Optical Insomnia

It's 3 am and I'm still awake.

Perhaps it is my over stimulated brain, anxious for tomorrow's events to happen and play out in real time as they imagined. Maybe my body has been over rested from being on Christmas break, with feet that don't know what to do with themselves but to itch for a walk downstairs for one more drink of water. And of course when all you're thinking about are a countless random things, you begin to wonder what it all means.

I spent half my day at the emergency room, awaiting news of whether or not the wheezing and shortness of breath I had been battling over the past week was bronchitis, pneumonia or worse. Urgent care shot me up with a steroid and ordered me to the ER, I refused and got progressively worse. Delcina finally harassed me into going, and I was undoubtedly thinking more of the cost, time and possible bad news more than getting myself better.

Despite all that, I read some more of a book I had been reading "God's Politics" (and interestingly enough, quite a bit of information I didn't know about the Israel-Palestinian conflict), people watched (Del and I had some bad fun out of the sound of someone vomiting) and talked like husbands and wives do when their isn't a task involved or being interrupted by phones, kids' requests or the television. We left the ER, made a Kroger visit an ended the night with a banana split. It's good to be sick, indeed.

Over the past week, the inevitable wait for sleep to sweep over me like a smooth blanket never arrives. There's the thoughts about my family. Sometimes the distance from some of them is a blessing unto oneself. I always tell my mom that I love coming to Houston now because I see the best of my family. The vacation time, stress-free from work. The cousins playing together, grandma's making my favorite meals, eating out at the places I can't get here. And we've all grown up some too. As a teenager, I was too full of pride to listen to any advice. Lost and mean spirited. Who the hell was I to appreciate what I had on front of me?

And then a sleepless night turns into music, and jokes you've made during the week, and quips you want to remember the next time you see that one person. I end up thinking about women I shouldn't be thinking about, and creative ways to get my kids at school to be more than creatures of their environments. Then eventually, my thoughts turn dim and I try to black out everything (sometimes I have fun shooting the Devil with a shotgun, or chopping him with an ax and telling him to get out of my head). When I was a kid, I used to squeeze my eyes shut hard enough to see glittering spots of white and yellows. It's never really black you see when you close your eyes. That would be the end, wouldn't it? I see cloudy impressions, sometimes distant faces, those freaky optical illusion pictures that seem like two faces at a standoff, or is it an hourglass? Sparkly, faded renditions my synapses shooting fireworks.

The Reluctant Worshiper

Something today at church clicked. Perhaps it was the man sitting in front of me playing solitaire on his cell phone (ironic, the game that shares a synonym for "being alone"), or perhaps it was my son throwing a tantrum in Sunday school class. Maybe it was the youth director asking me if anything was going on at home (regarding Cruz), or the snow falling lazily outside. Maybe it was the talk I had with Rob about another friend who will be spending his first Christmas without his wife who recently passed. Or maybe it was none of those things. Maybe it hasn't clicked yet, and that's the problem.

The advent season, along with a strong message from the church to spend less (money) and give more (time, love), it goes without saying that the time of season brings out people to church who normally don't attend during the year. It's been a complete transformation to see how I expect to go to church on a regular basis, rather than the former, when i only attended for weddings, baptisms or on religious holidays like Easter and Christmas. You can tell there's a new crowd at church. Sometimes your favorite seat is filled with the butt of another person whom you've never seen. You might sit a row closer, a row back, you see the back of heads you never knew before. Sometimes you have a new-member ceremony or a baptism, like this morning.

Two babies were introduced to our church family. Beautiful kids. One of them rested on a relative's shoulder in front of us and suckled on her hands. The young man sitting next to her kept his head down for much of the service (even during the morning "welcomes" he made a point not to shake anyone's hand), and at one time I stood to sing, I realized he had been playing solitaire on his phone. Another gentleman, about a row up, fidgeted with his phone and had the look of frustration about him. He sat with his back halfway turned as if to leave at any moment. A man on a fire drill routine.

I saw myself in both of them. The reluctant worshiper, like myself over the past few weeks, with eyes on something else. Your phone, the church pamphlet, a pretty woman. Mind elsewhere. Lunch, what failure God is making you see right now (or the failure you're choosing to focus on at the moment. God has to see us in a loving light, or he'd be done with us for sure), an attractive woman's neckline.

I wondered of my emotions were on my face, exposed for everyone to see like these two men. Was I upset that my church family did not show their true love of Christ to these two men enough for them to look up from their phones, enough to smile, enough to shake someone's hand? Was I upset that I was not worshiping to my fullest, haven't been in my personal life?

Leaving church and walking up to class, I stopped by to see a friend. I've been chosen again to be part of the next Emmaus Men's Walk in March and told him I'd be ready. Will I? Will it be the kick in the pants I need? Will it give me the energy to pick myself up off the mat?

Then once in class, I see the look on my son's face. Downcast, surly. Like the two men in church, both my son and I resemble now. Two faces not ready for church today. Two faces that need some focus and adjustment. Two faces that need some discipline. But love too. Lots of love.

I sat for the remainder of the hour, my wife teaching class among the chatter and laughter of our beautiful fourth graders. I spent most of my time trying to reassemble an eraser that fits together in a 6-piece puzzle. One of the girls had broken it apart last week, and I was struggling to find the proper way to fix it. One of the kids (his name is Clay, another bit of irony in this fantastic, puzzling day) asked to try. We both couldn't make sense of it until almost the end of class. Until we noticed the pattern. We even broke it apart again to see if we could recreate the magic. Unbroken. Broken. Magic. Faith. Seems like a pattern, doesn't it?

There's a Softball in my Eye

I hate softball.

There, I said it. I hate the one sport that I willingly sought out for my daughter to play at age 11. The motivation then was to involve her in something. Perhaps it was that dad fear of his daughter becoming THAT girl. so, sign them up for everything. Chess club, band, choir, sports. Anything to keep the guys away. College scholarships? Yeah, that will work too. Just keep the guys away. Too busy for dating. Too busy for relationships. Too busy.

And softball was fun. It helped me build some daughter/dad time when she was a tweener. I loved our talks on the way to practice as she was rushing to put on her socks. The smiles when she scored. The surprise of her first triple.

There were underlying issues I dealt with. Being gone every weekend. Less time with my younger kids because I was taking score, or lobbing whiffle balls an hour before games. Early wake-up calls. Losing on Sundays. Losing on late Saturday nights and not even getting to play on Sunday. Playing 14u.

But, in the end, my daughter excelled. She was everyone's favorite teammate. She compliments well. Not the star but certainly not the runt of the litter. Fast but not lightning. Flexible. the utility player. Kinda like she is in life. Everyone's best friend, great grades but not 4.0. Not the loudest one of her bunch but no slouch. What a young lady she has turned into. And it has nothing to do with my quest to keep her away from guys or to keep her too busy to socialize. I hate softball but I love her. It's a good "but then" to have.

This fall and now going into winter, I've stayed away from any of her tournaments. If I ever missed a game during the summer, I took it out on whoever was making me not be there. I cancelled appointments and denied visitations from friends. Sorry, softball tourney. Sorry, practice. Sorry.

I did not handle this sub culture well. I enjoyed the notoriety that went with the game and being involved. I joined a softball message board and met hundreds (okay, tens perhaps) of people. Giving myself to God helped in that regard too. Instead of wins and losses (well, not sure if that itch to win will ever leave, just not by any means necessary) it was being on the right team, the right place. All the whiffle pitches and cookouts and hour before games with bad coffee were supposed to lead somewhere. A scholarship, recognition, maybe even some coaching glory. I grew selfish. Instead of loving the game because it accepted Lisa, I loved it for how it made me feel.

And this lead to other feelings. Resentment isn't something you carry around lightly. What kind of person am I to be jealous of a teenage girl. Why? Because she plays better than Lisa? Because she's treated better by the college coaches? Why am I picking on the flaws of everyone and not noticing the log in my eye? I tell my friends and they side with me. Friends sometimes comfort you instead of telling you to get over it. If I get over it, I'm weak and submissive. But isn't that the way I have been taught by my church community? Submit yourself.

So, now I sit at home on the weekends and get text updates about how my daughter is doing. This past week she finally told me she wanted me there and that it had obviously upset her that I haven't been to one game since August. How do you tell your daughter you don't want to see her coach, or a friends' mom or dad, or even their own friend? What kind of dad have I become?

Walking Jars

After finishing 17 conferences in the span of three days, I still felt comically exhausted by week's end. Not that I don't stay up late nights (although I actually went to bed this week, so my demeanor was slightly less salty), or grade papers, but hearing parents' stories and meeting many of them for the first time, its any wonder why my students are both mini-scholars and empty, walking jars that are unsealed and ripe for the influence of just about anything.

I smile at kids toting their moms and grandmothers (and the dichotomy between what a grandma will say as opposed to a mom, always with that condescending "I'm-your-mom" look towards their daughters), parents who come together who've been apart, separate conferences for dad, cancelled conferences and the ones that are unexpected walk-ins. The ones that you end up having more of a conversation with all night (which is something I could get paid to do, I realized), and the ones that you pray right afterwards, for God to mend hearts, minds, fix that brokenness.

I stepped on toes too. I take my position sometimes as a politician. I'm out at recess reffing basketball games, umpiring disputes and giving the little ones a platform for their singing, stories hang-ups, gymnastic/jump rope routines and diverting attention away from bathroom breaks (I think if we had outdoor port-a-johns, no kid would want to go inside for a break and they'd spend more time playing. My kid never wants to pee when there's fun to be had.) I want every parent to flood the office with referrals to my room. I want to carry all the babies that come through the office and shake every hand. I know it's all vanity and ego. I've had it since I started teaching. And not that I don't think I need to improve. If anyone is critical of my everyday performance it's me. I'm still reading strategy books, I still cry when I see "Stand and Deliver" and I kick myself five minutes after a lesson for forgetting something or not getting it right. I know it has nothing to do with me. Or at least I'm supposed to know this. God has given me a gift and a platform, a job and a position of authority. Me? Too much to take in.

The week ended with awards assemblies. We rolled away the cafeteria seats and replaced them with about 150 kids. Maybe, 20 parents. I called out their names and watched them form a line next to me. Proud kids. Happy kids. The ones sitting out rarely have a scowl ( a few do, the ones who realize they should have been up there too), but the trick is to get the rest up there by any means necessary. This year, my ego will try again, and God will remind me that it isn't about awards, or me, or the parents who help with homework. Maybe this year I'll learn it.

Traded Megatrons

Just finished my first round of conferences tonight and when I'm booked like I was tonight, it stirs that passion that makes education all the worthwhile. I enjoy meeting parents for the first time, the look of recognition when mentioning the countless newsletters and Friday Folders, the agreements to hound their kids to work harder and with more vigor than ever before. I vaguely remember any of my conferences,but I do remember my fourth grade year.

Magrill Elementary was one of the few schools were I stayed for more than one year. We moved just about every summer (I called us the "nomads" in a poem), from one apartment complex to the next. By the time I was in junior high, we had been promoted to renting houses, but still moved quite a bit. I moved around so much that when i entered my third high school in as many years, I actually had plenty of friends when I lived in the same neighborhood as a seventh grader. But at Magrill, i entered as a fourth grader and even graduated into Teague Middle (before leaving in 6th grade).

Magrill's classrooms were all open-spaced cubicles that branched off a center foyer/assembly area (we watched movies like "Raiders of the Lost Ark" there and a kid knocked the movie projector off the stand which fell on a kid, and I was called in the office for my account on what happened--my first snitch job). Two of the corner rooms were closed in, one being a resource room, and of course we called it the "special" room, which for us meant you could be strange, spazzy and available for ridicule 24/7.

With my attention span as thin as a eyelash, I sometimes zoned off to spot friends in other rooms, threw crayons when I thought no one was looking and searched for Ross Pekar (Heath Scardino and I were obsessed with her). In my free time, I paper constructed desk footballs, chinese stars, wrote silly stories about a G.I. Joe inspired combat force called L.A.W. (Land, Air, Water, how original) that were R rated. I once took the lyrics of "Thriller" and re-mixed it into some lewd rap. The teacher found out, I was sent to the office, where I had to call my mom on the phone and sing it to her verbatim (in tune and on beat, no less), got swats wearing my stupid, mexican-tight parachute pants. Can you tell I had plenty of time on my hands? I frequently forged interim reports and traded my Megatron Transformer toy for an Optimus Prime and was always the last one picked for kickball (I spent that entire summer playing kick against the brick wall of our home, vowing to get picked first in fifth grade. The first kick-homer of my career was one of several fond memories).

I began to realize I could get by with alot of humor and by batting some brown eyes. My best friends in the world were Jeff and Omari. the last time we were all together, it was after Jeff had moved away. It was his birthday party and we hung out with his new friends, cursed, watched Freddy Krueger on tv. Jeff's mom was one of the only other moms who ever drank in front of us, and I ended up home late, too late for my mom's sake. But wherever he is, I wonder if God was just as patient with him as he was with me. I wonder if my teachers went home and laughed at some of the things I said, or were just frustrated because I was wasting my education on fart jokes, video games and girls' smiles. In essence, I sometimes haven't evolved much past that silly, little boy.

Tricks and Treats

The scariest thing about Halloween this year has been the color of my yet-to-be-closed pool water. I can't say the same for my youngest daughter, who would jump at the slightest provocation. Cruz exclaimed to us on the ride home that "nothing" scares him. I'd say he's about right.

Halloween with the kids does remind me of my childhood, mostly the differences, but I don't want to spend too much time with how it was back in the "day." I don't remember Halloween much before age 10, except for that we did much more in school, like dressing up and having parties. Somewhere along the line, a parent sued and so we now we call Halloween "Beggar's Night" or some other safe-sounding phrase that doesn't rile up anyone. School parties are different too. This year, we're not even allowed to serve food, which means that we all sit around and stare at each other during celebrations. Not much fun.

I do remember my trick-or-treat nights being much different, but more so when I was getting older. Parents didn't walk with you through the neighborhood (although I do remember going through Greenspoint Mall in Houston once) like they do with their little ones. There were no time limits and we knocked on every door, sometimes well after 9pm.

I remember going out once, sixth grade, with Jon Patterson from down the road. And while the venturing through Greengate is a story within itself, I dredge up so much more about my junior high years that had more of an affect on me that I thought ever would.

Jon and I pretty much ran that street. We lived in a cul-de-sac, played football while waiting for the bus and baseball games in the court next to the Rice's house. There were a large group of us, some of us popular, some of us outcasts and all of us unsupervised. We smoked cigarettes (although my mom did eventually realize I had been smoking in the garage), cursed, hid adult magazines in vacant home's cabinets, cursed, watched scrambled Playboy Channel and snuck in each other's backyards. We fought sometimes and we tackled each other on the concrete even though we were supposed to tackle one another in the grass. We talked lewdly about girls, terrorized our smaller siblings, bullied kids on the bus and popped fireworks in neighbor's porches. Once, the guy living across from us chased us from the yard and caught me, specifically, gave me a good shaking and sent me away to fetch my dad. In the altercation that followed, I realized that my step-dad was behind me all the way, even though I was totally in the wrong. Funny how I can think about that event, and all the tears he spent on me years later when I was a confused high school kid. We may not talk much now, but it has nothing to do with that night, nor the tears, but alot to do with men and their fathers.

Jon Patterson. I was lucky one night to have seen him again after many years not knowing how he had ended up. His story took him out of state that year, and his house was occupied by people who never came outside. He drove through the toll lane where I worked as a supervisor, jotted down his number and we ended up talking. He had the voice of a guy who had been through a divorce, maybe a stint in juvenile detention. I was a guy who was lucky enough to have been renewed in a relationship with my future wife, still directionless but alive and in the right place.

Driving through Louisiana last year, I stopped at a gas station. One of those nasty coffee stops in the middle of the night, and as I'm walking out I notice a familiar face walking past the open door. Pax Whatley. Another one of those neighborhood kids who was around through much of those times. He lives in Wisconsin now, but on his was up north, we pass each other in a roadside gas station. God gives you those treats sometimes, eve when you've lived the life of a trickster.

Waiting for Superman thoughts and review

I finally watched the documentary, "Waiting for Superman." I always gauge documentaries for what they get you to do afterwards. Did you spend nights searching through the internet for answers, like "Paradise Lost"? Or did they bring you into a world you previously avoided, like the achingly tough "Stevie," or "Capturing the Freidmans"? Some like, "Hoop Dreams," or the strangely funny "Crumb" stay with you for years afterwards. "Superman" falls into the category of recent docs, like "Super Size Me" wherein the stamp of their maker is keenly evident, but one that will still provoke thought, anger and stunned silence in equal doses.

The doc isn't so much anti-teacher as many make it out to be (although, maybe conspiratorially, it doesn't feature one voice of current teachers in the business). The film dartboards some big ideas, and as a teacher myself, I know that treating the film's ideas as bullets pretty much makes me one of the stiff upper-lipped, voiceless people in the crowd of angry teachers.

While featuring the lives of a handful of students and parents as they make their decision to get into prestigious charter schools (all by lottery), the film tackles widely known truths and devises some clues into where it may go. One major theme outlined in the movie is the need for reform, from teacher incentive-based pay to longer school hours. Much of the reform is brazenly being harassed by teacher's unions, which come across as out-of-the-times lobbyist. There's a scene midway showing a disciplinary sequence from New York, where teachers are sent to the "rubber room" where they sit, nap, and read newspapers for hours while waiting on their cases. Others show hidden cameras teachers reading while their high school class plays craps and naps. Scenes like this don't necessarily make me mad because it picks on teachers, but it makes me mad that we allow those teachers to teach along side us. Watch the scene about the "lemon dance" and tell me that not one teacher would relate to the feeling of that particular administrator's failed attempts to remove a pimple from the face of their school.

Other ideas fly under the radar but hit home nonetheless, like longer school days and boarding schools. In those cases, the film doesn't portray the parents as losing their rights as parents, as authority figures, but makes them a blameless cog if a broken system. And what of teachers who would work these longer hours or live in a boarding school? Is the film saying that teachers with families would benefit from having less time with their own families to raise kids not their own? Still, the movie makes you want to ask the person next to you and have that hour long conversation with a pot of coffee.

In other ways, I wish the film spent more time with Geoffrey Canada's Harlem Children's Zone. The film doesn't talk about the per-pupil spending of its charter, or the social services that are part of their groundbreaking model. I also found that comparing American test scores to foreign countries is a mute point, considering foreign students flock to our colleges and that most countries feature one culture, as we are an amalgamation of several cultures, religions and people.

Still, the film has its detractors and followers. I simply love the conversation, and know that if I continue to do what I'm supposed to do in the classroom then everything will take care of itself. One lesson from the film, it seems when the superintendent, chancellor or school founder is in the room, you teach your ass off.