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.