The Smile of a Teenager

This Thursday my daughter leaves for Harvest, Alabama. Maybe some of you know that Harvest was one of the towns in Alabama that was devastated by tornadoes, killing hundreds, uprooting homes and totally destroying people's lives as they knew it. I don't even remember where I was or what I was doing when the tornadoes hit. I may have been arguing with my wife. Perhaps I was napping, or playing on the computer instead of spending time with my son. Maybe I was complaining about the rain in our own area. All this I take for granted. My daughter will be going to try and make sense of what happened there, her and about 60 kids from her church and high school. Kids of different faiths, personalities and goals. I cannot be more proud of her.

The last few days I haven't been the best dad to her. I've been short tempered, jealous somewhat, perhaps even envious. I've been stingy with my time but unhinging in my attempt to get more time out of her. There's nothing really anything that Lisa ever does wrong. She loves others more that herself, she radiates kindness and I'm sure that her friends would attest that they are the only ones in the room when they are in the room with Lisa. She loves the way kids should nowadays. She's not the norm.

Back when we first opened our home to her (it was truly the other way around!), we heard so many horror stories of foster kids. We heard about teenage runaways, kids who would wipe feces on the bathroom walls, kids who failed in school (and if anyone knows anything about schools nowadays, no one ever truly fails unless they really want to).

Lisa never exhibited any of those problems or behaviors. She only cried when she had to go to bed when everyone else was awake, and the only B she ever had in elementary was changed on a technicality. She shaved her legs once before Delcina could show her how. Other times she seemed to have her favorite parent once every other week. She argues in semantics. Stubborn, but not unruly. Maybe afraid to share her feelings until she's ready.

About four years ago, we began going to Reynoldsburg United Methodist Church. Del and I had not been church goers before we had Lisa, and then Cruz and Reycina suddenly, and felt we needed to do the "church" thing to be good parents. Church wasn't a priority then, something to make the appearances. I would think of inappropriate images and would rush out of there when service was over. Something entirely different was going on with Lisa, though. She enjoyed going. She would help out in the nursery. She stayed after church for the youth "coffee table" talks.

At first I felt this was a typical Lisa move. Lisa is making friends again for possible strategic sleepovers so she will get out of chores or something. When she would tell us stories of the kids who gravitated towards her in the nursery, I would scoff and remind her she had two siblings at home she could babysit at any time. When she would stay for coffee talk instead of going to lunch with us, I would argue that she was trying to get out of "family time." This was the parent I had become, watching as my daughter was beginning to grow into the young woman she is today, as I grew bitter and more foolish. God was again pursuing me and my obedience, and here I was fighting it tooth and nail. My daughter the teacher.

Needless to say we are closer to being on the same page. We sometimes still nag each other about what Jesus would say about watching "16 and Pregnant" (her) and cursing (me). We both serve in some capacity at church. And when she told us she wanted to go to Alabama (and later this summer, Puerto Rico) to help the victims, I didn't hesitate to sign over a check (despite postdating it to that pay day!).

While I sometimes remember things friends and my family have told me regarding how much Lisa's life would change considering we've given her an opportunity to shine. I really think it is the other way around. God chased down my reluctant heart with the smile of a teenager.

Stripper Batman

There were a few distinct details that something was amiss when the costumed Batman arrived at my Aunt Ginger's house for my cousin's birthday party (at least, I think it was them or it was Jacob). For one, his leggings/pants were way too tight for any normal human being to be wearing, and two, he didn't seem to have any kid-show related props with him. Third, he didn't have that underlying smile that party clowns have. His jaw line protruded from the mask a look of a man in the wrong place. Batman never seemed unsure of himself.

That's what the month of May has been like. I've felt like I'm playing the part of a party clown at the wrong party. Mind you, the Batman was a male stripper sent to the wrong house is somewhat ironic, as it was a random company error. You do what you're told and you wing it. By the end of the afternoon, he was making balloon animals while fighting off the advances and peeks under his cape by the women--my mom included. God sends me out, and I'm looking around thinking, "He must be sending me to another place, right?"

Lot's of rain this month, plans delayed. A sore body. Who needs two good knees, right? A schedule printed directly from the missing floor of Dante's Inferno. Every woman is wearing tank tops and short shorts (hey, not that I minded before, but ladies, do me a solid and cover up every once in a while). I see relationships around me crumbling, holding on like that character in an action movie that's been kicked down a cliff and all you see are their dirty fingernails pressed into the ground, gripping for something tangible. Sometimes, prayers are all I can do and there are times when I think, "Is this all I can do"? I'm underestimating those powerful prayers right now, but sometimes I'd like to just lay my hands on someone, shake them and say, "Will you just wake up?"

There was a moment at church recently. This moment started before service, pretty much even the evening before. I had no intention of going. I selfishly was feeling lousy, unworthy. Today was just not the day to sing or help other kids (my Sunday School class) find their religion. No way I'm showing up for baseball practice. Let it rain!

So, I end up going to church. And this service floors me. It's about loving one another and loving the unlovable. Not really doing my part. I'm in tears from the performances of the youth. Wow, that's courage. Still not up to class, and we end up going and we have 12 kids that morning, about 4 or 5 more than usual. I'm perpetually checking my phone for the weather. I'm sniffing out rain droplets on the windows. Fields still open, phone battery draining. Kids are into the lesson, and we have one kid who is literally showing me how to love the unlovable. In the end, I end up talking to the kid about his video games. I don't question the fact of why he has an R-rated game for his handheld gaming system. Don't judge. Love.

Cruz and I bolt from the church, frantically past the sing that reads, "You are entering the mission field." I almost walk back because I feel a rain drop. I'm actively trying to be late. Maybe they'll cancel on the way. We end up getting there, hustling through warm-ups. During a routine play at first, I quickly turn to remind shortstop to cover second and I feel a thrust against the back of the head. One of the kids thought I was ready and threw the ball, striking me upside the head. I'm rubbing it like it's a brisket. I think I heard a snicker from the dugout. God's laughing too, I'm sure.

Get over it, Cordova

In Parenthesis

I took a walk around the neighborhood this afternoon after school. I hadn't set out to make a stand, or to cause a raucous, but it all had to do with protecting my turf, my school, my territory. I hadn't done so in quite some time. As the years have multiplied on a great, and sudden 10 years of teaching, I haven't been as free to storm down the neighborhood drives with the kids. Priorities change, my kids come calling, there's grass to be mowed. Go home.

At my old school, the principal and I used to walk the lane with students until the road ended on a cross street and into the dilapidated apartment complex. My first teaching assignment on the East Side of town was a place I felt destined to have worked there. It was a neighborhood school, where most of our kids were walkers. The students who were bussed in were primarily of Hispanic descent (those kids' stories are in a future blog to come). I was reminded of my second grade year, Park Place Elementary, and also even younger, when I walked to my kindergarten or first grade class across a weed field where my grandma and her life-long partner, Benny, would look on above from the comforts of the porch balcony. Also, my high school years, not necessarily in the demographics (primarily white jock, white preppy or white trash) but in the fact that the minority kids were bussed in from remote locations, primarily the Acres Homes kids, in an effort to integrate our high school. (As a hispanic student, it didn't really matter that I was brown. I was basically white, too, because I did not associate myself with the mexican kids and I surely didn't fit in with the black kids other than I loved rap music.)

Anyway, we had to walk home with the students on Fridays because Fridays were "Fight Nights." The kids would meet in the complex and simply break into a series of fights. Sometimes it was boys, other times it was girls. Young kids, older kids, and sometimes even adults who chimed in or fought with other adults as well. With us there, most of the kids simply walked home. Maybe they fought later, maybe they didn't, but we were somewhat a deterrent. Once a mom yelled at me after school for not allowing her girl to fight after school. Another time, we chased a kid away who had run from another bus stop to get a kid. He was not too happy.

Now, there was nothing of the sort going on in the neighborhood. Not yet. There had already been fights, and intimidations. Threats and rumors of war. I chose a side tonight. I chose to make a presence. Now, a lot of my colleagues will say walking away the problem is a primary fix. I simply cannot do this every evening. One day, I'll meet a parent. One day it will be a group of kids. I watched the group of girls I had been walking with, one going down the lane alone, the other with a younger sister. Pretty girls, the kind I wouldn't want walking anywhere alone. Yet they do this every day and don't think anything of it. I have either sheltered my daughter or not given her enough credit for being brave if she had to.

Delcina and I were talking a lot about this very intervention over the past few weeks. Do we rely on the school's authority to control the students once they leave our school? I've heard many times and read on he news of bullies and the blaming of a school that fails to respond. I also see the ramifications of neighborhood fights and the intensity written on a Facebook pages that can cause problems for a teacher in their classroom. Some of my fourth graders have Facebooks, most don't. Ultimately, fourth graders are babies. They don't know how to start drama--yet. Fifth grade is a whole other ballgame. Over half have accounts. Their names are unintelligible garbage. Their pictures are sometimes too risqué for their ages. Yet they have them. Next year I think I want to speak to our PTA and teach a net etiquette class. It's needed now more than ever. Do I want to be proactive or defensive? What would you call my jaunt in the neighborhood?

Earlier in the day I whispered to one of my fifth grade boys. He's a special kid. Charismatic. I chastised him yesterday in front of his classmates for having a "ghetto" Facebook name. Today I knelt down beside him, and asked, "What's wrong with you God-given name? Are you ashamed?" He had the middle name a month ago, "Jesus Christ" and I said, "What would he say?" He looked at me, nodded. He knew. I told him, "I see your beautiful face on your profile. I want the best for you. So does He." We hugged. Today I noticed he reverted to his old name. His "swag" name was in parenthesis. The world wants us to show or swag. If we were really that courageous, we wouldn't have to boast about it.

Sun Snakes

Today. Eventful and uneventful. Humbling and boastful. Rewarding and surprising. We end the night with my wife wrapping birthday gifts for my son and me finishing up some quick lesson plans for school. A nice glass of tea, a carpet that needs vacuuming and crumbs on my arm I'm brushing off from my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Delcina was not with me for most of the day. She had ANOTHER root canal, so she headed off early. My kids were sleepy and unwilling. Perhaps they were feeling like we were feeling. One coffee ordered at Tim Horton's and we get the furrowed eyebrows, "Only one"? "Despicable Me" plays on the kids' DVD player. Cruz isn't buckled.

Dropping off Reycina. School. Meeting early about trust. Seriously? I know who I trust. Who is with me? Lately, everyone seems to not trust anything. Even trust in themselves seems to have wavered. Silence in the meeting. We must look like surly teenagers who don't want to speak after being reprimanded. Bell rings and we bust out of there like one of those movies where the kids run out the building as the roll of toilet paper slings across the quad. I didn't wear a belt so I'm already heaving up my pants.

It's day 2 of working on my new discipline plan. I released my "good" kids from the bondage of having their cards flipped. It doesn't mean you will never get in trouble, I remind them. But it does mean I expect more. The others? I remove their yellow warning card. No more chances. The calls and texts to mom haven't worked, our encouragement hasn't worked. You've graduated, my friends. Surprisingly not one kid smirks. Even the smirker isn't smirking. One kid tears up and I place my hands his shoulders. I know you are working hard. Focus a bit more, it will come. One kid writes me a note: "I think this is a fair class." I tuck it into my back pocket along with those yellow cards. Padding.

Recess duty. I make the kindergarten kids raise their hand and yell, "I'm ready!" And we walk to the station in funny Olympic style walking man poses. Reading class goes very well. We learn more about how the sharecroppers felt when life wore on them. They looked to their faith and kept their heads high. I notice some heads nod when we talk about the fear of seeing one's father in jail. I silently hope no one says anything. It's always for me, the most awkward part of my day, to realize at that very moment that they are literally on the line of just throwing their supplies in the air and crying in despair. But they don't, but the bothersome details still linger.

Second recess. Copying homework and stopping by to talk to the new kid who has already bought herself a 2 day in school suspension. Although she isn't in my class, I can see her acting tough hasn't impressed anyone. I told her that I hoped she would have a good weekend and that I want to see her smiling at school on Monday. Love wins. I get a kinda-smile. It's better than nothing.

After school, I get to hold baby Hannah when I arrive to get Reycina from childcare. I make baby talk and try to make contact with her little blues. I imagine that's what God does with us. Cradles us until we look. Sometimes we look all around at the colors but we sometimes don't look at who is holding us.

Mowing grass at home. First pull and the engine turns. First time for a spring day. Grass is thick and lime green. Wads of it stick to the sidewalk. Cruz runs through and turns his socks into moldy fungus. Ice cream man comes. Delcina arrives too, with cousin Alexis who is going to the walk to Emmaus (ironically, that kid I talked to earlier had the same name). I'm jotting down to-do lists and mad how my lazy endeavors have turned into lazy Christmas lights that haven't been taken down, the back yard trash can full of water, the water hose that has burned a line through the grass like some sun snake.

I end the day with a call from my brother. (Ironically, I'm watching "Parenthood" where the two brothers refuse to talk to one another. I feel suddenly grateful). We talk about my dad. "I have no choice," he always replies when asked about how he just keeps going and going. I try to bring up the point that doing anything on your own isn't what God wants from us, but I don't see an in. I back off. I think of the mom from "Sounder" we are reading in class. "You gotta walk that lonesome valley, you gotta walk it by yourself." I'm just not so sure it's so lonesome. He's cradling me. He's looking into my eyes. What is my response?

Uncool Vanity

I had the chance today that many teachers do not. Just how many teachers get their haircuts from a mom whose kid they just disciplined the day before, sent to detention even? Not many. But as I walked into Great Clips, I knew already that the possibility of seeing that parent. In that moment, my vanity of having a proper fade won out over any misgivings.

I just read an article about the life of an uncool teacher and it struck me that sometimes this is what I really do. In fact, I've been on display for much of my life. Sometimes it has been a shameless ploy for attention. I remember my days as a junior high student, making bad jokes, grabbing girls' butts, searching for hugs in all the wrong places. Popularity was a must for a 12 year old kid. Even if it meant the occasional grounding from parents or the acceptance and ridicule of teachers, office workers or administration alike. I specifically remember Mr. Bell, my 8th grade science teacher and basketball coach. I was in the office working the charm on the secretaries and in he walks. He realizes I'm waiting out the final hours of my suspension by waiting in the office. Why was I suspended? For fighting. For fighting a classroom kid who we relentlessly teased day in and day out. Wherever Robert Warren is now, I'm sure he's drinking a beer in disgust of us.

So Coach Bell goes into this tirade as I sit there. All I'm thinking is, "Why is he so upset? I didn't fight in HIS class or beat up HIS kid?" I understand it now, though. I'm Coach Bell at times, too. I shake my head and go into tirades (hmmm, like this Friday?) towards some of my brightest and best. Perhaps Coach Bell saw something in me that day succumb to the lowest denominator. Perhaps he felt I was going to be another kid lost to the crowd.

Back to teaching. Since day one, I have been tirelessly promoting good will from all my students and the future ones as well. I high five, act like I'm going to eat their PB and J sandwiches, talk funny and listen to their stories. At first, it was a way for me to prove that attitude and popularity was all you needed to be a successful teacher. Watch me out-teach these old ladies! Of course, I also shouted, stammered and burn myself out for those first 6 years.

I still do a lot of these things. I play basketball with my fourth graders like every game is my last. I tease some of my fifth graders from last year and I try and promote something more than myself--God. God wants my best, everyday. Sometimes it's a daunting task, especially when I don't seek his help. But, it's a far less exhausting task than before when I just promoted myself. Promoting yourself led nowhere. I burned a lot of bridges along the way, and some of those people continue to be in my life. Far better than I deserve.

So, here I am getting a hair cut. I wrote her kid up on Friday, and she's telling me the story of how bad his day was on Friday. I chuckled at her smile, and the fact that there wasn't a question as to the validity of the offense. We started to talk about the classrooms, todays kids, technology, the dangers of facebook and so many other things. I'm blessed to be one of the few carrying on a meaningful conversation while the others are sitting silent.

But the coolness factor still rears its ugly head. I got a chance to learn a monologue as if I were the character of Barabbas. You know him, right? He was set free by the Jews who had turned their backs on Jesus. Barabbas was the guilty one. But, he was the one set free, the first sinner to be saved by the blood of Jesus. And talk about following the crowd--what of Pilate? He had the power, he knew it was wrong, but he washed his hands and let the people decide because of their wishes. Been there, done that.

And I decided afterwards to quietly head out the building. I didn't want to hear, "good job," even though secretly I did. That's vanity. During awards assemblies, the principal would call our names and the class would cheer raucously. I loved being THAT teacher. This past year, she nixed that because I think some teachers actually got booed. I hear the kids tell me to fail them so they can come back. "No, you must leave and grow, my dear." Fifth graders sneak back into my room and talk to me.

Sometimes I have these silly visions of leading a kids' chorus, a performance. Like the kind you see on youtube and you think, "I want my kid to be in THAT class." Maybe that's God's way of saying that he wants me right where I am. The leader of the chorus. The Band leader. March on.

A Barbarian's Tale

I spoke about a week ago about how I feel like I'm the one dancing off kilter while everyone else around me is dancing to the beat of the world. Especially on Mondays and Fridays. On Friday, everyone wants to be off and on Monday everyone wants to be miserable. Fighting the urge to complain is like fighting that two-headed serpent from "Conan the Barbarian." You need the will of some long-haired barbarian to survive the pratfalls and expectations. My mornings lately have consisted of my morning devotions and journaling. I read Luke 12:25, which basically tells us, "What's worrying going to get you?"

I started thinking about the current situation of my job and all this senate-bill driven hysteria. Rouge principals, 50 kids in a room, no health care! I look at my 29 kids and think, what's going to happen to them? No one has really come out and said anything about how all these changes will affect the students. Not the politicians, not the political unions. Then again, I've had classes of 18 and classes of 31. Both classes failed to live up to the standards placed before them. I wish I could have taught them again from what I know now.

Recently our school was featured as one of the 31 Columbus City Schools that have failed to reach adequate progress on state scores. They blotted out our kids faces as they played during recess. And they interviewed a parent. So on this nondescript day when the news van parked across the street to gather news, they got an answer they probably weren't looking for. "It's not the teachers." Do I think that the rest of this man's message was indeed a coincidence? No. There's some assurance in my mind that God was directly speaking to me. I immediately smiled and ran to a colleague. "God is good!" We both amen-ed and went off to work smiling. The other parent they interviewed from another school? Not so good.

I know a lot of this is politics. How convenient that they show a new school like ours as failing? A few of my kids asked me if I saw the news. Yes, I told them, but I didn't elaborate. There's learning to go on. Do you feel like you are failing? No, they answer. Do you feel like I'm failing you? No. Good, now get our your blue notebooks.

If anything, this has made me more aware of what I'm trying to accomplish. I've seen the movies, I hear the pundits, and it just makes me that much more committed. I know there are other things out of my control. Kids suspended, moms who baby their kids' sicknesses as they miss yet another Monday. What happens when a kid does 11/29 homework assignments in a quarter? Will I be fined? What happens when one of my kids writes a sentence using the word "despise" as, "I despise my dad because he left us"?

I have a jar on my desk filled with about 2 dollars in quarters and an assembly of pink classroom economy tickets. Every time I say something discouraging, I put a quarter in. Every time they do, they put in a ticket. They asked me if they could pay in advance. No, we're not encouraging discourage-ness. The kids call me out on it. They hold me accountable. They watch me hold back my tongue. They get after each other. They don't like it when someone tells them "I don't care" or "shut up." Little things. Not reinventing the wheel. Life skills. Family. Get our your blue notebooks, kids. Let's get to work.

Another Man's Shoes

There's a lot of moments in my life I credit for my faith and trust in God. It was my Emmaus walk that allowed those moments to come to fruition, and for me to look in the rear-view mirror and see the people and moments fit together like so perfectly. And whether or not those responsible knew it and especially when I refused to see it, it was all part of His master plan for me.

It was a designed plan for the men at my table and the men at the weekend. Their stories, experiences and backgrounds were all factors that led to a re-examination of their lives and where they are going. The walk is not to "convert" people in a non-believer/believer capacity. It builds Christian leaders. These people "know" God, but maybe are stuck on what being a real Christian man means. And of course, many of us men were raised by fathers who sometimes thought they knew all about God too. That's always a revelation for me, to see the differences and people's pasts line up so perfectly. The man that grew up with deacons and preachers has the same issues as someone who grew up in a rough neighborhood and whose dad doled out punishments on the whips of his belt. The burned-out pastor relates to the burned-out dad, or the burned-out volunteer who never sees the light at the end of the tunnel. Most importantly, we find that these men all share the longing of having a loving relationship with their true father!

And when you place a group of men together for a weekend and devoid them of cell phones and outside entertainment, we turn into silly boys. I still attend that while I can laugh and have a good time in a room all by myself, I never laugh so much as when I attend these walks. And on top of all that, there's no feeling of having to be foul for foul's sake. Or to have the dirtiest joke, or to have it involve some girl we are vying for the affections of. To me, this is true freedom. And while I do find myself lowering myself to the lowest denominator at times, it's these weekends that remind me that I don't need and nor should I value the world's entertainment. And maybe that's what Christians have it all wrong. Are we not representing the joy of freedom or do we not know it? Why don't we manifest the love of being a father, or the love of living a life not bound by addictions, perceptions or expectations. Or are we so committed to seeing everyone we know in heaven that we stumble and trample our way into other's lives instead of making it a genuine longing? I don't have those answers, and at times I've been more reluctant to blare the good news. Maybe this is a time to end those doubts and fears.

There was a pilgrim this weekend whose actions and words were sometimes made him more outwardly visible that some of the others. He was either off-key with singing, or started the verse too soon, clapping off kilter. This is what we must look like to the outside world. We look off-kilter. We smile too much, we don't complain. We're the people that run down escalators and ride backwards in the elevators. When we dance we seem to be dancing to a different song than what is being played. I look at my new friends and Christian brothers and I can't imagine them any other way. I hear about some who found their faith later and drug addictions or years of abuse and I look at them now and see none of those struggles on their faces, or the lines on their eyes. Do they know that I am inspired to be better just by being around them?

And I literally got that chance this weekend. In my rush to get myself dressed for my talk on Sunday, and with being nervous, I accidentally wore another man's shoes when I walked up to that podium. I didn't notice that they were slightly worn. I didn't notice that they weren't as shiny as the new ones I had purchased just for this very day. They fit. They fit perfectly. I went up on that stage and delivered a message 36 years in the making, all with the help of another man's shoes. God sure speaks to you in the ways he wants to, right?

So I'll be looking for some more shoes to fill over the next few days. It's the least I can do. In-action is not a response to the grace I have been given. So whose shoes will they be? I'm looking forward to finding out.