Dear Satan,
You're a back-stabbing, low life bastard. With that said, I know you've been lurking about. I smell your presence like a skunk plastered on the roadside, dead for days and unseen except for the ripples of rotted flesh that sits like a torn scab. That stench stays with you for at least a day afterward. You think you smell it when you step into the shower. Is that me? And you smell it on the way checking mail, and you sniff your clothes and make that wrinkled-forehead face. It's not the skunk, it's the smell of evil.
So, I've been feeling you lurking about ready to strike. You know what bothers me, what gets me fired up, what I'm most prone to. On Monday, you perverted my sense of competition and the desire to win. You masked yourself not in the baseball pants of 8 year-old boys, but in the questions and tactics of oblivious coaches. I conceded and you tested my patience when every one of my squad freaked out about taking the field. Then you knew I would notice their best kid play infield every inning. You even put the little kid right next to me so he could make diving plays when we needed 6 runs. I'm hi-fiving the opposition while mumbling curses at the coaches.
While God blessed me with 2 new students to nurture and care for at the end of the year, you twisted my perfectionist nature and rattled any sense of control I thought I had. I raised my voice, grew impatient, separated kids. I dodged parents, flirted with insubordination and stared at fifth graders who mumble curse words at my general direction. You mangled the patience I showed all year to my own students when I pointed out to the new girl that when someone gives them the middle finger it sure wont be the last time that ever happens so get used to it. I began using the same lisp and stutter speech pattern of my autistic kid. My old sarcasm resurfaced, the bully from junior high who walked like I was crippled down the hallway for a juvenile laugh.
At work you exposed the gossip I've kept hidden in the confines of my room. You verified what I felt about people all along but in doing so it brought that festering, over-bearing do-gooder. I buried that man with weeks of prayer and Bible reading but you knew where to find him. You have the GPS towards our past failures. God is continually making his presence known, and it's you who unlocked the tattered cellar door. Who gave you the key anyhow?
And today, on top of school, you grind away at another pressure point--softball. On my daughter's last high school game ever, you laughed while the last out was recorded with my daughter meekly holding her bat on deck. She never made a play, never took a swing. I saw you handing over the tissues with that sarcastic sincerity while I fumed in the stands. You knew I'd scoff at the errors made by other players, at her old positions no less, and patted me on the back. You still have that email draft, right? Send it tonight. Show that coach how you really feel. I drove my exhausted daughter home, consumed with my life, consumed with the attacks on me, while she sat in silence. The passive man, leaving behind scars on her life. When I needed my Dad the most, he sat there in silence.
But, I got something for you this time, Satan. While you tempted me with a beer and pizza at a local bar where I would surely consume as many slices of grease to replace the energy of the f-bombs leaving my mouth, I called a friend. We raised each other up. I went back inside and hugged my wife. You think I'm leaving her alone so you can attack her more? Bring it! I looked into the eyes of my children who were oblivious to the tension and told them I loved them. Loved them more than you lie about. You've always told me that sin feels good, that it's what I needed. Fleeting are your lies.
So, Satan, you know what I'm going to do tomorrow? I'm going to do my reading, my devotions, and I'll pray again. I'll give my life to God and ask him what he wants to do with my life. I'll be humble in my meetings tomorrow because men know when to speak up and how to handle adversity. I will smile at my students, show them firm discipline if need be, and even if I get a new kid tomorrow, the child will realize that Mr. Cordova was something completely different. Reborn. Cordova 2.0. God-armored. Alive.
Sincerely,
Reynaldo, Christ follower.
PS--I'm ready for your next attack.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Hydra Man
I must have the most dangerous job on earth. The media hates teachers right about now. We get summers off, we are glorified babysitters, we allow bullying to run rampant within our walls and we are so lazy that we need a union to protect us from our own ineptness. The president endorses the marriage of two men over the livelihood of the thousands that are working overtime to get these kids what they need. Men in society are construction workers or buffoons on ABC Family shows, but not teachers (unless you count the liberal professor in college or the literature high school teacher with dreamy eyes and a weakness for teenage girls). I work in a profession dominated by women. I know I'm making two separate arguments here, one of danger and one of passiveness. It's dangerous to work with kids, this has always been somewhat true for me. It's not dangerous to have to tone down the essence of what I am.
I was reminded how dangerous my job can be last week. It first started with successive absences which either exposed a substitute teacher for being under qualified or it proved that I am unable to sever the umbilical cord attached to my students. During my hiatus, the room became a bedlam of thrown tennis balls (they serve as chair silencers), racial slurs, screaming fits, shoving matches and middle-finger salutes. My colleague mimics the chicken-coop movement of the sub I had Friday, extinguishing one fire before being engulfed by another. In the melee, the kids were removed from participating in the Bouncy House celebration next week.
My wife is prone to give me the eye from time to time, the emasculating reminder that I overstretch my man-pant boundaries. This is part 2 of my dangerous mission. Not only do I work with women (and I'm only pointing this out in a negative in terms of not having another man to share job experiences with like I had in the past. I do think teaching needs more men, but not necessarily because we can do it better. Together, men and women can provide that bond that kids don't get at home, the maternal and the fatherly.) but I work with my wife as well. She sees my insecurities manifest themselves in all sorts of endeavors. I become some hydra-man as I tentacle my influence on the basketball court taking score and reffing the games, or eating with my Wednesday 3rd grade girls who I believe like the fact they can sit on rolling chairs and do a conga line during lunch than my conversation. In the mean time I try and complete all the possible teacher duties one has during the day--grading papers, re-directing students, coordinating meetings, etc. It's what all teachers do. Nothing more, nothing special. And I'm sure each teacher has their "thing", the little extras they do that make their classrooms unique. I'm no different. I'm working on realizing that my gifts have nothing to do with anyone else's gift down the hallway, or that my gift is somewhat better or more genuine. That's being a man too, realizing that I don't have to be the end all be all.
So when my class behaves, I do walk with pride. Who wouldn't? When they freak out when a sub is there, is it an indication that the sub shouldn't have ever stepped into the room or does it mean they will only listen to me? And if they only listen to me, if their true nature is somehow boiling just under the surface does it mean that they respect me, fear me, or are intimidated by me. I think I've said on here before that I feel I'm being attacked and the attack is on my masculinity. No one wants an aggressive, forceful male presence at school. That's dangerous. Just look what we do to active boys in school. Sit down, shut up, do your work, don't do that. We don't know how to harness that energy because we are constantly being told by our mothers, our teachers and now, my boss to control my tone, the tenor of my voice, my presence.
So this week it has been silence in room 160. I haven't had my hallway conversations with my chosen few. No lunch bunch. No hi-fives to the little ones. I know this is not my wife's intention for me to stifle me, but it's my over reaction to her prompst, my boss's hinted reprimands. In a sense, this is the danger. It's easy to overreact. Easy to stumble. Easy to err. Dangerous is trusting in the big picture. I've been all over my new kids lately. Blaming them for being dumped in my classroom without school supplies. Blaming them for starting fights. Blaming them for coming from a charter. Is this what God meant when he made me a rock, the leader in my building?
My fourth graders finished watching "Sounder" (the Martin Ritt version. I have yet to watch the updated version) today. The movie has always been a favorite of mine. Later, I've come to realize how special the book and film are in a way that I've grown to appreciate. The mother's faith, the boy's journey to find his father. Aint no journey hopeless, the boy says. The boy is searching for the namesake that only his dad can provide. His masculinity turns aggressive in his mind in the dreams of retaliation against the white, nameless powers of authority. In the book, the boy eventually meets a teacher who takes him in, provides that bond that his father cannot provide (and just how many black men were taken away in the times of slavery, and later, sharecropping from their families? How many fail to provide that bond to their sons now?). The movie presents her as a black woman, and I don't question the move. It's honest, truthful. A woman provides so much for us. But a man balances out that longing of spirit. Boys will search far and wide for their father. Some on journeys, some on aggressive and destructive detours.
By the end of the movie, I'm always crying. Here, the crippled dad returns. Aint no journey hopeless. He returns home as a husband and a father. You've got to beat the life that's been laid out for you, he tells the son. Sends him to school. Bestows the namesake. You are worthy, son.
Perhaps my kids need more attention. 29 of them. Dangerous. The autistic kid yearning for answers. The new girl who stumbled in how to handle the looks of new faces. The kid who tells me all about her beauty pageant competition. The boys and their jokes. Will they understand that their journey isn't hopeless. I drag a dead leg in their wake, pushing them onto the radiance they cannot see. Dangerous.
I was reminded how dangerous my job can be last week. It first started with successive absences which either exposed a substitute teacher for being under qualified or it proved that I am unable to sever the umbilical cord attached to my students. During my hiatus, the room became a bedlam of thrown tennis balls (they serve as chair silencers), racial slurs, screaming fits, shoving matches and middle-finger salutes. My colleague mimics the chicken-coop movement of the sub I had Friday, extinguishing one fire before being engulfed by another. In the melee, the kids were removed from participating in the Bouncy House celebration next week.
My wife is prone to give me the eye from time to time, the emasculating reminder that I overstretch my man-pant boundaries. This is part 2 of my dangerous mission. Not only do I work with women (and I'm only pointing this out in a negative in terms of not having another man to share job experiences with like I had in the past. I do think teaching needs more men, but not necessarily because we can do it better. Together, men and women can provide that bond that kids don't get at home, the maternal and the fatherly.) but I work with my wife as well. She sees my insecurities manifest themselves in all sorts of endeavors. I become some hydra-man as I tentacle my influence on the basketball court taking score and reffing the games, or eating with my Wednesday 3rd grade girls who I believe like the fact they can sit on rolling chairs and do a conga line during lunch than my conversation. In the mean time I try and complete all the possible teacher duties one has during the day--grading papers, re-directing students, coordinating meetings, etc. It's what all teachers do. Nothing more, nothing special. And I'm sure each teacher has their "thing", the little extras they do that make their classrooms unique. I'm no different. I'm working on realizing that my gifts have nothing to do with anyone else's gift down the hallway, or that my gift is somewhat better or more genuine. That's being a man too, realizing that I don't have to be the end all be all.
So when my class behaves, I do walk with pride. Who wouldn't? When they freak out when a sub is there, is it an indication that the sub shouldn't have ever stepped into the room or does it mean they will only listen to me? And if they only listen to me, if their true nature is somehow boiling just under the surface does it mean that they respect me, fear me, or are intimidated by me. I think I've said on here before that I feel I'm being attacked and the attack is on my masculinity. No one wants an aggressive, forceful male presence at school. That's dangerous. Just look what we do to active boys in school. Sit down, shut up, do your work, don't do that. We don't know how to harness that energy because we are constantly being told by our mothers, our teachers and now, my boss to control my tone, the tenor of my voice, my presence.
So this week it has been silence in room 160. I haven't had my hallway conversations with my chosen few. No lunch bunch. No hi-fives to the little ones. I know this is not my wife's intention for me to stifle me, but it's my over reaction to her prompst, my boss's hinted reprimands. In a sense, this is the danger. It's easy to overreact. Easy to stumble. Easy to err. Dangerous is trusting in the big picture. I've been all over my new kids lately. Blaming them for being dumped in my classroom without school supplies. Blaming them for starting fights. Blaming them for coming from a charter. Is this what God meant when he made me a rock, the leader in my building?
My fourth graders finished watching "Sounder" (the Martin Ritt version. I have yet to watch the updated version) today. The movie has always been a favorite of mine. Later, I've come to realize how special the book and film are in a way that I've grown to appreciate. The mother's faith, the boy's journey to find his father. Aint no journey hopeless, the boy says. The boy is searching for the namesake that only his dad can provide. His masculinity turns aggressive in his mind in the dreams of retaliation against the white, nameless powers of authority. In the book, the boy eventually meets a teacher who takes him in, provides that bond that his father cannot provide (and just how many black men were taken away in the times of slavery, and later, sharecropping from their families? How many fail to provide that bond to their sons now?). The movie presents her as a black woman, and I don't question the move. It's honest, truthful. A woman provides so much for us. But a man balances out that longing of spirit. Boys will search far and wide for their father. Some on journeys, some on aggressive and destructive detours.
By the end of the movie, I'm always crying. Here, the crippled dad returns. Aint no journey hopeless. He returns home as a husband and a father. You've got to beat the life that's been laid out for you, he tells the son. Sends him to school. Bestows the namesake. You are worthy, son.
Perhaps my kids need more attention. 29 of them. Dangerous. The autistic kid yearning for answers. The new girl who stumbled in how to handle the looks of new faces. The kid who tells me all about her beauty pageant competition. The boys and their jokes. Will they understand that their journey isn't hopeless. I drag a dead leg in their wake, pushing them onto the radiance they cannot see. Dangerous.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
The Lonely Door
It's always been a rarity for me to be inconspicuous. Today, at Wednesday night meal at church, I chose a back table, back turned from the door, spread out my bag and papers, unrolled my sandwich and ate in peace. Not that I didn't warrant company, or was slighting someone from my bad mood (anytime I did this as a child, I was always condemned for being in a bad mood. Being questioned about if I was in a bad mood always inevitably provoked me into a bad mood). As selfish as this sounds, I was in need of some me time.
It was an experiment of sorts, too. Reading through my "Wild at Heart" book, the man that is driven himself to perfection extremes, the driven man of the corporate world (in a sense, my kids have become my product with the amount we test) must sometimes sit back and force himself into a role he is uncomfortable with. For me, that's being in the back row. As far as I can remember, I've forced myself into the spotlight. I craved attention in negative ways, lots of sarcasm, the funniest guy in the room routines, the one who always knew the most foul joke.
My family enabled me to be the center of attention. Literally at my grandmother's is a photograph of me in some cheesy 70's cowboy-rainbow-cactus getup. It was still there a few years back before my grandmother moved. It was my daily reminder of the shrine that was me. (Hell, this blog is all about me, isn't it?)
Attention seeker that I was, it never quite had the impact I had imagined. I craved attention from girls, but was only the best friend, if that. I wanted some kind of approval from my fathers, didn't receive it. My mom loved me unconditionally like a mother should, but I think in a sense it gave this sense of me-versus-all hispanic guys. I wasn't the macho--I went and CRIED watching Steel Magnolias! I wasn't the auto junkie--I'm a writer, dammit! A poet!
I had great guy friends but I always felt short. Not athletic enough, not white enough, not preppy enough, not ethnic enough, not thin enough. So I kept shaking hands and cracking jokes. If I ever went anywhere in Houston, it was rare that someone didn't know who I was or recognize me. I still feel this sense when I return home. Who is here that I know? Who can I impress?
Without warning, this acceptance/narcissistic trend followed me into Christianity. God erases sins, but the Devil likes to remind us of the traits that make us human. God accepts us, and in a sense, he magnifies the best qualities we have for His glory. That's what I'm learning. Today's church adorns itself in a litany of sign-up sheets in the carpeted hallway. Prayer walls, email chains and bible studies. We make decisions of study not for the content but for the people we get to sit alongside with. I'm guilty of this sin the most. Who can I meet? Who can I impress? If I learn something about myself, so the better.
Even worse, I'm a counter. A counter of attendance, of services, of who is late and who read the aforementioned chapter. I'll admit my faults because self-deprivation has its funny moments. We chuckle at the self-aware, jolly dude in the front row who is always smiling. Fat man always laughing. And sweating.
That ego projection is harmful, I've come to know. I take it personal. These slights, the lack of viewership. It's an attack that I was not privy too. Satan has been laughing his red skin off. I love me weight watcher meetings simply because I get to talk even more. I rarely stop to listen. My wife stops mid sentence because I'm checking how many people "liked" my status on FB. How could you not like my status?
So today, I sat. People came up to my table and drew napkins from the dispenser as if I weren't there. Grabbed the salt and pepper. I didn't pat anyone's back. I'd like to say this is the beginning of another me. I've been asked to submit my assertiveness at school by whispering re-directions and reprimands. I wouldn't know what a day would be if I wasn't good-morninged by 20 kids. I know there is a lot of God in those tiny voices. He's telling me to raise my head and be grateful for another day.
But what about this new endeavor into men's ministry at the church? How exactly can I lead without being in the front? Jesus led as a servant. He defied expectations. He payed the tax and gave even more. He washed feet. He was the center of attention but made you feel as if you were the only person in Jerusalem he was saving.
Unrolling that sandwich brings fear to mind too. The lonely Reynaldo, when I lived with grandma and gorged on food behind a door that frequently wanted to be bothered as much as I wished. Just waiting for someone to knock, to ask how I was doing. And finally giving an honest answer.
It was an experiment of sorts, too. Reading through my "Wild at Heart" book, the man that is driven himself to perfection extremes, the driven man of the corporate world (in a sense, my kids have become my product with the amount we test) must sometimes sit back and force himself into a role he is uncomfortable with. For me, that's being in the back row. As far as I can remember, I've forced myself into the spotlight. I craved attention in negative ways, lots of sarcasm, the funniest guy in the room routines, the one who always knew the most foul joke.
My family enabled me to be the center of attention. Literally at my grandmother's is a photograph of me in some cheesy 70's cowboy-rainbow-cactus getup. It was still there a few years back before my grandmother moved. It was my daily reminder of the shrine that was me. (Hell, this blog is all about me, isn't it?)
Attention seeker that I was, it never quite had the impact I had imagined. I craved attention from girls, but was only the best friend, if that. I wanted some kind of approval from my fathers, didn't receive it. My mom loved me unconditionally like a mother should, but I think in a sense it gave this sense of me-versus-all hispanic guys. I wasn't the macho--I went and CRIED watching Steel Magnolias! I wasn't the auto junkie--I'm a writer, dammit! A poet!
I had great guy friends but I always felt short. Not athletic enough, not white enough, not preppy enough, not ethnic enough, not thin enough. So I kept shaking hands and cracking jokes. If I ever went anywhere in Houston, it was rare that someone didn't know who I was or recognize me. I still feel this sense when I return home. Who is here that I know? Who can I impress?
Without warning, this acceptance/narcissistic trend followed me into Christianity. God erases sins, but the Devil likes to remind us of the traits that make us human. God accepts us, and in a sense, he magnifies the best qualities we have for His glory. That's what I'm learning. Today's church adorns itself in a litany of sign-up sheets in the carpeted hallway. Prayer walls, email chains and bible studies. We make decisions of study not for the content but for the people we get to sit alongside with. I'm guilty of this sin the most. Who can I meet? Who can I impress? If I learn something about myself, so the better.
Even worse, I'm a counter. A counter of attendance, of services, of who is late and who read the aforementioned chapter. I'll admit my faults because self-deprivation has its funny moments. We chuckle at the self-aware, jolly dude in the front row who is always smiling. Fat man always laughing. And sweating.
That ego projection is harmful, I've come to know. I take it personal. These slights, the lack of viewership. It's an attack that I was not privy too. Satan has been laughing his red skin off. I love me weight watcher meetings simply because I get to talk even more. I rarely stop to listen. My wife stops mid sentence because I'm checking how many people "liked" my status on FB. How could you not like my status?
So today, I sat. People came up to my table and drew napkins from the dispenser as if I weren't there. Grabbed the salt and pepper. I didn't pat anyone's back. I'd like to say this is the beginning of another me. I've been asked to submit my assertiveness at school by whispering re-directions and reprimands. I wouldn't know what a day would be if I wasn't good-morninged by 20 kids. I know there is a lot of God in those tiny voices. He's telling me to raise my head and be grateful for another day.
But what about this new endeavor into men's ministry at the church? How exactly can I lead without being in the front? Jesus led as a servant. He defied expectations. He payed the tax and gave even more. He washed feet. He was the center of attention but made you feel as if you were the only person in Jerusalem he was saving.
Unrolling that sandwich brings fear to mind too. The lonely Reynaldo, when I lived with grandma and gorged on food behind a door that frequently wanted to be bothered as much as I wished. Just waiting for someone to knock, to ask how I was doing. And finally giving an honest answer.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Disclaimers
It became evident after a rather jarring phone call from a loved one that perhaps last night's recent blog, "Letters from my Father(s)" needed a disclaimer. It needed an explanation, perhaps, for the feelings behind the faux letter written, presumably, by my father. Raw, insensitive, and as real as my childhood memories could fathom.
Then I began thinking that my life needed a disclaimer as well. A sign from the car window: WARNING, CONTENTS FRAGILE. HANDLE WITH CARE. BABY ON BOARD. There's a certain amount of trust I must have with myself, a sense of humility to have the desire or will sometimes, to put fingers to keyboard and scribe a witness account of my life. Its future has not yet been written, and the future cannot unveil itself to me because the past keeps wanting to "hang out." God places a feeling, a wanting, on my heart, and grudgingly at times, change happens. Sometimes I think I can change my future on my own, manipulate the present into life-long fix-it moments. Good prayer, devotions, smiling. As I've found, none of those things have a bearing on the next, as events happen sometimes without warning. All these good works are meaningless. This outward character building, on a strictly human level, is respected perhaps, maybe scorned by the cynic. But as I've found out all too well, even being in deep prayer does not help you withstand the onslaught. It helps you handle it better. Quiets the meltdown.
OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN WHAT THEY SEEM.
So it was not without some trepidation that last night's post was sent to blog hell. I have been leading a "Wild at Heart" study by John Eldredge. It's all about realizing that man, us, me, have been placed on this earth for adventure, purpose and heart. Most men who acknowledge they are Christians have lost their heart and their sense of adventure because the church has made them a "nice guy", work has desensitized their aggression, and their wives have emasculated them into domestic automatons. Most men find that in their journey for adventure realize they have wounds, and almost always these wounds were given by their fathers. The silence of their dads when they needed validation. The dad who wasn't there. The abusive dad.
My (two) dads were hardly abusive. One was passive, the other aggressive, both distant. In dealing with my hurts I was to write a letter as if they had left one behind. Would they validate me? Would they be proud of me? Or would they simply reinforce the failure mentality that has been encrusted on me like the look of old rusted metal that flakes to the touch--lethal if embedded within the skin.
WARNING: CONTENTS MAY BE HARMFUL IF SWALLOWED.
And so the emotions came without regard to who read them. They are MY memories. Mine to embrace! No, to embrace them means I become the very person I despise. I teach that to my son. The distant dad. Go away. Go play. Be quiet.
Mine to dismiss. The wounds don't matter. No, they really don't. Seriously. Nothing to see here. Move along, move along.
Mine to forget. Bury. No exhumation needed. Scatter the ashes in the sea. That's not sweat on my brow. Smile. Wipe sweat. Repeat.
THE VIEWS AND OPINIONS EXPRESSED IN THIS ARTICLE REPRESENT A SINNER.
Eldredge says that the wound can rule over men. In our meager efforts to withstand, we seek validation through women (pornography? um, yeah) or in our work (yep, me too). This came as a total shock to me. I sat watching the video with my classmates and felt the punch-in-the-gut moment. The devil loves this. You thought you had it all figured out. I can make you feel better. Liar! And then I began writing.
The letter, in some form, will make it back on here. Possibly not. Healing only comes when I acknowledge that it mattered. There has been forgiveness. Does there have to be confrontation? There is no sense bringing up hurts the other person wouldn't think to admit. Instead, I'm breaking the cycle the only way I know how. It takes throwing footballs with my son in the backyard. Reading to him at night. Praying together. I have left wounds on my son I probably haven't even realized. Or he may grow up to realize the blessings he had were training for something in his life. What do I know about the future?
Then I began thinking that my life needed a disclaimer as well. A sign from the car window: WARNING, CONTENTS FRAGILE. HANDLE WITH CARE. BABY ON BOARD. There's a certain amount of trust I must have with myself, a sense of humility to have the desire or will sometimes, to put fingers to keyboard and scribe a witness account of my life. Its future has not yet been written, and the future cannot unveil itself to me because the past keeps wanting to "hang out." God places a feeling, a wanting, on my heart, and grudgingly at times, change happens. Sometimes I think I can change my future on my own, manipulate the present into life-long fix-it moments. Good prayer, devotions, smiling. As I've found, none of those things have a bearing on the next, as events happen sometimes without warning. All these good works are meaningless. This outward character building, on a strictly human level, is respected perhaps, maybe scorned by the cynic. But as I've found out all too well, even being in deep prayer does not help you withstand the onslaught. It helps you handle it better. Quiets the meltdown.
OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN WHAT THEY SEEM.
So it was not without some trepidation that last night's post was sent to blog hell. I have been leading a "Wild at Heart" study by John Eldredge. It's all about realizing that man, us, me, have been placed on this earth for adventure, purpose and heart. Most men who acknowledge they are Christians have lost their heart and their sense of adventure because the church has made them a "nice guy", work has desensitized their aggression, and their wives have emasculated them into domestic automatons. Most men find that in their journey for adventure realize they have wounds, and almost always these wounds were given by their fathers. The silence of their dads when they needed validation. The dad who wasn't there. The abusive dad.
My (two) dads were hardly abusive. One was passive, the other aggressive, both distant. In dealing with my hurts I was to write a letter as if they had left one behind. Would they validate me? Would they be proud of me? Or would they simply reinforce the failure mentality that has been encrusted on me like the look of old rusted metal that flakes to the touch--lethal if embedded within the skin.
WARNING: CONTENTS MAY BE HARMFUL IF SWALLOWED.
And so the emotions came without regard to who read them. They are MY memories. Mine to embrace! No, to embrace them means I become the very person I despise. I teach that to my son. The distant dad. Go away. Go play. Be quiet.
Mine to dismiss. The wounds don't matter. No, they really don't. Seriously. Nothing to see here. Move along, move along.
Mine to forget. Bury. No exhumation needed. Scatter the ashes in the sea. That's not sweat on my brow. Smile. Wipe sweat. Repeat.
THE VIEWS AND OPINIONS EXPRESSED IN THIS ARTICLE REPRESENT A SINNER.
Eldredge says that the wound can rule over men. In our meager efforts to withstand, we seek validation through women (pornography? um, yeah) or in our work (yep, me too). This came as a total shock to me. I sat watching the video with my classmates and felt the punch-in-the-gut moment. The devil loves this. You thought you had it all figured out. I can make you feel better. Liar! And then I began writing.
The letter, in some form, will make it back on here. Possibly not. Healing only comes when I acknowledge that it mattered. There has been forgiveness. Does there have to be confrontation? There is no sense bringing up hurts the other person wouldn't think to admit. Instead, I'm breaking the cycle the only way I know how. It takes throwing footballs with my son in the backyard. Reading to him at night. Praying together. I have left wounds on my son I probably haven't even realized. Or he may grow up to realize the blessings he had were training for something in his life. What do I know about the future?
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Swimming with the Ducks
It is not without some irony that I find parallels between my mechanical ineptitude and aspects of my life that are beyond my control that I always try controlling. Perhaps this is man's curse. We, with these minds of ours, can craft so many tools to fix just about anything. Some special, some small, some that even make us dependent. But with so many tools, a man feels empowered to fix any obstacle in their way. We can make a motor purr anew, we can make a computer come back to life, and we can cover the scratches and holes in drywall. With that being said, the gaping holes that reside in us are left to be filled by our own methods. This, of course, is our human condition. We think, I think, that I can fix everything. This is my form of idolatry.
This past week I attempted to fix my pool problems that stemmed from last season. Late August, just before we were to use the pool for my little daughter's birthday party, the pump suddenly stopped working. I went to the breaker box first, having had similar problems before. Flipped switch, went back out, nothing. So the pump sat silent all fall and winter. The subtle day to day changes in the pool grew more evident. First a cloudy film. Then a slight green haze. A bug here, a stray wiffle ball bobbing along the edge, a wayward floatie aimlessly searching for its twin. Eventually it became a green pond. Winter came, and the pool remained a reminder of work that had to be done come spring time. Tax money had already been reserved for the new purchase of a motor.
So spring temperatures awakened this urgent need to get the pool up and running. Even the ducks that have been aggressively flying into the pool to drink of its green waters mocked (seriously, I threw wiffle balls at them and was short of using my fabled BB gun on them but was worried someone would film my animal abuse) this eventual return to the outdoors. So, I began using what limited tools (another irony) I had to prove (to whom? I guess just me) that I could master this without intervention. I shut off valves, twisted hoses and pried loose clamps. Eventually I brought the offending materials to box heaven and purchased new ones.
Now, here comes the dreaded moment of truth. After some serious twisting of hoses, cursing and sweat, I conceded to help. Uncle Tommy was called, I awaited his return to the land of the Misfit Mechanics, and then realized after the amount of toil that it had been an electrical problem the entire time. No need for a new pump (at that time) and cursing and dirty knees. Just a simple safety valve my original electrician installed that needed to be reset. I would have thrown a grenade in the entire pool just as my excuse to not fix it by that time. All the work for nothing.
And the week of Easter was another reminder of this fix-it idolatry. I have been struggling with this need to love with conditions. I want so much for others around me to have this sense of fulfillment (or what I believe to be fulfillment) that I began to manipulate those men I should have been loving the most. I saw flaws in every mirror. Each act of faith by others was questioned of its validity. I began yearning for such a bond of brothers that I would accept nothing less. In the end, I wanted to hammer away at other people's lives into some kind of sculpture that would look best for God.
What the hell was I thinking?
I might as well have swam in these murky waters with the ducks. And there is this fear of water I sometimes have, that when I open my eyes underwater, I won't see a thing. I'll never scuba dive for fear of some fish, magnified by my goggles, swimming behind my ear. Electric eels and their open mouths. Stingrays and their flat bodies, most likely smooth and clammy, the feeling of a cold crypt in October. But for all the fixing I was doing, I had done just that. My tools, my life, my outcomes. Remember the movie "Magnolia" where William H. Macy is sitting amid a shower of frogs tells John C. Reilly. "I have so much love to give, I just don't know where to put it." And the duck squawks.
Currently the green water will eventually turn a gray. It will look like river water. Eventually I will be able to see my feet at the bottom, and the smell of chlorine will remind me once again about maintenance and ritual. Devotions, prayer, worship, repeat. My friends undoubtedly will remember my actions. Perhaps I won't get away with my schemes the next time. Friends are forgiving. God is too. I have been unwilling to change the most important thing about myself--that arrogant confidence. Losing weight, one major change, has given me more confidence. I love the feeling of a 3x shirt rather than a 4x one. Other changes too--less drinking, more study, less distractions. I feel that the last 33 years were my way, and conviction has warranted some changes in my lifestyle. But in this effort, why am I worried about the changes in others. Love wins, right? Grace wins. Always.
For now, the pool water must be cleaned. The ducks need a new home. I'm ready for a swim.
This past week I attempted to fix my pool problems that stemmed from last season. Late August, just before we were to use the pool for my little daughter's birthday party, the pump suddenly stopped working. I went to the breaker box first, having had similar problems before. Flipped switch, went back out, nothing. So the pump sat silent all fall and winter. The subtle day to day changes in the pool grew more evident. First a cloudy film. Then a slight green haze. A bug here, a stray wiffle ball bobbing along the edge, a wayward floatie aimlessly searching for its twin. Eventually it became a green pond. Winter came, and the pool remained a reminder of work that had to be done come spring time. Tax money had already been reserved for the new purchase of a motor.
So spring temperatures awakened this urgent need to get the pool up and running. Even the ducks that have been aggressively flying into the pool to drink of its green waters mocked (seriously, I threw wiffle balls at them and was short of using my fabled BB gun on them but was worried someone would film my animal abuse) this eventual return to the outdoors. So, I began using what limited tools (another irony) I had to prove (to whom? I guess just me) that I could master this without intervention. I shut off valves, twisted hoses and pried loose clamps. Eventually I brought the offending materials to box heaven and purchased new ones.
Now, here comes the dreaded moment of truth. After some serious twisting of hoses, cursing and sweat, I conceded to help. Uncle Tommy was called, I awaited his return to the land of the Misfit Mechanics, and then realized after the amount of toil that it had been an electrical problem the entire time. No need for a new pump (at that time) and cursing and dirty knees. Just a simple safety valve my original electrician installed that needed to be reset. I would have thrown a grenade in the entire pool just as my excuse to not fix it by that time. All the work for nothing.
And the week of Easter was another reminder of this fix-it idolatry. I have been struggling with this need to love with conditions. I want so much for others around me to have this sense of fulfillment (or what I believe to be fulfillment) that I began to manipulate those men I should have been loving the most. I saw flaws in every mirror. Each act of faith by others was questioned of its validity. I began yearning for such a bond of brothers that I would accept nothing less. In the end, I wanted to hammer away at other people's lives into some kind of sculpture that would look best for God.
What the hell was I thinking?
I might as well have swam in these murky waters with the ducks. And there is this fear of water I sometimes have, that when I open my eyes underwater, I won't see a thing. I'll never scuba dive for fear of some fish, magnified by my goggles, swimming behind my ear. Electric eels and their open mouths. Stingrays and their flat bodies, most likely smooth and clammy, the feeling of a cold crypt in October. But for all the fixing I was doing, I had done just that. My tools, my life, my outcomes. Remember the movie "Magnolia" where William H. Macy is sitting amid a shower of frogs tells John C. Reilly. "I have so much love to give, I just don't know where to put it." And the duck squawks.
Currently the green water will eventually turn a gray. It will look like river water. Eventually I will be able to see my feet at the bottom, and the smell of chlorine will remind me once again about maintenance and ritual. Devotions, prayer, worship, repeat. My friends undoubtedly will remember my actions. Perhaps I won't get away with my schemes the next time. Friends are forgiving. God is too. I have been unwilling to change the most important thing about myself--that arrogant confidence. Losing weight, one major change, has given me more confidence. I love the feeling of a 3x shirt rather than a 4x one. Other changes too--less drinking, more study, less distractions. I feel that the last 33 years were my way, and conviction has warranted some changes in my lifestyle. But in this effort, why am I worried about the changes in others. Love wins, right? Grace wins. Always.
For now, the pool water must be cleaned. The ducks need a new home. I'm ready for a swim.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Sword Swallowing
Moments.
What else could summarize chasing your son around the babysitter's yard, his pants wet from water-vomit, crying hysterically? I'm running from the deck (and trying not to fall in my brown Croc shoes) down the yard, trying to grab him like my wayward dog (who, ironically, ran through the neighbor's basket-weave style fence and into the side street where he found the sound of his barking a reverberating exercise in freedom and defiance). Why did he have water vomit on his shorts? Because on his third day being on medication for his attention, his gag reflex (a sword swallower he will never be) erupted into full force upheaval. I have some to blame (no, I don't mean in my DNA, but laugh at me if you must!) for the lack of timing, whereby my waking up late led to him being forced to chug his medicine. I knew the medicine would not hold simply because the thought of something grody and pilly setting in the back of my son's throat would be too much. First came the crying. Next came the screaming. These were the birth pains of an inevitable vomit storm.
Off to the doctor.
Good news on my health. After dropping about 44 pounds (dear reader, did I mention I have been on Weight Watchers? Well, now you know) all my levels have gone considerably down. I am no longer designated as diabetic. I saw myself in a picture this weekend. Sometimes when I see myself I still think, "Damn, I'm huge," but I know that being 300 is better than being 360, which is where I was headed.
Then to church.
There are more posters to be made for the people you meet who inspire you. Lately, from reading the book "Wild at Heart" and other events that prove more than coincidental, the lure of being around strong, devoted Christian men of faith has given me a new perspective on my own faith-walk. I was coined once as a "baby Christian" which I took as a compliment. I was learning, yearning for a relationship with the one person not of this earth that can fill those gaps and lift me from the crib. Hold me, God. Carry me around and let me be coochie-cooed by other Christians. No drug or relationship can fill this void that men (and I mean this as a species, men as in the human race, and men being gender specific as well) yearn for the minute they are birthed from their mother's wombs. Somewhere an angel has on a button with my smiling mug on it, like some doting parent at a softball game. "That's my kid playing second base!"
And now I'm growing in the only way I know how. I'm invested in reading books that mess with my life instead of messing with my head. I want to spend time with like-minded people, and it almost becomes a source of frustration when others around me don't feel the same way. Why are so many men deferring their faith to their wives? How many women at church are toting around their kids, their bibles, sitting alone because their husband has another excuse? How many times will husbands refuse their calling because they think their house or parenting skills were better than their fathers and simply "good enough"? Somewhere, we lowered our standards (and this is a world problem, not just husbands). We compare ourselves to other people to measure our own commitment. But if the person we are comparing ourselves to has little faith, aren't we just brow-beating?
So I'm beginning to raise my standards. I invest in men and couples that have it together (it's not unlike looking for the best practices in education). I want to spend time with them, watch them around their kids, watch how affectionate they are with their wives. I want to give them a hi-five like some kid on the playground. And in doing so, I'm conflicted with just how to motivate others to want more. When does love become overbearing? I'm sure God is laughing at me and rolling his eyes. "Dude, you were like this for 30 years!" I'm the only person in a packed Adam Sandler juvenile comedy (especially the ones lately), feeling like a snob because I don't think the pee, poop and fart jokes are that funny.
School.
On a day when I felt I needed some time to reflect, duty calls. I was swarmed on the playground upon my arrival. You'd think I was giving out chocolates (I admit, there was a time when I would have). All day the kids were side stepping me, talking about their days, their weekends, their random thoughts. Gone for just a few hours does that to them. We began discussing government rights and the government's role in society. They got a kick out of the fact that their homework was designed for their parents to work and not them. We have been discussing subsidized housing, welfare, government jobs and even Trayvon Martin lately. I know none of this will ever show up on a standardized test. So what. They learn more when they think for themselves.
But I won't fool you with my smile. I didn't feel "right" all day. Perhaps it was that yearning again to be picked up and delivered to a place of unknown destination. Perhaps it was the water vomit episode, that feeling that everyone was watching my kid run through the street like our dog, barking his disapproval. Birth pains.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Rhino-Headed
The last few weeks we have changed my son's afternoon routine. He rides the bus and stays with a close friend and their family until we get home to pick him up. They have two older sons, and their influence on Cruz is undeniable (Max Lucado future book title #1). He wears shorts on cold days, longs to play Call of Duty like a "big boy" and generally feels at home among the men. When we arrive to pick him up, he is frequently outside with them shooting hoops, or running just for the feel of air hitting their face. Freedom. I love my son's spirit. It's all or nothing at times. Full blown adventure. It's also exhausting.
I've mentioned before that we have been looking into some medical and therapeutic (is this the right word I'm looking for?) advice in getting my son to focus more at school and to help him lessen his outbursts at home. The last 2 years he was in school with us, and I admit, he was the least of any of the teacher's worries in Columbus. In the suburbs, I think my son is the kid that teachers shake their head at. "He's yours next year," I can hear them say in the hallway. Even I occasionally walk into a 3rd grade classroom like some NFL scout surveying the wide field of new recruits. The kids greet me with high fives and hugs. I ask them if they are "ready" for fourth grade, my class. They smile their approvals. And always, the third grade teacher points to the one kid in the corner and says, "I can't wait for you to have----" The first round draft pick. The adventurous, untamed (Max Lucado future book title #2) boy.
Cruz has a lot of those similarities. Perhaps the difference is he has consequences, 2 parents and some decent amount of stability. I know how I was in school. Around the 3rd or 4th grade, my environment began to take over. I had been exposed to the break-up of my home (and to some degree, it wasn't like War of the Roses or anything, but I always felt like the only kid being raised by a step-parent) and too much television. My mom would joke that the only movies I wanted to watch in high school were for sex, blood and violence. I've taken enough measures to keep those things away from my son. I gave up playing certain games at home (Cruz used to call Grand Theft Auto "Daddy's Bad Game"), changed the channel on frequent occasions and steered him to a different rash of movie that my dad allowed me to watch.
But along the way, my son clung to the typical adventure story lines. He is engrossed with the fantasy-lightsaber fights of Star Wars, the explosions of Avatar (I know that was too much for him at his age. I fell victim to the look of the movie and what a cool dad I would be for allowing him to watch it) and the curiosity of warfare. He found a demo of the popular Call of Duty game, and there were times he favored the launching of grenades to the seemingly innocent world of Mario.
In this I am guilty. I raised my son with a fence-straddler mentality. I was raising him Christian in our words, sometimes with our actions and what he sees when we are around our friends, but the indoctrination of the world also weighed heavily on him. The underlying brattiness of Spongebob, the Disney and Nickelodeon shows that are devoid of parents or buffoon-Dads who give kids the message that men aren't men. If another house allowed Call of Duty, so be it. What's a little PG-13 cursing going to hurt. But I only have my own life to show that too much tv and lack of supervision eventually led to fishing for R-rated and "adult situation" movies on Cinemax, later to the simulated sexual gyrations of the Playboy channel, to stashed copies of more graphic magazines like Hustler, and eventually a full blown habit of pornography. Those innocent movies of warfare led to more violent movies and a small collection of Horror movies I'm sickened to watch now.
And indeed, the deck is stacked against many boys like Cruz. Schools are a woman's definition of what education looks like. It's a girls's dream. Do good, get a sticker, teacher smiles, repeat. Even I fell into this category. I read countless books on keeping the classroom female friendly. Not too much competition. Call on the girls more. Balance the learning out, you big male lug. And over the years, my girls have done very well, but sometimes that's inherently the nature of many girls. Not all. But the biggest difference I have felt with my girls is allowing them the tomboy to feel "cool," the fatherless girl to feel loved and wanted and the diva to know that if you speak to other girls in that tone, you allow guys to talk to you that way as well. My boys? Over the years I have increased the competition and allowed my boys to sit where they best learn. I allow them to "buy" the rolling computer chairs, have items in their desks other teachers would forbid. I play games with them and look forward to beating them. Girls want my time, the attention, the affirmation, and for my boys they seek that affirmation through play and competition. Deep down, all boys want a man to give them that affirmation. "Am I man enough?"
So it is with Cruz. Asking him to even sit at dinner would constitute a riot. Not having the ability and freedom to make noises would diminish his smile. Our walls are made for the bouncing of balls, what else could they be for? But school is not that place for him. Even if he ends up "tamed" there is an underlying, almost threatening side of my son that grows. He has my mood swings, my temper. This morning, he hyperventilated over not having enough time for breakfast, not having technology day because he didn't get his incentive stamp, and not being able to wear his titanium necklace that gives him the "power" to succeed (Max Lucado title #3). He's downright grumpy at times. He complains. Damn if I don't see my dad sitting across from me, sighing from some ailment he thinks he will catch simply from absorption or osmosis, dreading the day and walking forward rhino-headed.
And this begins the debate. Is he exhibiting a form of depression, some undiagnosed bi-polar or mood disorder? I joked with my wife that if he is ODD (in educational terms, ODD stands for Oppositional Defiance Disorder, which for me designates kids who have no parental upbringing, have been exposed to more than they can bear and simply don't give a damn what you tell them) that I would "beat his butt." I face these type of kids at school. Not my son. Will medication help him focus? Will it take away that adventurous spirit? I know there is much to ask and figure out along this journey. I know I have already been assessing myself and how I parent. Time to turn off the tv.
I've mentioned before that we have been looking into some medical and therapeutic (is this the right word I'm looking for?) advice in getting my son to focus more at school and to help him lessen his outbursts at home. The last 2 years he was in school with us, and I admit, he was the least of any of the teacher's worries in Columbus. In the suburbs, I think my son is the kid that teachers shake their head at. "He's yours next year," I can hear them say in the hallway. Even I occasionally walk into a 3rd grade classroom like some NFL scout surveying the wide field of new recruits. The kids greet me with high fives and hugs. I ask them if they are "ready" for fourth grade, my class. They smile their approvals. And always, the third grade teacher points to the one kid in the corner and says, "I can't wait for you to have----" The first round draft pick. The adventurous, untamed (Max Lucado future book title #2) boy.
Cruz has a lot of those similarities. Perhaps the difference is he has consequences, 2 parents and some decent amount of stability. I know how I was in school. Around the 3rd or 4th grade, my environment began to take over. I had been exposed to the break-up of my home (and to some degree, it wasn't like War of the Roses or anything, but I always felt like the only kid being raised by a step-parent) and too much television. My mom would joke that the only movies I wanted to watch in high school were for sex, blood and violence. I've taken enough measures to keep those things away from my son. I gave up playing certain games at home (Cruz used to call Grand Theft Auto "Daddy's Bad Game"), changed the channel on frequent occasions and steered him to a different rash of movie that my dad allowed me to watch.
But along the way, my son clung to the typical adventure story lines. He is engrossed with the fantasy-lightsaber fights of Star Wars, the explosions of Avatar (I know that was too much for him at his age. I fell victim to the look of the movie and what a cool dad I would be for allowing him to watch it) and the curiosity of warfare. He found a demo of the popular Call of Duty game, and there were times he favored the launching of grenades to the seemingly innocent world of Mario.
In this I am guilty. I raised my son with a fence-straddler mentality. I was raising him Christian in our words, sometimes with our actions and what he sees when we are around our friends, but the indoctrination of the world also weighed heavily on him. The underlying brattiness of Spongebob, the Disney and Nickelodeon shows that are devoid of parents or buffoon-Dads who give kids the message that men aren't men. If another house allowed Call of Duty, so be it. What's a little PG-13 cursing going to hurt. But I only have my own life to show that too much tv and lack of supervision eventually led to fishing for R-rated and "adult situation" movies on Cinemax, later to the simulated sexual gyrations of the Playboy channel, to stashed copies of more graphic magazines like Hustler, and eventually a full blown habit of pornography. Those innocent movies of warfare led to more violent movies and a small collection of Horror movies I'm sickened to watch now.
And indeed, the deck is stacked against many boys like Cruz. Schools are a woman's definition of what education looks like. It's a girls's dream. Do good, get a sticker, teacher smiles, repeat. Even I fell into this category. I read countless books on keeping the classroom female friendly. Not too much competition. Call on the girls more. Balance the learning out, you big male lug. And over the years, my girls have done very well, but sometimes that's inherently the nature of many girls. Not all. But the biggest difference I have felt with my girls is allowing them the tomboy to feel "cool," the fatherless girl to feel loved and wanted and the diva to know that if you speak to other girls in that tone, you allow guys to talk to you that way as well. My boys? Over the years I have increased the competition and allowed my boys to sit where they best learn. I allow them to "buy" the rolling computer chairs, have items in their desks other teachers would forbid. I play games with them and look forward to beating them. Girls want my time, the attention, the affirmation, and for my boys they seek that affirmation through play and competition. Deep down, all boys want a man to give them that affirmation. "Am I man enough?"
So it is with Cruz. Asking him to even sit at dinner would constitute a riot. Not having the ability and freedom to make noises would diminish his smile. Our walls are made for the bouncing of balls, what else could they be for? But school is not that place for him. Even if he ends up "tamed" there is an underlying, almost threatening side of my son that grows. He has my mood swings, my temper. This morning, he hyperventilated over not having enough time for breakfast, not having technology day because he didn't get his incentive stamp, and not being able to wear his titanium necklace that gives him the "power" to succeed (Max Lucado title #3). He's downright grumpy at times. He complains. Damn if I don't see my dad sitting across from me, sighing from some ailment he thinks he will catch simply from absorption or osmosis, dreading the day and walking forward rhino-headed.
And this begins the debate. Is he exhibiting a form of depression, some undiagnosed bi-polar or mood disorder? I joked with my wife that if he is ODD (in educational terms, ODD stands for Oppositional Defiance Disorder, which for me designates kids who have no parental upbringing, have been exposed to more than they can bear and simply don't give a damn what you tell them) that I would "beat his butt." I face these type of kids at school. Not my son. Will medication help him focus? Will it take away that adventurous spirit? I know there is much to ask and figure out along this journey. I know I have already been assessing myself and how I parent. Time to turn off the tv.
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