Monday, January 27, 2014

Symphonic Honey

Typically, when you ask someone if they have family back in their hometown you expect the same two answers.  They still reside there, like mine in Houston.  Or they moved away.  Rarely do you hear what I received from a parent at tonight's conferences:  They all moved here (to America), moved away or were killed.

Killed.  Yep, it's not something you hear everyday.

The parent in question is from Rwanda.  I've seen enough documentaries on HBO and art-house films to know that in some parts of the world, pursuing any kind of dream other than survival is not something many people in America understand.  I can debate what constitutes poverty in America now, but one thing is for certain, no one is coming down the street in a van full of blood-hungry children wielding machetes in downtown Columbus any time soon.  Just the thought of that either makes you cringe or it makes you scoff.

Little revelations like these are the twists and loops of working with children.  Despite the title of "teacher" it's really a lot more than that.  I plan lessons, sure, and I deliver knowledge in an (sometimes) engaging way, but for the most part I'm an emotion wrangler.  I juggle disputes, I perform psychological surgeries, I douse drama with smiles and I redirect the off-track minds of kids from 9am until 3:45.

Lately, the ritual of my job, the tasks that must be performed, the day to day motions, have all been placed as my primary focus.  I took a step back in the personality department and the dividends of my investments have begun to take its toll.  Kids were taking things personal, my stress level was up, their performance was stagnant.

It's a reflection of my personal life as well.  When you neglect God throughout the week when it really matters, those instances seem more magnified.  My volume level has been on 11 with my kids at home, and while I tend to justify my rants with the same argument all teacher/parents make--that we constantly repeat ourselves all day and the kids don't listen--it still doesn't solve the problem of why my daughter likes to scream and run through the house or why my son has a hard time each morning getting dressed.

At least the family dog has, momentarily, stopped pooping in the house.

And then this Sunday happened.  Our church's lead pastor is on sabbatical so the typical rotation of his sermons are somewhat in flux.  We brought in a guest speaker (Dan Webster of Authentic Leadership Inc.) who ignited the dormancy of my heart.  Too bad we had maybe 1/4 of our crowd not in attendance from the persistent winter weather.

There's lots to share, but the first attention getter was what it means to leave your mark.  He asked us to imagine we were back in our high school.  What place would you show someone that was significant to you?  He showed us a picture of two indentions in the brick where a kid ran his motorcycle head on and committed suicide.  Apparently he was trying to get his girlfriend's attention.

I don't have any of those visible marks at my high school.  I remember someone spray painting Nimitz (where I attended as a freshman) and you could still see the visible remnants of some old vandal's announcement.  There's no blood stains from some horrible accident, no suicides that I can remember.  All the deaths that occurred happened off campus.  Crosses on roadsides mark the teenager who once lived.

Most of my late high school years were spent running from anything remotely authentic.  I would have to say the place of my greatest impact, or the place I felt was the most important to me was Mrs. Crow's newspaper class.  I spent my lunch periods there and spent many times goofing around with friends, enjoying the privilege we had to walk around the halls, and actually worked towards producing something we thought was worthwhile.

Journalism was my life back in high school.  I did not get into theater classes my freshman year (and they had their classes at the same time as yearbook and newspaper) so newspaper was the next best thing.  I loved the vibe of the upperclassmen.  The freedom of not having to finish some random assignment or to listen to lecture.  Mr. Echols played classical music and let us be creative.

When I switched high schools, I thought all my journalism dreams had come to an end.  I was the Sports Editor who as a freshman dropped a scoop that our football coach was leaving before anyone else outside of the football players knew.  My mom even had a conference after a few weeks of school over my lackluster attitude.  Eventually it all evened out.  There was a plan after all.

It was the place I had some of my best compliments, showed the first sign of leadership and the most humbling experience when Mrs. Crow realized I had edited down some stories without hacking any of mine. I talked way too much about sex and not enough about life.  But, in essence, the only remnant of my existence there are old newspapers that are collecting dust in some box somewhere.  Maybe even not.

As far as my Texas years were concerned, I left no marks whatsoever.  I can drive by old houses and old neighborhoods that left marks on me, but nothing tangible that says that I lived my life in such a way that others took notice.

I used to think often of death as a young adult.  Not necessarily about suicide, but the thought of "who cares if I was dead?"  I used to envision my soul hovering over my funeral.  Who would attend?  Who would cry?  Who would scoff?

There were two funerals in my youth, one for my beloved Uncle Richard and my great grandmother.  My Uncle Richard touched so many lives.  The funeral and visiting hours were parts social gathering and part reunion for many friends and family.  My mom tells me a story that a friend of my uncle's had not known he had passed, and when she found out, she screamed aloud.  Think of that.  Would someone finds out you have died, will they roll their eyes or scream in shock?

My great-grandmother's was culturally significant.  The mourning of old viejitas formed  a symbiotic relationship with the cries of the mariachis.  Everyone was speaking Spanish I could barely decipher.  I saw cousins who if I would see now, would remember them only in their 20 years-ago faces.

I want to leave a mark that scars someone's heart.  A mark that burns for the heart of Jesus.  Perhaps that's what motivates me in my moments of doubt.  Not that I want some grand funeral, but that the people I loved, lived and laughed with are sending me off to my real home.

Recently, my step-father's dad passed away, Grandpa Joe.  I knew enough of my step-dad to know that Grandpa Joe was a man of presence and respect.  He had the kind of voice that sounded natural in your ears--like a symphonic honey.  At times of family gatherings, he would sing spanish tunes I never knew the lyrics to, but didn't need to because they were being acted out on the inflections and face of its creator.

I think God will sing for us one day in all the glory of a Spanish-singing Texan.  It will welcome us home.  It will remind us that the pain of our lives, the trivialities, are gone.  That's the concert I want a ticket to.







Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Cruel and Piercing: A Guide on Parenting, Teaching and Living

It's crunch time at work, and being a teacher it means grade cards, testing and stress.  One of the assessments I do 3 times a year is a fluency test called the DIBELS.  Each kid reads for one minute, 3 different stories, and it is supposed to give me a an idea of what a student can do.  A kid in the "red" most likely is having trouble with comprehension, mainly from the butchering of clue words that kids need to help them answer questions.  If you cannot pronounce, "mathematician," do you even know what it is?  If you substitute the word "ventilation" with some gibberish word, how do you really know the context of the sentence?  So today I'm yawning through this first round of testing.  Listening to 28 kids read the same three stories over and over is not what I initially signed up for when I became a teacher.

I envisioned chalk-white hands and dusty erasers (everything is dry-erase now), the endless grinding of a pencil sharpener (they are mostly electric) and the looks of children as diverse as a rainbow (that's been pretty much true).  Instead I have piles of test packets, endless data, purchased books that go unopened and several yawns during a DIBELS test.  Amid the testing and entering grades in a computer, there are times when the relationships and the essence of what makes a kid a kid go unnoticed.  The whispering of kids being mean to one another goes unheard.  The absences go unnoticed until the zeroes string along in the grade book.  By that time, the call home becomes shuffled in burying priorities.  By the time one kid's behavior is analyzed and investigated, another crisis awaits.

Personally, and publicly too, there are standards that I feel will never truly be accomplished.  My wife and I are taking a parenting class, and sometimes what gets translated is that we, as imperfect humans, place so much emphasis on what others see, how the world judges it, that it undoubtedly leads to performance hurdles that we never can leap.  A kid makes a bad decision with a substitute teacher and I think it must be something to do with my classroom management.  A kid gets made fun of over the span of several weeks, only to have their parent inform me of what is happening.  The kid chose to keep it a secret from me makes me feel like I didn't do enough.  How did I not account for their inner pain?

There's lots of talk about kids that "fall through the cracks."  Teachers become wimpy Atlas figures, carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.  The lack of counselors, the changing curriculum, a revolving door of administrators.  The only constant is us, gingerly hanging on to a round globe of risk, emotions and the malleable souls of 25 plus kids each year.  And each year the globe tilts and brings us to our knees.  We prevail at times, only momentarily, as so no one can boast.  And just when you think you have it made, a new student arrives, equipped only with an eager face and an empty bookbag.

I confessed in parenting class last week that I always feel like I'm in "teacher mode."  I leave the loudness of a class to the bustle of my own kids.  My girl is a sassy 6, decked in purples and blues and the cutest smile in Ohio.  My boy is part obsessive and part pessimist, but all heart.  He falls into a grump state for falling one color short of perfection at school (the color all kids want to be behaviorally is pink which is considered "outstanding."  He "falls" to purple which signifies "good").  He's cursed with my sense of compulsion to get things right, even though the goal is sometimes insurmountable.  He strikes out once in baseball, he thinks he'll "never get a hit again."  And this week I've been just closing my eyes listening to him complain about how strict our house became in 2014 concerning playing time and homework.

In December, my son turned in 2 incomplete homework packets.  Now, I can bitch and moan about having him even do his homework like other parents do on Facebook, but we don't.  He even had a packet during the Christmas break that we realized needed to be completed the Saturday before school started back up.  Now I know how my mom felt when I told her I had a project on pyramids the night before it was to be turned in.  Suddenly, the declarations of being the worst parent ever stream from the lungs of my son. Do I share this conversation with my parenting class next week?

Tonight in class the topic was perfect parenting vs. spiritual parenting.  It was a time to look at our practices.  Do we, as Christian parents, feel the weight of onlookers when our kids act up?  I admit to feeling the sting of judgement if Cruz doesn't get his homework done.  We're both teachers, so of course all homework and school rules will be upheld to the fullest extent of the law!

But perfect parenting is obsessed on the routines, behaviors and structure of obedience.  We want our kids to be "good" in public, especially in public, because the world's eyes are cruel and piercing.  My son still has problems getting dressed in the morning on his own, or keeping track of things maybe other kids don't.  In his fourth grade little mind, life is "unfair."  It's not so much unfair as trivial.  The time we spend grasping the straws of obedience allows us to miss the teachable moments.

So this past week we went back to our fundamentals.  We prayed before bed.  We hugged, we snuggled.  That's one thing that will matter when he's in front of his teachers, droning on and on over some test.  Because when it's done, it will be simply completed for the moment.  It won't stick.  None of these tabulated measures will matter in the end.  Complete them we will, but the heart remains with God.  For that, I'm thankful and relieved.  The globe just got a little easier to carry.

Thursday, January 9, 2014

Walking Out

Walking out of a theater during a movie has always been a concept I couldn't quite understand.  I believe from the 100's of movies I've seen, I've only willingly walked out of two movies.  One was "Wavelength," some early 80's dud starring Robert Carradine of "Revenge of the Nerds" fame, about aliens.  The other was "Congo."  I don't even remember the concept.  It had Tim Curry mugging endlessly and the worst special effects known to man.  My dad, who always took me to the movies as a kid, never walked out of a movie that I can remember.  We almost walked out together when we watched "House of a 1000 Corpses, but we were too busy laughing at the horror schlock to take it seriously.

I find it odd when people leave to answer their phones, to get extra popcorn, or simply walk out halfway through the film.  Movies are so expensive nowadays, you'd figure people would pay attention to what they are seeing.  I've been stricter with my movie selections too.  I don't always get out, so I try to make sure what I'm watching will be worth the money.  (Advice--don't watch anything in 3D.)

This past week I went and saw "The Wolf of Wall Street."  The movie has drawn plenty of controversy.  It is a drugged up adaptation of Jordan Belfort's real-life escapades as a stock market hustler.  The film is 3 hours of in-your-face depravity.  Leo Dicaprio plays the wolf well, too well at times, never blinking an eye over swindling millions from investors who thought they were getting rich by selling penny stocks.  About two hours in, a couple to my left walked out.  Up until that point I had been telling myself, "I'm not sure I LIKE this film."  I felt uneasy at the laughter.  The nudity and graphic nature of the film seemed excessive.

Much of the film's controversy stems not from its visceral episodes of drugs, hookers and foul language, but from the lack of comeuppance of the main character.  The bad guy doesn't really ever seem to understand that he's a creep.  In "Goodfellas," another film by one of my favorite directors, Martin Scorcese, its lead character lives it up as a rising member of the mob.  But when the drop comes, it not only destroys him but the ones he loves the most.  The real-life Jordan Belfort served close to two years in prison and had to pay back millions.  Google him and you'll come to find out he's still hustling people as a motivational speaker.  He still hasn't payed back millions and no one is knocking on his door to recoup.

Of course, America loves its movies about men behaving badly.  Gordon Gekko became a household name when he uttered the famous lines, "Greed is good."  We love mobster films (indeed, The Godfather Part 2 is one of my all time favorites), drug films like "Blow", the villains who wear black.  When Jack Palance dismounts from his horse in "Shane" he became one of the first intriguing villains of my youth.  Here was a man to be reckoned with.  Here walks the devil.

TV plays into this fallen man idea.  My wife and I have been watching "Mad Men," about the exploits of Don Draper, ad executive.  The show is full of adultery, alcoholics, back stabbers, drug users and unfit fathers--and I love the show.  Perhaps I project what I wish upon a lost man like Don Draper.  You want to root for him even though you cringe when he falls in bed with some man's wife.  You want him to understand that being a father is a special gift, only to see him blow his opportunities by coming home drunk.  "Breaking Bad" is another modern masterpiece.  It's bloody, gruesome, probably too true and features men who have lost their way.  Walter White, dying of cancer and drowning in bills, decides to cook crystal meth to make ends meet.  Every decision after that begins a spiral of epic proportions.  It's dastardly good.

The way I approach films before I was a Christian is a stark contrast to now.  When I jumped out from my Emmaus walk, I rifled through my DVD collection and threw out half my films.  Horror flicks like "Halloween," "Boogie Nights" about a young stud's rise and fall in the porn industry, and several 80's style comedy romps like "The Last American Virgin."  Over time, I stopped watching slasher films (I do like suspenseful scary house type stuff) and lately R-rated comedies have been skipped over for other selections.  A few summers back I went and watched "Ted", a raunchy comedy about a foul-mouthed teddy bear.  After the first Jesus joke 5 minutes into the film I wanted to walk out.  I stayed during every nude scene and laughed quite a bit.  I didn't have the heart to just walk out.  Bill Hybels calls this gut feeling one has when your views and outlook begin to transform your outward habits as the "holy discontent."

Last summer when volunteering with the youth, the stories came up with college students over how non-Christians would question the music or viewing habits of Christians.  We kept making these silly, snarky "You're Christian?"barbs toward one another like we were judgmental suburban girls.  I don't believe that watching Family Guy, or the Simpsons or Modern Family make one a non-Christian just as watching Fox News, the 700 Club makes one a true Christian.  I do try and filter the filth that is seeping in every part of our culture.  It used to be risque to curse and show nudity on regular television.  Now it's part of many programs.

 Perhaps viewing everything through that God lens is what God wants from us.   We have to balance our own biased views on life, what the culture around us wants us to act like and the lens of God.  How can you really balance the 3?  I understand that I'm imperfect and those that have influenced and spoke into my life were imperfect as well.  The culture wants us to "break bad" and act irresponsibly.  How many movies have you seen where the so-called character of high morals is some secret sado masochist?  Or how many times do you hear parent's justifying their children's behavior with, "If they don't get it out of their system they'll go to college and be all wild."  The oldest joke in film, and one uttered in "Wolf" is how no one who is married is happy.  I grew up thinking that being married sucked the life from every man.  It's a seed that gets planted in the rich soil of our impressionable minds.

I think there are many lies and half truths that need to be filtered through the God lens.  A straight diet of the world corrodes the engine that drives us--our hearts.  At Blockbuster Video, I remember so many transactions of families renting movies for their weekend.  Moms and dads, single moms, teenage kids.  Stacks of horror films, Skinamax soft porn movies and anything starring Adam Sandler.  There's a line in the Bible that basically says the truth (the law) is inscribed on our hearts.  We know crap when we see it.  But when we turn off the filter it can become dangerous.

Just before "Wold" ends, the real-life Jordan Belfort introduces his doppelganger to a rapt audience who undoubtedly paid money to learn how to get rich faster.  The crowd pans over their faces, in awe of the guru who will plant the seed of greed into their hearts.  I think it's the true message of the film, one that pokes at the theater audience as well.  Why do we sit for three hours in a dark movie house laughing as men mount hookers, blow cocaine, pop Quaaludes and swindle money from investors?  We don't' even see the people affected by Jordan Belfort's penny stock schemes, and I think that's the point.  Their greed, the lure of money that isn't earned from one's effort, toil or intelligence, is a crime in itself.  They wanted to believe that Jordan was the answer to all their prayers.  :I can imagine them in their homes realizing they've been swindled and performing a Clark Griswold montage of swear words and proclamations.  But as we sit and watch hour after hour, we don't leave the theater.  We don't have the heart to get up and walk out.  That's the biggest sin of them all.