. The initial traffic jam is inevitable and so begins the patience. Years ago, in Houston perhaps, there would have been no driving around on a blackout. The traffic there is bad enough when electricity is working. We pass the first fried chicken joint before the flood of indecision comes between my wife and I. Flavor v. budget. Budget v whims. Whims v kids' preference. The hamburger joint we decide on has no empty seats. We both realize the wait for anything, with the entire town blacked out, is going to be a long one. Our attire is hoping we don't decide to walk from the car in public. People may stare.
We head back into town with the onslaught of residents already taken a head start. The right side of the strip blinks with electricity. The left side is vacant. Further ahead, after about 30 minutes of driving, we realize our second destination is without power. We forge ahead, suburbanites on a trek for sustenance. The lines around McDonalds curve around the parking lots.
We make another 20 minute drive to another chicken joint. The parking there hasn't been as well thought out as the one in the suburbs. The inside is closed. Vans are backing up into the line dangerously close to the sides of the car. People look hurried. One man, the stereotypical redneck in large-tired truck and jeans, is accompanied by a young female in the type of shorts a father would disown a daughter for. The drive through line does not move, albeit for the two cars that inched out of line for a greater trek to be blogged about on other websites. Choices are made. We follow suit.
By the time we circled back to our original point of destination, at least an hour and a half had passed. The van DVD had played, restarted, finished and replayed again. Both our phones were charged 20% (they too suffered from the impatience of their users after the blackout), I had a 17 minute conversation with my father about Batman and family reunions while contemplating how many mashed potatoes we would order with our meal.
On the drive home I was thankful for the time. Ironically, the movie the kids watched heavy-handedly God-spoke these well worn mantras about spending quality time with your kids, lest they end up on a movie screen somewhere fighting secret agents without their parents' whereabouts. The conversation with my dad, the summaries of our jobs and our attitudes, the day we had at the pool serving our many friends and their kids.
Sometimes I read how many think prayers aren't answered, or how the prayers are self-centered or materialistic. In my case, I too become jaded. That wondering says more about us than God. If he can give me, a man who deserves little, the extra time to plan, to talk, to be with my family, why can't I turn the dial on the heavy-handed God-speak all the time? I wish it was as simple as ordering mashed potatoes.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Reclaiming Conviction
Church services of late have made me think about family. My own, the one who guided me, the ones I followed on television as if they were my own. Each series so far are followed with disclaimers, which if you've read this blog about a month ago, I ironically had to use this method to great effect. Even going to church has been a different experience. The music, the handshakes, the catching-ups are a simple and calming affect of church. But it's the conviction that makes me come back week after week. The conviction, the squirm, the uneasy laugh I have among my friends and my wife who sit in our area, are the reasons I know I'm in the right place. Going to church to feel good is not why you should be going. Going to church to make changes, to make you think, eventually makes you feel more than good. Unending joy.
I was born in 1974, so all the late 70 shows and 80 family shows were probably reruns. I watched the Jetson's every morning thinking they were made in my time. I watched the Flintstones, too. One family in the future and one set in prehistoric times. Dads overwhelmed with family responsibilities and blowhard bosses. The wives always knew more than everyone.
Later, I was obsessed with shows like "Good Times," "All in the Family" and "The Jeffersons." 'Good Times' and 'Jeffersons' brought attention to the mythical and overbearing "Man" who ruled over the ghetto (meaning, the loves of people with color) with a macabre sense of humor. Why didn't JJ ever make it out of the hood? Cause the Man kept him there? And what about the head of the household? John Amos died, leaving a family to fend for themselves (and was probably a symbol of the lack of African-American fathers in society at the time), George Jefferson showed you didn't have to be white to be a bigot, and Archie Bunker made me think every old man was secretly a mean-spirited Nazi. But a funny Nazi at least.
Other family shows had their moments. The hippy fathers and Ronald Reagan-loving Alex P. Keatonm the Brady Bunch's blended family survived reruns, the Grand Canyon and annoying cousins. The Full House made child rearing a man's job (albeit 3 men), Tony Danza was a maid/step-dad and Tim Allen perhaps began the buffoon dad with a heart of gold trend.
My family was neither of these and parts of all of them. My grandmother was known to muse Archie Bunker-ish at times, and to imagine seeing her free my one black cousin's hair from her braids to straiten and 'clean' it was something to behold. My aunt Rachel reminded me of Roseanne and the conversations I had in the car with my mom as a teenager (if my life is to flash before my eyes, it will be me in a passenger seat listening to my parents) rivaled anything on Gilmore Girls.
So we reclaimed some moments in our family, resurrected some long ago habits. We used to have game nights which resulted in some form of tantrum from the kids because one went out of turn and one didn't win. The one reminder I have of the man God wants me to be is to assume that I am doing enough. There's two sides of this argument that could lead to trouble as well. I could compare myself to my dads or other non-Christian and Christian fathers, but that's a human standard I have no business bringing to my family. The other is thinking that since I could never be perfect that I should just forget doing anything. I could never play enough games or throw enough baseballs, but I sure have fun along the way.
The other reclaiming experiment was the family dinner. With our older daughter about to leave for college, we have been eating more meals at the table. This is comical at times too, from Milly's ranch dressing obsession and my son's penchant for eating dinner without wearing a shirt. The kids have been helping Delcina in the kitchen and helping set the table. The forks don't always arrive on time and the salad doesn't always have small lettuce, but dinner has been a blessing I know many families do not foster.
I'm anxious to reclaim something new next Sunday. I want to squirm when I feel something is directed at me. Conviction looks great on us when we submit.
I was born in 1974, so all the late 70 shows and 80 family shows were probably reruns. I watched the Jetson's every morning thinking they were made in my time. I watched the Flintstones, too. One family in the future and one set in prehistoric times. Dads overwhelmed with family responsibilities and blowhard bosses. The wives always knew more than everyone.
Later, I was obsessed with shows like "Good Times," "All in the Family" and "The Jeffersons." 'Good Times' and 'Jeffersons' brought attention to the mythical and overbearing "Man" who ruled over the ghetto (meaning, the loves of people with color) with a macabre sense of humor. Why didn't JJ ever make it out of the hood? Cause the Man kept him there? And what about the head of the household? John Amos died, leaving a family to fend for themselves (and was probably a symbol of the lack of African-American fathers in society at the time), George Jefferson showed you didn't have to be white to be a bigot, and Archie Bunker made me think every old man was secretly a mean-spirited Nazi. But a funny Nazi at least.
Other family shows had their moments. The hippy fathers and Ronald Reagan-loving Alex P. Keatonm the Brady Bunch's blended family survived reruns, the Grand Canyon and annoying cousins. The Full House made child rearing a man's job (albeit 3 men), Tony Danza was a maid/step-dad and Tim Allen perhaps began the buffoon dad with a heart of gold trend.
My family was neither of these and parts of all of them. My grandmother was known to muse Archie Bunker-ish at times, and to imagine seeing her free my one black cousin's hair from her braids to straiten and 'clean' it was something to behold. My aunt Rachel reminded me of Roseanne and the conversations I had in the car with my mom as a teenager (if my life is to flash before my eyes, it will be me in a passenger seat listening to my parents) rivaled anything on Gilmore Girls.
So we reclaimed some moments in our family, resurrected some long ago habits. We used to have game nights which resulted in some form of tantrum from the kids because one went out of turn and one didn't win. The one reminder I have of the man God wants me to be is to assume that I am doing enough. There's two sides of this argument that could lead to trouble as well. I could compare myself to my dads or other non-Christian and Christian fathers, but that's a human standard I have no business bringing to my family. The other is thinking that since I could never be perfect that I should just forget doing anything. I could never play enough games or throw enough baseballs, but I sure have fun along the way.
The other reclaiming experiment was the family dinner. With our older daughter about to leave for college, we have been eating more meals at the table. This is comical at times too, from Milly's ranch dressing obsession and my son's penchant for eating dinner without wearing a shirt. The kids have been helping Delcina in the kitchen and helping set the table. The forks don't always arrive on time and the salad doesn't always have small lettuce, but dinner has been a blessing I know many families do not foster.
I'm anxious to reclaim something new next Sunday. I want to squirm when I feel something is directed at me. Conviction looks great on us when we submit.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Playing Monopoly with God, and Other Mind Games
My life should be in shambles. Utterly destructive, floor-falling-out, meteoric meltdown shambles. Perhaps because I've been conditioned to await a destructive, earth-shattering screw-up is the reason why I've felt a hesitance in my steps. Has anything been particularly earth shattering? Far from the contrary. I should be ecstatic. Then why aren't I?
I began having an open dialogue with myself. Now before you think I have been speaking to myself in the mirror like some one-act play, no, it isn't quite like that. And talking amongst my head is not virgin territory (in all sense of the word). I typically review scenarios in my head where I envision outcomes and circumstances. It's like playing chess, only with no opponent but my conscious. Again, this is nothing new. When I was a child, my mom would frequently find me writing stories, or playing a 4-player game of Monopoly with no one but myself. When I was in high school, my gaming became more elaborate. I created a baseball game complete with imaginary rosters made with school friends and real-life players. I even had a game board and made stats.
Over the years the mind-scenarios have changed somewhat. The ones I have now are typically PG-13 narratives that tend to slip their X-rating past the censors. I have to be careful at times with where my mind drifts to. Soft core porn scenarios are typically not the type of imagery I need from day to day. It's easy to think badly.
Sometimes these scenarios take a destructive turn, as if some Rube-Goldberg technician resides deep into my sub conscious ready to topple the dominoes. Turn right here, fall into a swamp, get strangled by an anaconda and they find your bones centuries later type of silliness. I will typically run trial scenarios before I make phone calls to parents to hash out all possible directions a conversation can take, both positive and negative. Before I go into a meeting with my boss, I'll do the same thing. I try to drop menu my life like I'm some Christian Terminator. I must be armed for every question. Being prepared has its advantages. But it can also stifle randomness. It makes me in control of events that I should be giving to God. It makes me ruler of my life rather than being a participant in something more important. Furthermore, it reminds me of how life used to be rather than what it can become.
I love the real conversation I have all the time. My youngest daughter has been having bad dreams recently. Here's a snippet:
What was your bad dream about?
There was a werewolf and he scratched me and I turned into a werewolf (I think she caught a glimpse of Lisa watching Teen Wolf on MTV and me watching the silly original with Michael J. Fox).
Do you have nice dreams, momma?
I have nice dreams too, daddy. (she pronounces "nice dreams" as "ice creams")
Ice cream? You can't have ice cream right now, silly.
Not 'ice cream', daddy, (and then she yells) "nice dreams!"
Whipped cream? Well, that would be good on pumpkin pie, Reycina, but honestly, whipped cream at 1 in the morning?
Not whipped cream, nice dreams!
Or other conversations with my older daughter about boys, the attractiveness of confidence and her plans for the future. The ones with my wife on the back porch during barbecue reflections. About the house, the people that invariably bother us both, the complaints of life with a bottle of beer.
And I've been having a dialogue with God and Jesus, too. I told my share partner this morning that regardless if my "talks" have been nothing more than self-deluded manifestations, I do believe one thing is constant. God does speak to us all the time. Because of our adult minds and hang-ups, that loss of courageous, childlike thinking, we've lost touch with those inner conversations over time. Many of us have become Doubting Thomases, awaiting some miracle or force to intervene because we don't have the courage to simply believe in what God wants for us. We await this wound for us to place our fingers in, the allow the blood to drip on our own hands before we believe in the miraculous. Our lives are not miraculous in themselves enough, we argue, or we wouldn't be doubting at all. How silly and simple it all seems now typing it out.
So what have my conversations with God been like lately? I ask him questions about the future of my son.
He's in good hands. You're his father.
Or I thank him for my daughters.
I love you, that's why they have been entrusted to you.
Or I ask him why I don't seem to learn from my mistakes.
But I still love you.
But you know my sins. Even those sins. You know.
You're asking me for an out. I know you too well. I love you. That is enough for any man.
But I still don't feel like...
Again, you're placing me in human contexts. Didn't I love you before you knew about me?
Well, yeah, but...
And do I not see the choices you've made before and envision the ones you're going to make?
Well, yeah, but...
I not giving you an out if that's what you want. I love you too much to allow you to continue to be the same person you were.
I just can't...
But I love you.
But I...
And I still love you.
Eventually the Doubting Thomas cries himself to sleep. There aren't any mountains to climb or rapids to cross. The Doubting Thomas awaits the next ball to drop, not because he knows any different, but because even though the wounds are clear and distinguishable, the person, The Living Thomas, The Courageous Thomas, is something new and challenging and totally unlike the Doubter. There's fear there. Terrifying fear. Fear that leads to joy. The joy that has been awaiting to be unwrapped like a gift. A gift.
I began having an open dialogue with myself. Now before you think I have been speaking to myself in the mirror like some one-act play, no, it isn't quite like that. And talking amongst my head is not virgin territory (in all sense of the word). I typically review scenarios in my head where I envision outcomes and circumstances. It's like playing chess, only with no opponent but my conscious. Again, this is nothing new. When I was a child, my mom would frequently find me writing stories, or playing a 4-player game of Monopoly with no one but myself. When I was in high school, my gaming became more elaborate. I created a baseball game complete with imaginary rosters made with school friends and real-life players. I even had a game board and made stats.
Over the years the mind-scenarios have changed somewhat. The ones I have now are typically PG-13 narratives that tend to slip their X-rating past the censors. I have to be careful at times with where my mind drifts to. Soft core porn scenarios are typically not the type of imagery I need from day to day. It's easy to think badly.
Sometimes these scenarios take a destructive turn, as if some Rube-Goldberg technician resides deep into my sub conscious ready to topple the dominoes. Turn right here, fall into a swamp, get strangled by an anaconda and they find your bones centuries later type of silliness. I will typically run trial scenarios before I make phone calls to parents to hash out all possible directions a conversation can take, both positive and negative. Before I go into a meeting with my boss, I'll do the same thing. I try to drop menu my life like I'm some Christian Terminator. I must be armed for every question. Being prepared has its advantages. But it can also stifle randomness. It makes me in control of events that I should be giving to God. It makes me ruler of my life rather than being a participant in something more important. Furthermore, it reminds me of how life used to be rather than what it can become.
I love the real conversation I have all the time. My youngest daughter has been having bad dreams recently. Here's a snippet:
What was your bad dream about?
There was a werewolf and he scratched me and I turned into a werewolf (I think she caught a glimpse of Lisa watching Teen Wolf on MTV and me watching the silly original with Michael J. Fox).
Do you have nice dreams, momma?
I have nice dreams too, daddy. (she pronounces "nice dreams" as "ice creams")
Ice cream? You can't have ice cream right now, silly.
Not 'ice cream', daddy, (and then she yells) "nice dreams!"
Whipped cream? Well, that would be good on pumpkin pie, Reycina, but honestly, whipped cream at 1 in the morning?
Not whipped cream, nice dreams!
Or other conversations with my older daughter about boys, the attractiveness of confidence and her plans for the future. The ones with my wife on the back porch during barbecue reflections. About the house, the people that invariably bother us both, the complaints of life with a bottle of beer.
And I've been having a dialogue with God and Jesus, too. I told my share partner this morning that regardless if my "talks" have been nothing more than self-deluded manifestations, I do believe one thing is constant. God does speak to us all the time. Because of our adult minds and hang-ups, that loss of courageous, childlike thinking, we've lost touch with those inner conversations over time. Many of us have become Doubting Thomases, awaiting some miracle or force to intervene because we don't have the courage to simply believe in what God wants for us. We await this wound for us to place our fingers in, the allow the blood to drip on our own hands before we believe in the miraculous. Our lives are not miraculous in themselves enough, we argue, or we wouldn't be doubting at all. How silly and simple it all seems now typing it out.
So what have my conversations with God been like lately? I ask him questions about the future of my son.
He's in good hands. You're his father.
Or I thank him for my daughters.
I love you, that's why they have been entrusted to you.
Or I ask him why I don't seem to learn from my mistakes.
But I still love you.
But you know my sins. Even those sins. You know.
You're asking me for an out. I know you too well. I love you. That is enough for any man.
But I still don't feel like...
Again, you're placing me in human contexts. Didn't I love you before you knew about me?
Well, yeah, but...
And do I not see the choices you've made before and envision the ones you're going to make?
Well, yeah, but...
I not giving you an out if that's what you want. I love you too much to allow you to continue to be the same person you were.
I just can't...
But I love you.
But I...
And I still love you.
Eventually the Doubting Thomas cries himself to sleep. There aren't any mountains to climb or rapids to cross. The Doubting Thomas awaits the next ball to drop, not because he knows any different, but because even though the wounds are clear and distinguishable, the person, The Living Thomas, The Courageous Thomas, is something new and challenging and totally unlike the Doubter. There's fear there. Terrifying fear. Fear that leads to joy. The joy that has been awaiting to be unwrapped like a gift. A gift.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
The Difficulty of Moses
There's enough evidence in the weather to know that summer has arrived a tad early. The grass is a light yellow, thirsty for nurturing water. The remnants of charcoal sprinkles the patio underneath the pit. If you wave your hand over the grill, you can still feel the warmth from the previous nights' feast. The pool waves circulate from the wind and pump, and the water is clear now. Goggles litter the landscape.
Even the house shows the changes. Shirts are left on the floor in defiance of sweat and sun. Pool towels take residence on the chairs. Doors remain ajar as if they await visitors. Glasses rejoice at the red juices and teas that fill them. Cabinets spill forth its contents to be rearranged, redistributed, its books to be read, bookmarked and hi lighted.
My sleep times become more erratic, as if I'm cramming for some unseen movie/tv show exam. I reflect constantly about school. Try as I might, I always tell myself I am going to relax and not think about school whatsoever, and then I read something, or talk to someone, and then the mind gets going about what to amend, what to add and what to discontinue.
The year had its moments. I felt conversational with the students from day one, but I felt a loss of control with my emotions with others. As a teacher, I expect results. I teach, you learn, we test and we show growth. I find I am this way with my friends too, sometimes even with my own kids, my marriage. The kids have gotten more challenging as the years have gone by, but the major difference is the time I devote to them. It was nothing for me then to stay after school for tutoring, or to walk a student home to meet the parent who has failed to call me back.
This past week, I was introduced to 4 different types of schools. One is the Darwin school. In the Darwin school, it is the survival of the fittest. Kids are tracked based on their ability and aptitude, rather than creating students equipped for what their futures might bring. I grew up with some aspects of the Darwin school. I remember being in tracking groups, most likely the one for sarcastic, silly boys. Teachers expected us to remain seated and to complete all of our work.
The second type of school is the Lombardi school. The Lombardi school believes that effort will provide results. Failure leads to learning in this type of school. And if you haven't met your goals, try harder. I can say I fall into this category daily in my own teaching. While effort does have a lot to do with learning styles and ability, many kids are trying hard. No kid wakes up and says to themselves, "How can I screw up my learning today?" I find that my words of affirmation to my kids are more directed towards effort instead of academics. I had a professor in college who used to call his sweat stains and red-faced look after class "power teaching." If you aren't sweating, you aren't working, right? I hi-five kids whose wrists hurt from writing too much. You sure worked hard today.
And in terms of failure as motivation, today's children fail time and time again but never see an end. They are working hard, considering the fact they are sometimes multiple grade levels behind in reading. They have completed their work, on time, with little assistance sometimes. They kids are so used to seeing failing papers boomerang back to them, what's the difference between what I'm teaching them and what others before me have taught them?
The 3rd type of school is the Chicago Cub school. No matter how you are doing academically, a teacher in the Cub school knows that it doesn't matter because "you'll get it eventually." The Cubs draw record crowds every year no matter that they will never amount to much. Teachers who teach to the Chicago Cub way love and nurture their kids, but in the end, do they really ever learn anything?
The last school is the Annie Sullivan school. This is the "whatever it takes" school. Annie taught Helen Keller, basically from scratch, right, and by any means necessary. According to our speaker, why wouldn't we want our kids to be involved in a "whatever-it-takes" school. At first I took this as a negative. Does this mean do whatever it takes to raise test scores? Does this mean that we place every rambunctious boy on medication to achieve sameness?
Do I do whatever it takes every day in school? What did I try for my autistic boy, the new girl with drama, the kid 2 years behind in reading, my silly boys and my over achieving girls? And am I reluctant to do so because I'm still vain enough to demand visible and undeniable changes I can measure and detect that very year? I don't always get to see a child grow, from an educational value-added score, or the ones that mean more, from year to year. I felt looping with a small handful helped me see some of the changes I yearn for. Maturity, the ability to finish a task, writing an essay when they barely could write a paragraph. But I don't get to see the same students years from now. How many end up in college? Or accepted to the National Honor Society. I know 3 of my kids have children. Does that make them unsuccessful?
I begin to see what it must have been like for Moses. Here is the man who spoke with God, his face radiant from the light and power of the burning bush. He has led his people through the desert, from Pharaoh's army, from starvation and the grumbling of thousands. But does he get to see his people led into the promised land? No. Does he get to see his teaching in action? No.
And imagine if Moses had been able to cross the Jordan into the land of milk and honey. How long before the Jews would have placed him on a pedestal? Could Moses have even walked the streets in his time without a plea from a peasant, or to squash a dispute? Eventually, it would have been all about Moses and not about God. It's only natural. Would Moses have succumbed to the feeling of power?
And what if I had knowledge of all my ex-students' successes at my disposal (and I do with a handful, thanks to Facebook)? Would I eventually begin to take credit for that one year of learning despite their parents' intervention? How long would it take for me to take credit when no credit was to be given? I have to realize that I am but a small part in a complex system of experiences, relationships and decisions. Ultimately, a child's success has little to do with me and everything to do with their household. I am thankful for the time I get to spend with 30 kids every year. God has provided me with a sense of purpose. But that purpose can be thwarted with ego and self-congratulations.
I'm sure it was difficult for Moses to watch his people cross the Jordan into the promised land. How long would it have been before he felt a twinge of jealousy? I have to learn that I may sometimes get to help them cross the river, sometimes hand in hand, and sometimes I'm led to just watch from afar. Just knowing that I am powerless is humbling enough.
Even the house shows the changes. Shirts are left on the floor in defiance of sweat and sun. Pool towels take residence on the chairs. Doors remain ajar as if they await visitors. Glasses rejoice at the red juices and teas that fill them. Cabinets spill forth its contents to be rearranged, redistributed, its books to be read, bookmarked and hi lighted.
My sleep times become more erratic, as if I'm cramming for some unseen movie/tv show exam. I reflect constantly about school. Try as I might, I always tell myself I am going to relax and not think about school whatsoever, and then I read something, or talk to someone, and then the mind gets going about what to amend, what to add and what to discontinue.
The year had its moments. I felt conversational with the students from day one, but I felt a loss of control with my emotions with others. As a teacher, I expect results. I teach, you learn, we test and we show growth. I find I am this way with my friends too, sometimes even with my own kids, my marriage. The kids have gotten more challenging as the years have gone by, but the major difference is the time I devote to them. It was nothing for me then to stay after school for tutoring, or to walk a student home to meet the parent who has failed to call me back.
This past week, I was introduced to 4 different types of schools. One is the Darwin school. In the Darwin school, it is the survival of the fittest. Kids are tracked based on their ability and aptitude, rather than creating students equipped for what their futures might bring. I grew up with some aspects of the Darwin school. I remember being in tracking groups, most likely the one for sarcastic, silly boys. Teachers expected us to remain seated and to complete all of our work.
The second type of school is the Lombardi school. The Lombardi school believes that effort will provide results. Failure leads to learning in this type of school. And if you haven't met your goals, try harder. I can say I fall into this category daily in my own teaching. While effort does have a lot to do with learning styles and ability, many kids are trying hard. No kid wakes up and says to themselves, "How can I screw up my learning today?" I find that my words of affirmation to my kids are more directed towards effort instead of academics. I had a professor in college who used to call his sweat stains and red-faced look after class "power teaching." If you aren't sweating, you aren't working, right? I hi-five kids whose wrists hurt from writing too much. You sure worked hard today.
And in terms of failure as motivation, today's children fail time and time again but never see an end. They are working hard, considering the fact they are sometimes multiple grade levels behind in reading. They have completed their work, on time, with little assistance sometimes. They kids are so used to seeing failing papers boomerang back to them, what's the difference between what I'm teaching them and what others before me have taught them?
The 3rd type of school is the Chicago Cub school. No matter how you are doing academically, a teacher in the Cub school knows that it doesn't matter because "you'll get it eventually." The Cubs draw record crowds every year no matter that they will never amount to much. Teachers who teach to the Chicago Cub way love and nurture their kids, but in the end, do they really ever learn anything?
The last school is the Annie Sullivan school. This is the "whatever it takes" school. Annie taught Helen Keller, basically from scratch, right, and by any means necessary. According to our speaker, why wouldn't we want our kids to be involved in a "whatever-it-takes" school. At first I took this as a negative. Does this mean do whatever it takes to raise test scores? Does this mean that we place every rambunctious boy on medication to achieve sameness?
Do I do whatever it takes every day in school? What did I try for my autistic boy, the new girl with drama, the kid 2 years behind in reading, my silly boys and my over achieving girls? And am I reluctant to do so because I'm still vain enough to demand visible and undeniable changes I can measure and detect that very year? I don't always get to see a child grow, from an educational value-added score, or the ones that mean more, from year to year. I felt looping with a small handful helped me see some of the changes I yearn for. Maturity, the ability to finish a task, writing an essay when they barely could write a paragraph. But I don't get to see the same students years from now. How many end up in college? Or accepted to the National Honor Society. I know 3 of my kids have children. Does that make them unsuccessful?
I begin to see what it must have been like for Moses. Here is the man who spoke with God, his face radiant from the light and power of the burning bush. He has led his people through the desert, from Pharaoh's army, from starvation and the grumbling of thousands. But does he get to see his people led into the promised land? No. Does he get to see his teaching in action? No.
And imagine if Moses had been able to cross the Jordan into the land of milk and honey. How long before the Jews would have placed him on a pedestal? Could Moses have even walked the streets in his time without a plea from a peasant, or to squash a dispute? Eventually, it would have been all about Moses and not about God. It's only natural. Would Moses have succumbed to the feeling of power?
And what if I had knowledge of all my ex-students' successes at my disposal (and I do with a handful, thanks to Facebook)? Would I eventually begin to take credit for that one year of learning despite their parents' intervention? How long would it take for me to take credit when no credit was to be given? I have to realize that I am but a small part in a complex system of experiences, relationships and decisions. Ultimately, a child's success has little to do with me and everything to do with their household. I am thankful for the time I get to spend with 30 kids every year. God has provided me with a sense of purpose. But that purpose can be thwarted with ego and self-congratulations.
I'm sure it was difficult for Moses to watch his people cross the Jordan into the promised land. How long would it have been before he felt a twinge of jealousy? I have to learn that I may sometimes get to help them cross the river, sometimes hand in hand, and sometimes I'm led to just watch from afar. Just knowing that I am powerless is humbling enough.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Functional Dysfunction
Most of the time, I'm a total mess.
Let's just admit that fact right off the bat. If you're a first time reader, you need to know what's coming. Stories about a sinner who sometimes reluctantly and other times blatantly embraces the good types of life affirming change God has been asking of me all along. I'm really no different from the person to my left or right. Perhaps I can eloquently summarize a week in a few paragraphs better than the average blogger. Perhaps I can express that thought, but most of the time I am pretty much in awe of what responsibilities and events transpire in my life. I am the great observer. Sometimes I'm allowed to intervene, and other times I am asked to intervene. But in the end, I'm here for what amounts to a split second of time. And when I don't allow God in, and even when I do, I'm still pretty much a mess. Dysfunctionally broken.
These past few weeks have been a reminder my connections to the overall scheme of things. The role of fatherhood, mentor, coach, husband. The role of being a son was remembered for I truly found that to have been missing. You never stop being your mom's son. You feel at times that Dad has bequeathed some sort of manliness on, as if manhood was somehow given like a favorite recliner, or a worn glove passed from one person to another. The torch. But you're never really far from your mother. I can be 50, and if my mom is still around in 20 years, or 30, you can bet she's still going to be my mom, and me, her son.
For the past month, and especially these last week or so, I have been resistant to criticism. It could have been from parenting, teaching, being a husband, but amid all this stubbornness I had been praying about feeling "attacked." While some of my feelings are true in the sense that the devil likes to make us feel like we are in charge, I had to remember the motivations behind the God whispers.
So there was work. Perhaps the boss' rebuke isn't rooted in Biblical love, but in the corporate manifesto of "to cover one's ass." Bosses are pressed by the numbers, the data, and the suit behind some fancy, cherry wood, stained desk. Still, there's lessons to be learned and strategies to implement.
But from my wife or my mom? That's the love true rebuke comes from. The kind I felt at church this morning when my pastor began speaking about today's "modern" family. I smirked about his disclaimer at the beginning of the sermon, where he began making the congregation feel better about the inevitable families out there who think they are doing "enough" in their lives to live a Godly way. If I go to church simply to feel better, I might as well not go. If I go for conviction, then, that's where I want to worship. I'd cry if I wasn't on so much medication.
Perhaps that's why there are so many women out there raising kids on their own. The men simply could not handle the conviction that comes with being a leader of the home. Or perhaps that's why so many people don't attend church. Who wants to be told that there's so much more than what the world wants? And while many similar thoughts get me fired up on any particular day, why don't I ask myself the same question?
Many friends tell me, "you're too hard on yourself." There's some truth to that I'm sure, but there's also a great amount of selfishness in the line as well. Even self flagellation has its limits. God doesn't want us lamenting past behaviors and choices. He doesn't want us worrying about tomorrow, so I'm pretty sure he's not throwing our sins in our face either. It's forgiveness with an expectation of change. That's love. He doesn't want us making excuses for making the same bad choices. That's love as well. And when conviction does change, it hurts. It humbles. It pushes us into action. And conviction doesn't want us sealed off from the world like some basement jockey, whereby spending the day using our opposable thumbs to direct the actions of video game character along some dystopian landscape. Hand me a lightsaber and I'm the most fearless of adults. Hand me a Bible and I become meek. Why is that?
Summer beckons, and reflections are sure to come. I'm already 3 blogs behind and several books are calling my name in a soothing cacophony of temptation. What will I give in with this summer? Get away with? Give away? My God shoes sit beside me. They're dusty from wear and have those green lawn stains from mowing. The laces are unraveling. The great thing about the God shoes is that there is always a new pair whenever I need them. And their free. Absolutely free. Who else can say that?
Let's just admit that fact right off the bat. If you're a first time reader, you need to know what's coming. Stories about a sinner who sometimes reluctantly and other times blatantly embraces the good types of life affirming change God has been asking of me all along. I'm really no different from the person to my left or right. Perhaps I can eloquently summarize a week in a few paragraphs better than the average blogger. Perhaps I can express that thought, but most of the time I am pretty much in awe of what responsibilities and events transpire in my life. I am the great observer. Sometimes I'm allowed to intervene, and other times I am asked to intervene. But in the end, I'm here for what amounts to a split second of time. And when I don't allow God in, and even when I do, I'm still pretty much a mess. Dysfunctionally broken.
These past few weeks have been a reminder my connections to the overall scheme of things. The role of fatherhood, mentor, coach, husband. The role of being a son was remembered for I truly found that to have been missing. You never stop being your mom's son. You feel at times that Dad has bequeathed some sort of manliness on, as if manhood was somehow given like a favorite recliner, or a worn glove passed from one person to another. The torch. But you're never really far from your mother. I can be 50, and if my mom is still around in 20 years, or 30, you can bet she's still going to be my mom, and me, her son.
For the past month, and especially these last week or so, I have been resistant to criticism. It could have been from parenting, teaching, being a husband, but amid all this stubbornness I had been praying about feeling "attacked." While some of my feelings are true in the sense that the devil likes to make us feel like we are in charge, I had to remember the motivations behind the God whispers.
So there was work. Perhaps the boss' rebuke isn't rooted in Biblical love, but in the corporate manifesto of "to cover one's ass." Bosses are pressed by the numbers, the data, and the suit behind some fancy, cherry wood, stained desk. Still, there's lessons to be learned and strategies to implement.
But from my wife or my mom? That's the love true rebuke comes from. The kind I felt at church this morning when my pastor began speaking about today's "modern" family. I smirked about his disclaimer at the beginning of the sermon, where he began making the congregation feel better about the inevitable families out there who think they are doing "enough" in their lives to live a Godly way. If I go to church simply to feel better, I might as well not go. If I go for conviction, then, that's where I want to worship. I'd cry if I wasn't on so much medication.
Perhaps that's why there are so many women out there raising kids on their own. The men simply could not handle the conviction that comes with being a leader of the home. Or perhaps that's why so many people don't attend church. Who wants to be told that there's so much more than what the world wants? And while many similar thoughts get me fired up on any particular day, why don't I ask myself the same question?
Many friends tell me, "you're too hard on yourself." There's some truth to that I'm sure, but there's also a great amount of selfishness in the line as well. Even self flagellation has its limits. God doesn't want us lamenting past behaviors and choices. He doesn't want us worrying about tomorrow, so I'm pretty sure he's not throwing our sins in our face either. It's forgiveness with an expectation of change. That's love. He doesn't want us making excuses for making the same bad choices. That's love as well. And when conviction does change, it hurts. It humbles. It pushes us into action. And conviction doesn't want us sealed off from the world like some basement jockey, whereby spending the day using our opposable thumbs to direct the actions of video game character along some dystopian landscape. Hand me a lightsaber and I'm the most fearless of adults. Hand me a Bible and I become meek. Why is that?
Summer beckons, and reflections are sure to come. I'm already 3 blogs behind and several books are calling my name in a soothing cacophony of temptation. What will I give in with this summer? Get away with? Give away? My God shoes sit beside me. They're dusty from wear and have those green lawn stains from mowing. The laces are unraveling. The great thing about the God shoes is that there is always a new pair whenever I need them. And their free. Absolutely free. Who else can say that?
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