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.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
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.
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