I don't think there would have been many tears throughout the last few days leading up to taking my daughter to college. The night before was stymied by exhaustion from getting my room ready (of course freshman move-in day was the first day back for my fourth and fifth grade students). As the night came to a close it was frustration from Lisa's last minute bye-bye-a-thons and instagram pictures before she left. I doubt she slept much that night. Once the morning came the tears were thwarted by the speed of the moment. I think Lisa had the keys in the can ignition before I was even out of the shower. We stopped for coffee at our local Tim Horton's, where the normal wait was an unbearable knife in the expectation of the trip.
The road trip. Kids asking to turn movie volume up, start them over. Parents asking kids to stop kicking the back of the seats, to be nice, to finish their breakfast. We drove through fog that slowed us by 10 mph. I think Lisa slept some. I wanted to pull through Amish country (exit 83!) and pick up some wine. No time.
Arrival was one event after another. I felt like my younger daughter's van-swept hair. Nametags and tables of bananas. Mom, I need my social security number. Cruz complaining to take his medication with orange juice instead of milk. Pretty college girls. Reycina almost tipping over her orange juice. Playing juggle master with folders, water bottles and complimentary coffee mugs.
Move in to a legion of helpers who unpacked the van with smiles. Lisa went into a unpacking and interior design zone. Her roomate's dad and i arranged loft beds, raised them, lowered them. We pushed cabinets into closets and lifted totes. The moms made suggestion-decisions for their daughters then retracted them with the I-really-meant-you-should-take-my-advice, "Whatever you want to do," statement. More pretty college girls.
We drove over to Target to get towels, and a few things mom's always find they need once they ever arrive at a destination. Kids were hungry. Milly's hair looked as if someone rubbed a balloon on her head. Cruz ran into the crosswalk to raise the percentage of his death by stupidity. Their snack ended up being freezer-burned fries I carried through the store like a man wearing one of those side man-bags.
Back to college for lunch. Burgers, pizza and italian subs. We met another player. Cruz at one point grabs the brownie tongs and bites from it. Contamination. Did I mention he had not yet taken his medication? The parents and I talked about the drunks at Walsh College, how God had set the girls' paths in a unique way, softball and boys.
By the time we went back to the dorm, Cruz had began a game on the Wii, Milly had lost her flip slops and Lisa had rearranged the items on her desk several times. When I checked my phone I read a text that told me my school was on lockdown from a shooting that took place on school grounds. The perps even ran through our playground. I'm sure someone tried to blow a whistle at them to stop running or forfeit their recess.
The kids did cry. I took pictures of them hugging her. And then we said goodbye. No speeches. Not that it mattered at that point. And not that I would have had anything profound to say that wouldn't end up sounding like a complaint, or a cautionary warning from a parent who didn't really know any better.
I didn't know much when we brought her into our home at age 10 (I have not previously mentioned that we adopted our daughter until now. She's all my kids ever know of a big sister. She's certainly more than I could have ever asked from my own genetics.). At age 12, we dropped her off at a birthday party without getting a phone number. My wife and I ruined our anniversary dinner fretting about her whereabouts. She ended up being safe and sound at the parent's home she was originally entrusted with. We've always had to share her--with her friends because we wanted her to have the life of a typical white, suburban girl. Sleepovers and hangouts. We shared her with softball. After the games were over, Lisa always went on her way. Even when she made the commitment to college we were not there. There are 100 other stories about her independence. All of them were training for the time when she would mature and grow and leave to live on her own. She's halfway there.
She's always been that gift I never asked for. Who knows what they get themselves into when they become a parent? I surely didn't deserve her presence. What a kid.
And by the time we started the van and headed out of the parking lot, my little one reminds me there's still more work to be done.
Daddy, will you start it all over?
And I push play everyday.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Honoring the Moment
I've been trying to express the feeling of complete wholeness I've felt in recent days being back in my hometown of Houston. I can easily go the movie route--the final scene in Titanic when DiCaprio triumphantly applauds Kate as she descends the spiral, decadent staircase. Everyone is applauding. If life were as simple as the relationships we strive to fulfill, the "heaven" scene just about hits that pinnacle. But it's also a bit self-serving. Why am I surrounded by my family and friends as they applaud me? Am I that self centered? Is this indicative of how I treat others?
I can go the way of the existentialism, the thought that the individual creates their own consciousness. Humans, therefore, in our infinite wisdom (was that sarcastic?) determine their own meaning for themselves. Sounds so great. When I was jet skiing on Lake Houston I will admit a sliver of this conceitedness awoke within me. There was a moment when the sun hid behind the clouds and the ripples of the lake turned a grayish blue. In that pinnacle of self-contentment, my thoughts went back to God. Wow. That's all I could muster--a wow. Of all my classes in descriptive language, fiction writing and poetry, the one word I share with God and the world is a "wow." So much for being some great human being.
In the midst of these descriptions, the best way to acknowledge the feeling I had was to simply express them the way I always have--in sharing the experiences. Some of the people you may not know. The in jokes you might not get. But I share these moments as if you were there sitting next to me. That's the best way to honor the moment.
Grandma's kitchen. The setting has changed somewhat. The oil painting Jesus does not remind me of the guilt of tortillas filling my belly. The table feels smaller but more intimate to. Close enough to pass the bowls of vegetables back and forth. Recipes remembered and practiced over years of dinners and occasions. There's something about fried chicken that transcends memories, the sense of my grandmother's hands. Working the breading into the meat, the delicacy of hands that have been worn from labor, love and age.
Old viejita lying in bed, simply because their legs aren't strong enough to hold up their frames any longer. Her skin was the texture of silk, unlike skin is supposed to feel--rugged and tight. Nails glisten with purple polish that remind me of cascarones eggs.
Ninfa's house. The traditional colors of spanish culture--the reds, the yellows, burnt browns and parrot-feather green--adorn the several rooms. Catholic reminders hang in crucifix, the family portraits capture her children in their best poses. One of the patients in the house/nursing home is a woman suffering from spina biffida, perhaps worse. The patient's mom has permanently removed her teeth from biting her caregivers. It's probably the only motion she can muster. Her arms sit curled above her chest as if she's awaiting to be tickled--frozen. Her feet twisted and tiny, and I'm thankful they are covered in kid-sized white socks. I want to at least say "Hi" but whould she even know it? Otherwise just seems rude. Talking as if she weren't in the room.
Road trips. The short ones in Houston where conversation takes the place of talk radio and top 40 hits. There's a flip side to being in town you're familiar with. You notice the new storefronts, the expressways widened for traffic. But you also remember the old as well. Like dates, awkward memories and the laughter you once had when you had no direction. Street signs road map my sins.
And eventually the road trip ends. We were chased out of Arkansas with lightning storms. Tennessee awakened us with a sunset that flirted with the mountain top fog. There was a moment when I felt we were driving into a cloud. I could have. It's that easy.
I can go the way of the existentialism, the thought that the individual creates their own consciousness. Humans, therefore, in our infinite wisdom (was that sarcastic?) determine their own meaning for themselves. Sounds so great. When I was jet skiing on Lake Houston I will admit a sliver of this conceitedness awoke within me. There was a moment when the sun hid behind the clouds and the ripples of the lake turned a grayish blue. In that pinnacle of self-contentment, my thoughts went back to God. Wow. That's all I could muster--a wow. Of all my classes in descriptive language, fiction writing and poetry, the one word I share with God and the world is a "wow." So much for being some great human being.
In the midst of these descriptions, the best way to acknowledge the feeling I had was to simply express them the way I always have--in sharing the experiences. Some of the people you may not know. The in jokes you might not get. But I share these moments as if you were there sitting next to me. That's the best way to honor the moment.
Grandma's kitchen. The setting has changed somewhat. The oil painting Jesus does not remind me of the guilt of tortillas filling my belly. The table feels smaller but more intimate to. Close enough to pass the bowls of vegetables back and forth. Recipes remembered and practiced over years of dinners and occasions. There's something about fried chicken that transcends memories, the sense of my grandmother's hands. Working the breading into the meat, the delicacy of hands that have been worn from labor, love and age.
Old viejita lying in bed, simply because their legs aren't strong enough to hold up their frames any longer. Her skin was the texture of silk, unlike skin is supposed to feel--rugged and tight. Nails glisten with purple polish that remind me of cascarones eggs.
Ninfa's house. The traditional colors of spanish culture--the reds, the yellows, burnt browns and parrot-feather green--adorn the several rooms. Catholic reminders hang in crucifix, the family portraits capture her children in their best poses. One of the patients in the house/nursing home is a woman suffering from spina biffida, perhaps worse. The patient's mom has permanently removed her teeth from biting her caregivers. It's probably the only motion she can muster. Her arms sit curled above her chest as if she's awaiting to be tickled--frozen. Her feet twisted and tiny, and I'm thankful they are covered in kid-sized white socks. I want to at least say "Hi" but whould she even know it? Otherwise just seems rude. Talking as if she weren't in the room.
Road trips. The short ones in Houston where conversation takes the place of talk radio and top 40 hits. There's a flip side to being in town you're familiar with. You notice the new storefronts, the expressways widened for traffic. But you also remember the old as well. Like dates, awkward memories and the laughter you once had when you had no direction. Street signs road map my sins.
And eventually the road trip ends. We were chased out of Arkansas with lightning storms. Tennessee awakened us with a sunset that flirted with the mountain top fog. There was a moment when I felt we were driving into a cloud. I could have. It's that easy.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
My So Called Education
I'm watching the first season of "My So Called Life." Perhaps when the show had come out in '94, I was not ready to relive certain parts of my high school experience. Maybe I was so into the lives of Brandon Walsh and Kelly Taylor to immerse myself in anything remotely angst-ridden. About as far as I got into grunge at that time was jamming to "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and trying to decipher the lyrics when singing in the car.
I was 2 years out of high school in '94. I was a borderline wreck. Pretty much a wreck. Failed relationship with a girlfriend, recent community college dropout. Failed writer of poetry. There was absolutely no reason to traverse the hallways of teenage problems. Age 19 had its share.
In the first and only season of the show, episode 6, amply called "The Substitute" details how a mysterious sub amps up the safe lives of the literature magazine crowd. It's very Dead Poet-esque. In one of those great montage scenes that all educational movies have, the teacher walks through the throng of students whose attention he holds for the first time in their lives. Desk arrangements change from rigid rows to concentric circles of creativity. Kids are walking through the hallway actually interested in school. Inevitable, the courage to write thoughts on paper becomes troublesome to the powers that be--namely the school principal, the dogged administrator who lives simply to squash independent thought at every turn.
I'm blogging as I watch the turn of events. Students publish "radical" lit magazine, principal denounces such thoughts, bans magazine. Out heroine takes it upon herself to print her own version. These kind of episodes, even as scripted as they are (ironic considering the freedom of not playing it safe is exactly what their conceit is), get me fired up. I've cried at enough versions of these movies and episodes you'd think I had seen them and their plots for the first time. I'm a writer at heart, torn between the lure of writing the Great American Novel for fame, and the obscure sweater-porn beatnik who chills boothside in a coffee shop hoping to share his words for the "moment" and nothing else.
In college I was part of a literature group that met weekly in a local Chinese restaurant to hash out story ideas, critique on another and provide feedback for becoming published. It was the kind of group any lit teacher would hang their hat on as an essential of kids learning and working beyond what happens in the classroom. Since I know I have written about this topic before, I won't go much further into detail, but these are the times when I'm so in love with writing, education and the process of creativity that I could see myself teaching one of those standard-tv-issue lit classes and firing up a group of high school kids who never realized their true potential.
Much of this thought goes into my normal, everyday process for teaching my elementary students. I've tried several classroom management and self-directed behavioral strategies over the years to warrant my own screenplays. However, I don't typically have those, "captain, my captain" moments. I doubt many teachers actually do. The best I get are the picture captions I display on cork board every year behind my computer.
Mr. C is the best.
You're the best teacher ever.
We love Mr. C.
Lately there's been frustration on my part of my own performance. The nagging perfectionism debates, the Mr. Hand episodes of lecture v. rant (I chuckled at watching "Fast Times" the other night when Mr. Hand shows up at Spicolli's house to "square the account" of wasted time in his room. Oh, my kids are lucky I am married and not readily available during the summer). The pressure of late for many in my profession is raising test scores (or, "why are my kids failing?"), motivating kids (especially boys) school funding. Any of these 3 topics can dispel a month-long professional development training to cynicism. Outside of a teacher's lounge, you're liable to hear even more. Teachers are being asked to do more, with less parental support, with less administrative support than ever before. Many studies claim that teacher performance is the number one determination of a child's ability to succeed, even when other studies claim outside factors like poverty or support at home rank higher. There are magnet schools, charter schools, voucher programs and on-line schools. Sometimes I wonder if parents were involved in their own neighborhood schools, and consequently, the admins and teachers invited the community in (besides sending flyers home for Open House--any monkey can do this), that there wouldn't be a need for the schools that seem to help drain public schools dry.
We're testing kids more than ever. One reason is to assess a child's growth, true, but this has manifested itself into a new culture of number crunching addicts. America loves the scores so much, they've added more and more it seems each season. Online tests are coming soon. Why? Saving paper and paying test graders can be mighty expensive when a computer database can do it for you. I'm not terrified of the new online testing coming to Ohio in a few years, but I can't say I'm thrilled either. You know what my kids do when they take a test online? They don't read the passage, they click to be done fastest, and generally bomb the test more than they would on paper. In some states, the new tests are crashing servers. In others, they don't have the computers in place to administer them.
Back to before. I can't see the same episode of "My So Called Life" focusing on testing, much less movie about it (although "Stand and Deliver" comes close, albeit the test was designed to prove to the world that Latino students in impoverished LA could outshine their suburban counterparts). Perhaps one day, a student of mine will leap upon a desk and cry out, "Captain, My Captain." More than likely, they are going to throw their test down in disgust and scurry from the room in search for their own creative outlets (in a charter school, no less). Will I clap or ask the kid to sit back down?
I was 2 years out of high school in '94. I was a borderline wreck. Pretty much a wreck. Failed relationship with a girlfriend, recent community college dropout. Failed writer of poetry. There was absolutely no reason to traverse the hallways of teenage problems. Age 19 had its share.
In the first and only season of the show, episode 6, amply called "The Substitute" details how a mysterious sub amps up the safe lives of the literature magazine crowd. It's very Dead Poet-esque. In one of those great montage scenes that all educational movies have, the teacher walks through the throng of students whose attention he holds for the first time in their lives. Desk arrangements change from rigid rows to concentric circles of creativity. Kids are walking through the hallway actually interested in school. Inevitable, the courage to write thoughts on paper becomes troublesome to the powers that be--namely the school principal, the dogged administrator who lives simply to squash independent thought at every turn.
I'm blogging as I watch the turn of events. Students publish "radical" lit magazine, principal denounces such thoughts, bans magazine. Out heroine takes it upon herself to print her own version. These kind of episodes, even as scripted as they are (ironic considering the freedom of not playing it safe is exactly what their conceit is), get me fired up. I've cried at enough versions of these movies and episodes you'd think I had seen them and their plots for the first time. I'm a writer at heart, torn between the lure of writing the Great American Novel for fame, and the obscure sweater-porn beatnik who chills boothside in a coffee shop hoping to share his words for the "moment" and nothing else.
In college I was part of a literature group that met weekly in a local Chinese restaurant to hash out story ideas, critique on another and provide feedback for becoming published. It was the kind of group any lit teacher would hang their hat on as an essential of kids learning and working beyond what happens in the classroom. Since I know I have written about this topic before, I won't go much further into detail, but these are the times when I'm so in love with writing, education and the process of creativity that I could see myself teaching one of those standard-tv-issue lit classes and firing up a group of high school kids who never realized their true potential.
Much of this thought goes into my normal, everyday process for teaching my elementary students. I've tried several classroom management and self-directed behavioral strategies over the years to warrant my own screenplays. However, I don't typically have those, "captain, my captain" moments. I doubt many teachers actually do. The best I get are the picture captions I display on cork board every year behind my computer.
Mr. C is the best.
You're the best teacher ever.
We love Mr. C.
Lately there's been frustration on my part of my own performance. The nagging perfectionism debates, the Mr. Hand episodes of lecture v. rant (I chuckled at watching "Fast Times" the other night when Mr. Hand shows up at Spicolli's house to "square the account" of wasted time in his room. Oh, my kids are lucky I am married and not readily available during the summer). The pressure of late for many in my profession is raising test scores (or, "why are my kids failing?"), motivating kids (especially boys) school funding. Any of these 3 topics can dispel a month-long professional development training to cynicism. Outside of a teacher's lounge, you're liable to hear even more. Teachers are being asked to do more, with less parental support, with less administrative support than ever before. Many studies claim that teacher performance is the number one determination of a child's ability to succeed, even when other studies claim outside factors like poverty or support at home rank higher. There are magnet schools, charter schools, voucher programs and on-line schools. Sometimes I wonder if parents were involved in their own neighborhood schools, and consequently, the admins and teachers invited the community in (besides sending flyers home for Open House--any monkey can do this), that there wouldn't be a need for the schools that seem to help drain public schools dry.
We're testing kids more than ever. One reason is to assess a child's growth, true, but this has manifested itself into a new culture of number crunching addicts. America loves the scores so much, they've added more and more it seems each season. Online tests are coming soon. Why? Saving paper and paying test graders can be mighty expensive when a computer database can do it for you. I'm not terrified of the new online testing coming to Ohio in a few years, but I can't say I'm thrilled either. You know what my kids do when they take a test online? They don't read the passage, they click to be done fastest, and generally bomb the test more than they would on paper. In some states, the new tests are crashing servers. In others, they don't have the computers in place to administer them.
Back to before. I can't see the same episode of "My So Called Life" focusing on testing, much less movie about it (although "Stand and Deliver" comes close, albeit the test was designed to prove to the world that Latino students in impoverished LA could outshine their suburban counterparts). Perhaps one day, a student of mine will leap upon a desk and cry out, "Captain, My Captain." More than likely, they are going to throw their test down in disgust and scurry from the room in search for their own creative outlets (in a charter school, no less). Will I clap or ask the kid to sit back down?
Friday, June 29, 2012
Side Dishes
There's something fearful about storms, always has been. The obvious reminder of who controls the heavens becomes blatantly obvious when clouds begin to roll in like some supernatural army. It's poetry, really. And reading enough novels and poems over the years, no author can really capture the essence of nature. Walt Whitman comes close, and in a pinch, I'd take the cinematography of some random Oscar winning movie where the landscape plays more of a role than a villain.
Tonight's blackout of the Cordova home was proceeded by the typical ominous signs--the porch umbrella that twists and jostles, an upturned flower pot, the ripples of the pool water, grayness. The lights flicker, the computer inevitably has to be shut down, and you wonder how long before the fan begins its final twirl, if just maybe this once, that will be the end of power for a very long time.
The kids had already fallen asleep from the rigors of play, their sweat and stick already enveloping my wife. The anxiousness of sweat dotted my forehead, despite the opening of windows after the storm had passed. The kids eventually awoke. The seeds of hunger escape from their lips. Plans are made, money transferred. Movie or dinner? I rigged the garage door to free us from captivity, the lonesomeness of lost electricity.
So the trek begins. This is the scene of the Armageddon movie you never witness. That first drive onto the road, spotting downed trees, wondering if you really heard the sound of an ambulance in the distance. The initial traffic jam is inevitable and so begins the patience. Years ago, in Houston perhaps, there would have been no driving around on a blackout. The traffic there is bad enough when electricity is working. We pass the first fried chicken joint before the flood of indecision comes between my wife and I. Flavor v. budget. Budget v whims. Whims v kids' preference. The hamburger joint we decide on has no empty seats. We both realize the wait for anything, with the entire town blacked out, is going to be a long one. Our attire is hoping we don't decide to walk from the car in public. People may stare.
We head back into town with the onslaught of residents already taken a head start. The right side of the strip blinks with electricity. The left side is vacant. Further ahead, after about 30 minutes of driving, we realize our second destination is without power. We forge ahead, suburbanites on a trek for sustenance. The lines around McDonalds curve around the parking lots.
We make another 20 minute drive to another chicken joint. The parking there hasn't been as well thought out as the one in the suburbs. The inside is closed. Vans are backing up into the line dangerously close to the sides of the car. People look hurried. One man, the stereotypical redneck in large-tired truck and jeans, is accompanied by a young female in the type of shorts a father would disown a daughter for. The drive through line does not move, albeit for the two cars that inched out of line for a greater trek to be blogged about on other websites. Choices are made. We follow suit.
By the time we circled back to our original point of destination, at least an hour and a half had passed. The van DVD had played, restarted, finished and replayed again. Both our phones were charged 20% (they too suffered from the impatience of their users after the blackout), I had a 17 minute conversation with my father about Batman and family reunions while contemplating how many mashed potatoes we would order with our meal.
On the drive home I was thankful for the time. Ironically, the movie the kids watched heavy-handedly God-spoke these well worn mantras about spending quality time with your kids, lest they end up on a movie screen somewhere fighting secret agents without their parents' whereabouts. The conversation with my dad, the summaries of our jobs and our attitudes, the day we had at the pool serving our many friends and their kids.
Sometimes I read how many think prayers aren't answered, or how the prayers are self-centered or materialistic. In my case, I too become jaded. That wondering says more about us than God. If he can give me, a man who deserves little, the extra time to plan, to talk, to be with my family, why can't I turn the dial on the heavy-handed God-speak all the time? I wish it was as simple as ordering mashed potatoes.
Tonight's blackout of the Cordova home was proceeded by the typical ominous signs--the porch umbrella that twists and jostles, an upturned flower pot, the ripples of the pool water, grayness. The lights flicker, the computer inevitably has to be shut down, and you wonder how long before the fan begins its final twirl, if just maybe this once, that will be the end of power for a very long time.
The kids had already fallen asleep from the rigors of play, their sweat and stick already enveloping my wife. The anxiousness of sweat dotted my forehead, despite the opening of windows after the storm had passed. The kids eventually awoke. The seeds of hunger escape from their lips. Plans are made, money transferred. Movie or dinner? I rigged the garage door to free us from captivity, the lonesomeness of lost electricity.
So the trek begins. This is the scene of the Armageddon movie you never witness. That first drive onto the road, spotting downed trees, wondering if you really heard the sound of an ambulance in the distance. The initial traffic jam is inevitable and so begins the patience. Years ago, in Houston perhaps, there would have been no driving around on a blackout. The traffic there is bad enough when electricity is working. We pass the first fried chicken joint before the flood of indecision comes between my wife and I. Flavor v. budget. Budget v whims. Whims v kids' preference. The hamburger joint we decide on has no empty seats. We both realize the wait for anything, with the entire town blacked out, is going to be a long one. Our attire is hoping we don't decide to walk from the car in public. People may stare.
We head back into town with the onslaught of residents already taken a head start. The right side of the strip blinks with electricity. The left side is vacant. Further ahead, after about 30 minutes of driving, we realize our second destination is without power. We forge ahead, suburbanites on a trek for sustenance. The lines around McDonalds curve around the parking lots.
We make another 20 minute drive to another chicken joint. The parking there hasn't been as well thought out as the one in the suburbs. The inside is closed. Vans are backing up into the line dangerously close to the sides of the car. People look hurried. One man, the stereotypical redneck in large-tired truck and jeans, is accompanied by a young female in the type of shorts a father would disown a daughter for. The drive through line does not move, albeit for the two cars that inched out of line for a greater trek to be blogged about on other websites. Choices are made. We follow suit.
By the time we circled back to our original point of destination, at least an hour and a half had passed. The van DVD had played, restarted, finished and replayed again. Both our phones were charged 20% (they too suffered from the impatience of their users after the blackout), I had a 17 minute conversation with my father about Batman and family reunions while contemplating how many mashed potatoes we would order with our meal.
On the drive home I was thankful for the time. Ironically, the movie the kids watched heavy-handedly God-spoke these well worn mantras about spending quality time with your kids, lest they end up on a movie screen somewhere fighting secret agents without their parents' whereabouts. The conversation with my dad, the summaries of our jobs and our attitudes, the day we had at the pool serving our many friends and their kids.
Sometimes I read how many think prayers aren't answered, or how the prayers are self-centered or materialistic. In my case, I too become jaded. That wondering says more about us than God. If he can give me, a man who deserves little, the extra time to plan, to talk, to be with my family, why can't I turn the dial on the heavy-handed God-speak all the time? I wish it was as simple as ordering mashed potatoes.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Reclaiming Conviction
Church services of late have made me think about family. My own, the one who guided me, the ones I followed on television as if they were my own. Each series so far are followed with disclaimers, which if you've read this blog about a month ago, I ironically had to use this method to great effect. Even going to church has been a different experience. The music, the handshakes, the catching-ups are a simple and calming affect of church. But it's the conviction that makes me come back week after week. The conviction, the squirm, the uneasy laugh I have among my friends and my wife who sit in our area, are the reasons I know I'm in the right place. Going to church to feel good is not why you should be going. Going to church to make changes, to make you think, eventually makes you feel more than good. Unending joy.
I was born in 1974, so all the late 70 shows and 80 family shows were probably reruns. I watched the Jetson's every morning thinking they were made in my time. I watched the Flintstones, too. One family in the future and one set in prehistoric times. Dads overwhelmed with family responsibilities and blowhard bosses. The wives always knew more than everyone.
Later, I was obsessed with shows like "Good Times," "All in the Family" and "The Jeffersons." 'Good Times' and 'Jeffersons' brought attention to the mythical and overbearing "Man" who ruled over the ghetto (meaning, the loves of people with color) with a macabre sense of humor. Why didn't JJ ever make it out of the hood? Cause the Man kept him there? And what about the head of the household? John Amos died, leaving a family to fend for themselves (and was probably a symbol of the lack of African-American fathers in society at the time), George Jefferson showed you didn't have to be white to be a bigot, and Archie Bunker made me think every old man was secretly a mean-spirited Nazi. But a funny Nazi at least.
Other family shows had their moments. The hippy fathers and Ronald Reagan-loving Alex P. Keatonm the Brady Bunch's blended family survived reruns, the Grand Canyon and annoying cousins. The Full House made child rearing a man's job (albeit 3 men), Tony Danza was a maid/step-dad and Tim Allen perhaps began the buffoon dad with a heart of gold trend.
My family was neither of these and parts of all of them. My grandmother was known to muse Archie Bunker-ish at times, and to imagine seeing her free my one black cousin's hair from her braids to straiten and 'clean' it was something to behold. My aunt Rachel reminded me of Roseanne and the conversations I had in the car with my mom as a teenager (if my life is to flash before my eyes, it will be me in a passenger seat listening to my parents) rivaled anything on Gilmore Girls.
So we reclaimed some moments in our family, resurrected some long ago habits. We used to have game nights which resulted in some form of tantrum from the kids because one went out of turn and one didn't win. The one reminder I have of the man God wants me to be is to assume that I am doing enough. There's two sides of this argument that could lead to trouble as well. I could compare myself to my dads or other non-Christian and Christian fathers, but that's a human standard I have no business bringing to my family. The other is thinking that since I could never be perfect that I should just forget doing anything. I could never play enough games or throw enough baseballs, but I sure have fun along the way.
The other reclaiming experiment was the family dinner. With our older daughter about to leave for college, we have been eating more meals at the table. This is comical at times too, from Milly's ranch dressing obsession and my son's penchant for eating dinner without wearing a shirt. The kids have been helping Delcina in the kitchen and helping set the table. The forks don't always arrive on time and the salad doesn't always have small lettuce, but dinner has been a blessing I know many families do not foster.
I'm anxious to reclaim something new next Sunday. I want to squirm when I feel something is directed at me. Conviction looks great on us when we submit.
I was born in 1974, so all the late 70 shows and 80 family shows were probably reruns. I watched the Jetson's every morning thinking they were made in my time. I watched the Flintstones, too. One family in the future and one set in prehistoric times. Dads overwhelmed with family responsibilities and blowhard bosses. The wives always knew more than everyone.
Later, I was obsessed with shows like "Good Times," "All in the Family" and "The Jeffersons." 'Good Times' and 'Jeffersons' brought attention to the mythical and overbearing "Man" who ruled over the ghetto (meaning, the loves of people with color) with a macabre sense of humor. Why didn't JJ ever make it out of the hood? Cause the Man kept him there? And what about the head of the household? John Amos died, leaving a family to fend for themselves (and was probably a symbol of the lack of African-American fathers in society at the time), George Jefferson showed you didn't have to be white to be a bigot, and Archie Bunker made me think every old man was secretly a mean-spirited Nazi. But a funny Nazi at least.
Other family shows had their moments. The hippy fathers and Ronald Reagan-loving Alex P. Keatonm the Brady Bunch's blended family survived reruns, the Grand Canyon and annoying cousins. The Full House made child rearing a man's job (albeit 3 men), Tony Danza was a maid/step-dad and Tim Allen perhaps began the buffoon dad with a heart of gold trend.
My family was neither of these and parts of all of them. My grandmother was known to muse Archie Bunker-ish at times, and to imagine seeing her free my one black cousin's hair from her braids to straiten and 'clean' it was something to behold. My aunt Rachel reminded me of Roseanne and the conversations I had in the car with my mom as a teenager (if my life is to flash before my eyes, it will be me in a passenger seat listening to my parents) rivaled anything on Gilmore Girls.
So we reclaimed some moments in our family, resurrected some long ago habits. We used to have game nights which resulted in some form of tantrum from the kids because one went out of turn and one didn't win. The one reminder I have of the man God wants me to be is to assume that I am doing enough. There's two sides of this argument that could lead to trouble as well. I could compare myself to my dads or other non-Christian and Christian fathers, but that's a human standard I have no business bringing to my family. The other is thinking that since I could never be perfect that I should just forget doing anything. I could never play enough games or throw enough baseballs, but I sure have fun along the way.
The other reclaiming experiment was the family dinner. With our older daughter about to leave for college, we have been eating more meals at the table. This is comical at times too, from Milly's ranch dressing obsession and my son's penchant for eating dinner without wearing a shirt. The kids have been helping Delcina in the kitchen and helping set the table. The forks don't always arrive on time and the salad doesn't always have small lettuce, but dinner has been a blessing I know many families do not foster.
I'm anxious to reclaim something new next Sunday. I want to squirm when I feel something is directed at me. Conviction looks great on us when we submit.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Playing Monopoly with God, and Other Mind Games
My life should be in shambles. Utterly destructive, floor-falling-out, meteoric meltdown shambles. Perhaps because I've been conditioned to await a destructive, earth-shattering screw-up is the reason why I've felt a hesitance in my steps. Has anything been particularly earth shattering? Far from the contrary. I should be ecstatic. Then why aren't I?
I began having an open dialogue with myself. Now before you think I have been speaking to myself in the mirror like some one-act play, no, it isn't quite like that. And talking amongst my head is not virgin territory (in all sense of the word). I typically review scenarios in my head where I envision outcomes and circumstances. It's like playing chess, only with no opponent but my conscious. Again, this is nothing new. When I was a child, my mom would frequently find me writing stories, or playing a 4-player game of Monopoly with no one but myself. When I was in high school, my gaming became more elaborate. I created a baseball game complete with imaginary rosters made with school friends and real-life players. I even had a game board and made stats.
Over the years the mind-scenarios have changed somewhat. The ones I have now are typically PG-13 narratives that tend to slip their X-rating past the censors. I have to be careful at times with where my mind drifts to. Soft core porn scenarios are typically not the type of imagery I need from day to day. It's easy to think badly.
Sometimes these scenarios take a destructive turn, as if some Rube-Goldberg technician resides deep into my sub conscious ready to topple the dominoes. Turn right here, fall into a swamp, get strangled by an anaconda and they find your bones centuries later type of silliness. I will typically run trial scenarios before I make phone calls to parents to hash out all possible directions a conversation can take, both positive and negative. Before I go into a meeting with my boss, I'll do the same thing. I try to drop menu my life like I'm some Christian Terminator. I must be armed for every question. Being prepared has its advantages. But it can also stifle randomness. It makes me in control of events that I should be giving to God. It makes me ruler of my life rather than being a participant in something more important. Furthermore, it reminds me of how life used to be rather than what it can become.
I love the real conversation I have all the time. My youngest daughter has been having bad dreams recently. Here's a snippet:
What was your bad dream about?
There was a werewolf and he scratched me and I turned into a werewolf (I think she caught a glimpse of Lisa watching Teen Wolf on MTV and me watching the silly original with Michael J. Fox).
Do you have nice dreams, momma?
I have nice dreams too, daddy. (she pronounces "nice dreams" as "ice creams")
Ice cream? You can't have ice cream right now, silly.
Not 'ice cream', daddy, (and then she yells) "nice dreams!"
Whipped cream? Well, that would be good on pumpkin pie, Reycina, but honestly, whipped cream at 1 in the morning?
Not whipped cream, nice dreams!
Or other conversations with my older daughter about boys, the attractiveness of confidence and her plans for the future. The ones with my wife on the back porch during barbecue reflections. About the house, the people that invariably bother us both, the complaints of life with a bottle of beer.
And I've been having a dialogue with God and Jesus, too. I told my share partner this morning that regardless if my "talks" have been nothing more than self-deluded manifestations, I do believe one thing is constant. God does speak to us all the time. Because of our adult minds and hang-ups, that loss of courageous, childlike thinking, we've lost touch with those inner conversations over time. Many of us have become Doubting Thomases, awaiting some miracle or force to intervene because we don't have the courage to simply believe in what God wants for us. We await this wound for us to place our fingers in, the allow the blood to drip on our own hands before we believe in the miraculous. Our lives are not miraculous in themselves enough, we argue, or we wouldn't be doubting at all. How silly and simple it all seems now typing it out.
So what have my conversations with God been like lately? I ask him questions about the future of my son.
He's in good hands. You're his father.
Or I thank him for my daughters.
I love you, that's why they have been entrusted to you.
Or I ask him why I don't seem to learn from my mistakes.
But I still love you.
But you know my sins. Even those sins. You know.
You're asking me for an out. I know you too well. I love you. That is enough for any man.
But I still don't feel like...
Again, you're placing me in human contexts. Didn't I love you before you knew about me?
Well, yeah, but...
And do I not see the choices you've made before and envision the ones you're going to make?
Well, yeah, but...
I not giving you an out if that's what you want. I love you too much to allow you to continue to be the same person you were.
I just can't...
But I love you.
But I...
And I still love you.
Eventually the Doubting Thomas cries himself to sleep. There aren't any mountains to climb or rapids to cross. The Doubting Thomas awaits the next ball to drop, not because he knows any different, but because even though the wounds are clear and distinguishable, the person, The Living Thomas, The Courageous Thomas, is something new and challenging and totally unlike the Doubter. There's fear there. Terrifying fear. Fear that leads to joy. The joy that has been awaiting to be unwrapped like a gift. A gift.
I began having an open dialogue with myself. Now before you think I have been speaking to myself in the mirror like some one-act play, no, it isn't quite like that. And talking amongst my head is not virgin territory (in all sense of the word). I typically review scenarios in my head where I envision outcomes and circumstances. It's like playing chess, only with no opponent but my conscious. Again, this is nothing new. When I was a child, my mom would frequently find me writing stories, or playing a 4-player game of Monopoly with no one but myself. When I was in high school, my gaming became more elaborate. I created a baseball game complete with imaginary rosters made with school friends and real-life players. I even had a game board and made stats.
Over the years the mind-scenarios have changed somewhat. The ones I have now are typically PG-13 narratives that tend to slip their X-rating past the censors. I have to be careful at times with where my mind drifts to. Soft core porn scenarios are typically not the type of imagery I need from day to day. It's easy to think badly.
Sometimes these scenarios take a destructive turn, as if some Rube-Goldberg technician resides deep into my sub conscious ready to topple the dominoes. Turn right here, fall into a swamp, get strangled by an anaconda and they find your bones centuries later type of silliness. I will typically run trial scenarios before I make phone calls to parents to hash out all possible directions a conversation can take, both positive and negative. Before I go into a meeting with my boss, I'll do the same thing. I try to drop menu my life like I'm some Christian Terminator. I must be armed for every question. Being prepared has its advantages. But it can also stifle randomness. It makes me in control of events that I should be giving to God. It makes me ruler of my life rather than being a participant in something more important. Furthermore, it reminds me of how life used to be rather than what it can become.
I love the real conversation I have all the time. My youngest daughter has been having bad dreams recently. Here's a snippet:
What was your bad dream about?
There was a werewolf and he scratched me and I turned into a werewolf (I think she caught a glimpse of Lisa watching Teen Wolf on MTV and me watching the silly original with Michael J. Fox).
Do you have nice dreams, momma?
I have nice dreams too, daddy. (she pronounces "nice dreams" as "ice creams")
Ice cream? You can't have ice cream right now, silly.
Not 'ice cream', daddy, (and then she yells) "nice dreams!"
Whipped cream? Well, that would be good on pumpkin pie, Reycina, but honestly, whipped cream at 1 in the morning?
Not whipped cream, nice dreams!
Or other conversations with my older daughter about boys, the attractiveness of confidence and her plans for the future. The ones with my wife on the back porch during barbecue reflections. About the house, the people that invariably bother us both, the complaints of life with a bottle of beer.
And I've been having a dialogue with God and Jesus, too. I told my share partner this morning that regardless if my "talks" have been nothing more than self-deluded manifestations, I do believe one thing is constant. God does speak to us all the time. Because of our adult minds and hang-ups, that loss of courageous, childlike thinking, we've lost touch with those inner conversations over time. Many of us have become Doubting Thomases, awaiting some miracle or force to intervene because we don't have the courage to simply believe in what God wants for us. We await this wound for us to place our fingers in, the allow the blood to drip on our own hands before we believe in the miraculous. Our lives are not miraculous in themselves enough, we argue, or we wouldn't be doubting at all. How silly and simple it all seems now typing it out.
So what have my conversations with God been like lately? I ask him questions about the future of my son.
He's in good hands. You're his father.
Or I thank him for my daughters.
I love you, that's why they have been entrusted to you.
Or I ask him why I don't seem to learn from my mistakes.
But I still love you.
But you know my sins. Even those sins. You know.
You're asking me for an out. I know you too well. I love you. That is enough for any man.
But I still don't feel like...
Again, you're placing me in human contexts. Didn't I love you before you knew about me?
Well, yeah, but...
And do I not see the choices you've made before and envision the ones you're going to make?
Well, yeah, but...
I not giving you an out if that's what you want. I love you too much to allow you to continue to be the same person you were.
I just can't...
But I love you.
But I...
And I still love you.
Eventually the Doubting Thomas cries himself to sleep. There aren't any mountains to climb or rapids to cross. The Doubting Thomas awaits the next ball to drop, not because he knows any different, but because even though the wounds are clear and distinguishable, the person, The Living Thomas, The Courageous Thomas, is something new and challenging and totally unlike the Doubter. There's fear there. Terrifying fear. Fear that leads to joy. The joy that has been awaiting to be unwrapped like a gift. A gift.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
The Difficulty of Moses
There's enough evidence in the weather to know that summer has arrived a tad early. The grass is a light yellow, thirsty for nurturing water. The remnants of charcoal sprinkles the patio underneath the pit. If you wave your hand over the grill, you can still feel the warmth from the previous nights' feast. The pool waves circulate from the wind and pump, and the water is clear now. Goggles litter the landscape.
Even the house shows the changes. Shirts are left on the floor in defiance of sweat and sun. Pool towels take residence on the chairs. Doors remain ajar as if they await visitors. Glasses rejoice at the red juices and teas that fill them. Cabinets spill forth its contents to be rearranged, redistributed, its books to be read, bookmarked and hi lighted.
My sleep times become more erratic, as if I'm cramming for some unseen movie/tv show exam. I reflect constantly about school. Try as I might, I always tell myself I am going to relax and not think about school whatsoever, and then I read something, or talk to someone, and then the mind gets going about what to amend, what to add and what to discontinue.
The year had its moments. I felt conversational with the students from day one, but I felt a loss of control with my emotions with others. As a teacher, I expect results. I teach, you learn, we test and we show growth. I find I am this way with my friends too, sometimes even with my own kids, my marriage. The kids have gotten more challenging as the years have gone by, but the major difference is the time I devote to them. It was nothing for me then to stay after school for tutoring, or to walk a student home to meet the parent who has failed to call me back.
This past week, I was introduced to 4 different types of schools. One is the Darwin school. In the Darwin school, it is the survival of the fittest. Kids are tracked based on their ability and aptitude, rather than creating students equipped for what their futures might bring. I grew up with some aspects of the Darwin school. I remember being in tracking groups, most likely the one for sarcastic, silly boys. Teachers expected us to remain seated and to complete all of our work.
The second type of school is the Lombardi school. The Lombardi school believes that effort will provide results. Failure leads to learning in this type of school. And if you haven't met your goals, try harder. I can say I fall into this category daily in my own teaching. While effort does have a lot to do with learning styles and ability, many kids are trying hard. No kid wakes up and says to themselves, "How can I screw up my learning today?" I find that my words of affirmation to my kids are more directed towards effort instead of academics. I had a professor in college who used to call his sweat stains and red-faced look after class "power teaching." If you aren't sweating, you aren't working, right? I hi-five kids whose wrists hurt from writing too much. You sure worked hard today.
And in terms of failure as motivation, today's children fail time and time again but never see an end. They are working hard, considering the fact they are sometimes multiple grade levels behind in reading. They have completed their work, on time, with little assistance sometimes. They kids are so used to seeing failing papers boomerang back to them, what's the difference between what I'm teaching them and what others before me have taught them?
The 3rd type of school is the Chicago Cub school. No matter how you are doing academically, a teacher in the Cub school knows that it doesn't matter because "you'll get it eventually." The Cubs draw record crowds every year no matter that they will never amount to much. Teachers who teach to the Chicago Cub way love and nurture their kids, but in the end, do they really ever learn anything?
The last school is the Annie Sullivan school. This is the "whatever it takes" school. Annie taught Helen Keller, basically from scratch, right, and by any means necessary. According to our speaker, why wouldn't we want our kids to be involved in a "whatever-it-takes" school. At first I took this as a negative. Does this mean do whatever it takes to raise test scores? Does this mean that we place every rambunctious boy on medication to achieve sameness?
Do I do whatever it takes every day in school? What did I try for my autistic boy, the new girl with drama, the kid 2 years behind in reading, my silly boys and my over achieving girls? And am I reluctant to do so because I'm still vain enough to demand visible and undeniable changes I can measure and detect that very year? I don't always get to see a child grow, from an educational value-added score, or the ones that mean more, from year to year. I felt looping with a small handful helped me see some of the changes I yearn for. Maturity, the ability to finish a task, writing an essay when they barely could write a paragraph. But I don't get to see the same students years from now. How many end up in college? Or accepted to the National Honor Society. I know 3 of my kids have children. Does that make them unsuccessful?
I begin to see what it must have been like for Moses. Here is the man who spoke with God, his face radiant from the light and power of the burning bush. He has led his people through the desert, from Pharaoh's army, from starvation and the grumbling of thousands. But does he get to see his people led into the promised land? No. Does he get to see his teaching in action? No.
And imagine if Moses had been able to cross the Jordan into the land of milk and honey. How long before the Jews would have placed him on a pedestal? Could Moses have even walked the streets in his time without a plea from a peasant, or to squash a dispute? Eventually, it would have been all about Moses and not about God. It's only natural. Would Moses have succumbed to the feeling of power?
And what if I had knowledge of all my ex-students' successes at my disposal (and I do with a handful, thanks to Facebook)? Would I eventually begin to take credit for that one year of learning despite their parents' intervention? How long would it take for me to take credit when no credit was to be given? I have to realize that I am but a small part in a complex system of experiences, relationships and decisions. Ultimately, a child's success has little to do with me and everything to do with their household. I am thankful for the time I get to spend with 30 kids every year. God has provided me with a sense of purpose. But that purpose can be thwarted with ego and self-congratulations.
I'm sure it was difficult for Moses to watch his people cross the Jordan into the promised land. How long would it have been before he felt a twinge of jealousy? I have to learn that I may sometimes get to help them cross the river, sometimes hand in hand, and sometimes I'm led to just watch from afar. Just knowing that I am powerless is humbling enough.
Even the house shows the changes. Shirts are left on the floor in defiance of sweat and sun. Pool towels take residence on the chairs. Doors remain ajar as if they await visitors. Glasses rejoice at the red juices and teas that fill them. Cabinets spill forth its contents to be rearranged, redistributed, its books to be read, bookmarked and hi lighted.
My sleep times become more erratic, as if I'm cramming for some unseen movie/tv show exam. I reflect constantly about school. Try as I might, I always tell myself I am going to relax and not think about school whatsoever, and then I read something, or talk to someone, and then the mind gets going about what to amend, what to add and what to discontinue.
The year had its moments. I felt conversational with the students from day one, but I felt a loss of control with my emotions with others. As a teacher, I expect results. I teach, you learn, we test and we show growth. I find I am this way with my friends too, sometimes even with my own kids, my marriage. The kids have gotten more challenging as the years have gone by, but the major difference is the time I devote to them. It was nothing for me then to stay after school for tutoring, or to walk a student home to meet the parent who has failed to call me back.
This past week, I was introduced to 4 different types of schools. One is the Darwin school. In the Darwin school, it is the survival of the fittest. Kids are tracked based on their ability and aptitude, rather than creating students equipped for what their futures might bring. I grew up with some aspects of the Darwin school. I remember being in tracking groups, most likely the one for sarcastic, silly boys. Teachers expected us to remain seated and to complete all of our work.
The second type of school is the Lombardi school. The Lombardi school believes that effort will provide results. Failure leads to learning in this type of school. And if you haven't met your goals, try harder. I can say I fall into this category daily in my own teaching. While effort does have a lot to do with learning styles and ability, many kids are trying hard. No kid wakes up and says to themselves, "How can I screw up my learning today?" I find that my words of affirmation to my kids are more directed towards effort instead of academics. I had a professor in college who used to call his sweat stains and red-faced look after class "power teaching." If you aren't sweating, you aren't working, right? I hi-five kids whose wrists hurt from writing too much. You sure worked hard today.
And in terms of failure as motivation, today's children fail time and time again but never see an end. They are working hard, considering the fact they are sometimes multiple grade levels behind in reading. They have completed their work, on time, with little assistance sometimes. They kids are so used to seeing failing papers boomerang back to them, what's the difference between what I'm teaching them and what others before me have taught them?
The 3rd type of school is the Chicago Cub school. No matter how you are doing academically, a teacher in the Cub school knows that it doesn't matter because "you'll get it eventually." The Cubs draw record crowds every year no matter that they will never amount to much. Teachers who teach to the Chicago Cub way love and nurture their kids, but in the end, do they really ever learn anything?
The last school is the Annie Sullivan school. This is the "whatever it takes" school. Annie taught Helen Keller, basically from scratch, right, and by any means necessary. According to our speaker, why wouldn't we want our kids to be involved in a "whatever-it-takes" school. At first I took this as a negative. Does this mean do whatever it takes to raise test scores? Does this mean that we place every rambunctious boy on medication to achieve sameness?
Do I do whatever it takes every day in school? What did I try for my autistic boy, the new girl with drama, the kid 2 years behind in reading, my silly boys and my over achieving girls? And am I reluctant to do so because I'm still vain enough to demand visible and undeniable changes I can measure and detect that very year? I don't always get to see a child grow, from an educational value-added score, or the ones that mean more, from year to year. I felt looping with a small handful helped me see some of the changes I yearn for. Maturity, the ability to finish a task, writing an essay when they barely could write a paragraph. But I don't get to see the same students years from now. How many end up in college? Or accepted to the National Honor Society. I know 3 of my kids have children. Does that make them unsuccessful?
I begin to see what it must have been like for Moses. Here is the man who spoke with God, his face radiant from the light and power of the burning bush. He has led his people through the desert, from Pharaoh's army, from starvation and the grumbling of thousands. But does he get to see his people led into the promised land? No. Does he get to see his teaching in action? No.
And imagine if Moses had been able to cross the Jordan into the land of milk and honey. How long before the Jews would have placed him on a pedestal? Could Moses have even walked the streets in his time without a plea from a peasant, or to squash a dispute? Eventually, it would have been all about Moses and not about God. It's only natural. Would Moses have succumbed to the feeling of power?
And what if I had knowledge of all my ex-students' successes at my disposal (and I do with a handful, thanks to Facebook)? Would I eventually begin to take credit for that one year of learning despite their parents' intervention? How long would it take for me to take credit when no credit was to be given? I have to realize that I am but a small part in a complex system of experiences, relationships and decisions. Ultimately, a child's success has little to do with me and everything to do with their household. I am thankful for the time I get to spend with 30 kids every year. God has provided me with a sense of purpose. But that purpose can be thwarted with ego and self-congratulations.
I'm sure it was difficult for Moses to watch his people cross the Jordan into the promised land. How long would it have been before he felt a twinge of jealousy? I have to learn that I may sometimes get to help them cross the river, sometimes hand in hand, and sometimes I'm led to just watch from afar. Just knowing that I am powerless is humbling enough.
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