I think I lost the original intro to this blog a week ago. Such goes in the mind of a writer. Back when I was devoting time to the job of writing (when I was a poet, wearing my hipster hat...haha, yeah right) I would cram out paragraphs and stanzas weekly. I kept journals I have yet to find in some hidden crawl space tote. The ideas later changed. As a fifth grader I wrote epic stories of armies and spies. In college I wrote about life's observations, stories where the protagonist was an outsider. It's how I've felt all my life in one way or another--a bystander. Someone watching as someone led a more fulfilling life before me.
I used to work at a toll road in Houston. During the night shift were born the best of my ideas. I had plenty of time to think and night-dream, as anyone passing by in tinted windows and a smirk had a story to tell. Again, I was the casual voyeur to the countless faces that passed by. Maybe it's why I love movies and people watching. Watching, for me, became a pastime.
This past week, my wife and I witnessed a driver swerve through a busy back street on our way to the store yesterday. It was an otherwise uneventful trip just before dinner, one that we didn't even need to make. As the truck continued to swerve, our plans went from groceries to tailing the car until it reached some inevitable conclusion. Soon enough, the truck turned right, swerved again, and ran into one of those green phone wire boxes on the side of the road, and barely missing a tree. We pulled up alongside to find a woman in the midst of a blackout. She had no idea of her surroundings or her movements, only that something was out of the ordinary. She was on her way to pick up her son, and a story of disorders and medication soon followed. So instead of grocery shopping, we drove her truck to her destination, waited for a boyfriend to arrive and said our good-byes with a hug and plenty of questions.
School has had its own side swipe moments. I have one girl who cries constantly, either she's being picked on by someone or something unfortunate happens to her which causes undue attention to come her way. I have multiple absent--at oen point one student returned on Friday, only to have her mom remember an appointment and thereby whisked her away not 15 minutes into the day. I get threats of potential phone conferences from mothers who have been told I don't "like" their child. All year I have met with parents on disciplinary hearings where excuses run tantamount to coherence. I'm frequently called to the table about my domineering presence, my tone of voice, my sarcasm or my bluntness. (In turn, our new PE teacher has been told by his supervisor that he is scaring the kids with his voice.) Moms (and female students) have no idea of what passes for a man's voice, nor authority anymore. I'm reading To Kill a Mockingbird, which features Atticus Finch, a man among men. He makes no excuses for his kids. Today's parents? Not so much. Education has emasculated men in my profession and we have grown impotent.
Even our staff meetings have become overrun by petty grievances and micro management. Just what is the difference between a silent hallway and a quiet hallway? How many squirts of liquid hand soap should a child be allowed to have? And this, somehow will raise test scores in our building?
This past week side swiped me with health too. Besides the enduring need to fill my mouth with cookies and stress sandwiches, I was reminded of the frailty of our bodies. In the end, what are our possessions but boxed mementos. The life of a man are those who surround him to pray in a hospice center. A seemingly random nurse who takes time during his off hours to visit a dying man and pray--that's the essence of a man. Right there, hand in hand with a blended family of believers.
I thought of a dying man's skin. Bruised and raised, dry from wear. On Sunday, I sit among the church youth at different ages. Their youthful awkwardness, their lack of an indoor voice. When some of them speak of God I wonder who is being taught. We learned about the friendship of Barnabas (look up his name's meaning) and the Body of Christ. The cute flirty eyes of a junior high student across the room. The boy with his head down, eyes gazed upon his phone. They're all mini adults, really, navigating the world that has been placed before them, sometimes just as confused and bewildered as we are.
Where is this blog going? I still have no clue. I'm in crisis of sorts. I want to yank someone by the collar (perhaps I want someone to yank my collar!) and say, "Listen up! There it is. Your life. What are you going to do with it?" I want to hug my daughter when she cries, when she doesn't cry. I want old men in hospice to walk free towards their next destination. I want to hold the door open for them, pat them on the back along the way. Sometimes I'm afraid I'll always be holding that door open. Or that I wont have the right thing to say and hope that a smile or a downcast eye will appease them. What would they care? Run towards the light, dear friends, something better awaits.
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