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.
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