Before the new school year starts, I try to think through a theme for the year--something that I want my students to carry with them long after the work of reading and writing essays and stories has finished for 7th grade. After reading article after article about the lack of empathy--and seeing such proof displayed, tragically, on the national stage all through the summer--I decided that this year we would try and work on what I believe is the most essential skill of all.
Growing up, I was very close with my oldest brother, Christopher, who is deaf. He lost his hearing at age two due to meningitis. Once I got to high school, Chris began to open up to me and vulnerably share what school had been like for him--the ways in which others did not view him or treat him with kindness and dignity, but rather with disdain and disregard.
His is not my story to tell: his journey belongs to him, and I do not want to speak on his behalf. Chris has a powerful, beautiful, and dignified voice all his own.
But I do want to share that after teaching for 13 years in a variety of contexts--at the high school, college, middle school, and Adult Ed levels--I am convinced that the most important skill we can help our students learn is empathy. It is more important than every single test score, every college essay, every other result or attribute.
And empathy is severely lacking.
The recent news out of Omaha, Nebraska, about Alex Hernandez is deeply disheartening. Watching Alex talk about his experiences of ongoing bullying (particularly the most recent instance when two male students stole his backpack and threw it into the toilet), and showing the clip to my current 7th graders, I cannot keep from crying.
But in the CNN article about Alex, in light of the wave of support and solidarity from people who heard about the disturbing incident and then connected with Alex, he shares a profoundly moving statement: "It made me very happy. It made me feel like I am not alone." This is the power of empathy. For a student who has traveled years feeling like he is alone, that his battles are his alone, and the cruelty of others is his alone to face (with little support, it would seem, from the school community in which he spent years), Alex finally feels like others see him for who he is. They are seeing the injustice that has been done to him repeatedly--not just in a single instance--and they are voicing their support of Alex and their righteous anger at those who attack.
One of the questions my 7th graders and I are exploring is why students who attack feel like they have the license to do so. In other words, why did those two male students who stole Alex's backpack think it was okay to do so? Why did they have a sense they would get away with it (as, by all accounts, they have. A mere mention that they didn't know Alex seems to have convinced the school that it was all a big misunderstanding--something that is often told to people who are systematically and consistently oppressed)?
One of the most insightful responses from my students is that students who bully and demean others do so because they do not have a deep, experiential, and intimate understanding of others who look, act, or think differently than they do. In other words: the segregation which plagues our school systems across this country is a massive culprit in the absence of empathy.
Our schools are woefully segregated according to race, class, gender, abilities, and many other attributes, aptitudes, and attitudes.
Instead of remedying this injustice, many of us seem to accept that this is the way schooling has been done, or that it would be too hard to change, or that it would impose upon principles of freedom. But when we allow segregation and misunderstanding to fester, anything else we teach or learn is meaningless.
What could have been done to prevent the tragic act of Alex's backpack being thrown in the toilet (and the thousand other cruelties Alex endured along his years as a student)?
Giving students experiences connecting with others who look, think, and act in ways that may be new to them. We need to invite speakers into our schools to talk about deafness, race relations, gender inequality, and more. We need to create experiential activities whereby our students journey outside the walls of their own schools and into others. We need to create new ways of fostering communities in our schools, and building schools that depend not only on zip codes but on justice codes: commitments to equalize housing costs and access to our public schools.
We can continue to pretend that standardized test scores are what matter, and that fighting for better scores for all is the work of justice. But that would be to deceive ourselves. What matters most is creating schools that model the kind of what in which we want to live: diverse, understanding, connected, and full of that most important skill of all: empathy.
Showing posts with label change. Show all posts
Showing posts with label change. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
Monday, November 28, 2011
Charlie McNarry Has a Query
Yolanda Mews has exciting news:
"Anything times zero is zero!"
The teacher nods, munches pretzel rods,
Says, "But don't think you're some kind of hero."
Beatrice Shelly has a pain in her belly.
"I need to go to the nurse!"
The teacher's head shakes, he eats his cakes,
Says, "Not until you're much, much worse!"
Charlie McNarry has a query:
"What makes the sky so blue?"
The teacher sighs and east his fries,
Says, "Does the sky ever ask about you?"
Phil Brigands has a worm in his hands:
"Look, it's so slimy and cool!"
The teacher yells, belches taco shells,
Says, "Touch it again and you're out of this school!"
A few weeks pass; teacher has gas.
"Oh, my poor poor belly is aching!"
He falls to the ground, sees a worm sitting down.
The ache makes him cry, look up at the sky.
He pleads for a hero to make the pain equal zero.
Charlie and Beatrice, Yolanda and Phil
Go down to the nurse and get him a pill.
Teacher says thank you, teacher feels great.
That night, at home, teacher stays up late.
A book lays on his lap as he falls asleep:
The Science of the Sky is one he'll keep.
"Anything times zero is zero!"
The teacher nods, munches pretzel rods,
Says, "But don't think you're some kind of hero."
Beatrice Shelly has a pain in her belly.
"I need to go to the nurse!"
The teacher's head shakes, he eats his cakes,
Says, "Not until you're much, much worse!"
Charlie McNarry has a query:
"What makes the sky so blue?"
The teacher sighs and east his fries,
Says, "Does the sky ever ask about you?"
Phil Brigands has a worm in his hands:
"Look, it's so slimy and cool!"
The teacher yells, belches taco shells,
Says, "Touch it again and you're out of this school!"
A few weeks pass; teacher has gas.
"Oh, my poor poor belly is aching!"
He falls to the ground, sees a worm sitting down.
The ache makes him cry, look up at the sky.
He pleads for a hero to make the pain equal zero.
Charlie and Beatrice, Yolanda and Phil
Go down to the nurse and get him a pill.
Teacher says thank you, teacher feels great.
That night, at home, teacher stays up late.
A book lays on his lap as he falls asleep:
The Science of the Sky is one he'll keep.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Tonight
Sweeping the kitchen floor,
Washing dishes,
Picking pasta remains off my bare feet:
Singing "The Eye of the Tiger."
A new kind of tiger.
A new kind of eye.
Washing dishes,
Picking pasta remains off my bare feet:
Singing "The Eye of the Tiger."
A new kind of tiger.
A new kind of eye.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Hugging Some Play-Dough Soldiers (Or, Some Notes on Changing the World)
Yesterday, Jen and I boarded a train from York Station to Leeds, Tyler in tow. It would be our fist time out of York as a family in approximately the entirety of our time here: seven months. Life without a car certainly does wonders to a family's desire to stay local. If we can't walk there, chances are we're not going.
But the Leeds trip arose as Jen and a friend were meeting with an organization called The Joanna Project. The organization works with women seeking to leave prostitution. While Jen and her friend met with the founders of the group, Tyler and I, along with another dad and his daughter, walked to the nearby Royal Armouries.
First of all: metal.
Upon entering the museum, we approached a massive hall that was aptly named the Hall of Steel. It was more like a monument to swords, axes, spikes, jousting sticks, and a whole host of other very sharp, pointy objects for which I knew no names.
I soon saw that the Royal Armouries was just a euphemism for Museum of All Kinds of Killing Objects and the History of How Those Killing Objects Have Been Utilized in Various Wars. Even so, the museum had wide open floors made of strong wood, and very few tourists--and it was also free. Thus, it made for an excellent place in which to allow our toddlers to run free.
To run like the wind.
Then fly like really fast running animals.
Then run and fly and run and fly some more. And then run. And then poop and pee and run yet again. And fly again.
If anything, the sight of so much weaponry sent the following notions drumming in my head: for real? This is what a massive portion of humanity's history is about: who fought who, when, and with what weapons?
Amazed by the extent to which we go to kill one another, Tyler performed the only appropriate act that can be performed in a place like this. On the third floor, exploring modern warfare, Tyler walked up to a mannequin soldier and asked me, "What his name, Daddy?"
I responded, "I don't know his name, son. Maybe it is Sam."
"He can talk to me, Daddy?"
"No, he can't talk to you. He's pretend. He's not real."
Tyler looked at the soldier wearing combat gear, a hard look on his camouflaged face, a gun in his hands.
"He not real, Daddy?"
"No, he's pretend...he's made out of play-dough. He's like a play-dough man."
Tyler looked at me, then looked at the soldier. Finally, he asked me, "I can give him one hug?"
"Sure. Of course you can."
Ten minutes later, after Tyler had hugged all of the play-dough soldiers on the floor, we began to make preparations to leave the museum and meet up with Jennifer and her friend. Ironically, a certain synthesis is possible from the two reasons we went to Leeds: both exist because of the demands and desires of men.
Warfare and the abuse and use of women.
I think my two-year old son had it right--that we could some day learn as men to love rather than kill, to love rather than lust. If we can, perhaps my son will one day take his son to a museum holding monuments to peace, not war, and his wife might visit an organization researching how the use and abuse of women was stopped, rather than why it continues.
Maybe such a day will come.
But the Leeds trip arose as Jen and a friend were meeting with an organization called The Joanna Project. The organization works with women seeking to leave prostitution. While Jen and her friend met with the founders of the group, Tyler and I, along with another dad and his daughter, walked to the nearby Royal Armouries.
First of all: metal.
Upon entering the museum, we approached a massive hall that was aptly named the Hall of Steel. It was more like a monument to swords, axes, spikes, jousting sticks, and a whole host of other very sharp, pointy objects for which I knew no names.
I soon saw that the Royal Armouries was just a euphemism for Museum of All Kinds of Killing Objects and the History of How Those Killing Objects Have Been Utilized in Various Wars. Even so, the museum had wide open floors made of strong wood, and very few tourists--and it was also free. Thus, it made for an excellent place in which to allow our toddlers to run free.
To run like the wind.
Then fly like really fast running animals.
Then run and fly and run and fly some more. And then run. And then poop and pee and run yet again. And fly again.
If anything, the sight of so much weaponry sent the following notions drumming in my head: for real? This is what a massive portion of humanity's history is about: who fought who, when, and with what weapons?
Amazed by the extent to which we go to kill one another, Tyler performed the only appropriate act that can be performed in a place like this. On the third floor, exploring modern warfare, Tyler walked up to a mannequin soldier and asked me, "What his name, Daddy?"
I responded, "I don't know his name, son. Maybe it is Sam."
"He can talk to me, Daddy?"
"No, he can't talk to you. He's pretend. He's not real."
Tyler looked at the soldier wearing combat gear, a hard look on his camouflaged face, a gun in his hands.
"He not real, Daddy?"
"No, he's pretend...he's made out of play-dough. He's like a play-dough man."
Tyler looked at me, then looked at the soldier. Finally, he asked me, "I can give him one hug?"
"Sure. Of course you can."
Ten minutes later, after Tyler had hugged all of the play-dough soldiers on the floor, we began to make preparations to leave the museum and meet up with Jennifer and her friend. Ironically, a certain synthesis is possible from the two reasons we went to Leeds: both exist because of the demands and desires of men.
Warfare and the abuse and use of women.
I think my two-year old son had it right--that we could some day learn as men to love rather than kill, to love rather than lust. If we can, perhaps my son will one day take his son to a museum holding monuments to peace, not war, and his wife might visit an organization researching how the use and abuse of women was stopped, rather than why it continues.
Maybe such a day will come.
Friday, February 18, 2011
On Missing Sleep
In the past week, Tyler came down with a cold. It's nothing like the Winter Vomiting Virus that Tyler, Jen, and I all battled a couple of months ago, but the current cold was enough to wake Tyler up more than a few times each night, mucus attacking his throat and nose like angry red ants attack the kinds of things that angry red ants attack.
Thus, Jen and I have been lovingly batting our eyelids at that incredibly attractive persona: Sleep.
However, sleep has eluded us. We are both coming more and more to accept this as a somewhat stable truth: in the due course of parenting, Sleep is never a guarantee.
But I've had another reason to miss even more sleep than I should have this past week. A friend let me borrow Steig Larsson's Milennium trilogy, and I have been utterly and completely absorbed in the life of Lisbeth Sanders.
In the third book now, The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest (after having skipped the first of the three books because we had watched the Swedish film adaptation before leaving the States in September), it's hard to stop reading.
Lisbeth's journey is harrowing and tragic and sad and the part of me that won't stop turning pages keeps saying, She has to get justice! Someone has to do something...it's going to be okay for Lisbeth, right? Right?!
And so, the pages turn and I keep hoping.
It strikes me now that Lisbeth's journey is far too familiar to many women the world over: at the mericless hands of players far more powerful than they, be they police officers, government officials, or men who happen to be on the same trains or streets where they walk, late at night.
What makes Lisbeth's story so fascinating, and yes, stand-up-and-cheer-for-her-ish, is that she sees the corruption within the system--she sees how despicably so many men behave, and they way so many wield power to abuse. Patriarchy, too often, is synonymous with misogyny. And so Lisbeth acts.
What stands out, of course, if the reticence and passivity of so many of us men. A recent book published by Lisa Shannon entitled A Thousand Sisters details the author's account of her transition from comfortable life to getting involved in the fight for justice for Congolese women. Shannon leaves a comfortable life in Portland, Oregon to travel to the Congo to work with women there, and she realizes what is at stake, and what atrocities are being committed against women every day, every hour, every minute, yes, every second.
Shannon's work is remarkable, powerful, and a model.
But what the fictional character of Lisbeth Sanders and the real-life journey of Lisa Shannon ask us is simple: Where are all the men?
Where are we, men, when women are abused? Where are we, men, when power structures that oppress women are held rigidly in place? Where are we?
The answer is, sadly, all too clear: we are often absent from the picture. As bystanders, we might like to claim, Hey, I'm not the one doing any injustice! But this line is woefully incompetent. Did such a claim work for those German citizens who sealed their lips during the genocide committed by the Nazi regime?
Before Jen and I and Tyler left for York, my brother Chris and I went to Washington DC. During our trip, we visited the Holocaust Memorial Museum, and I was struck--as most are--by the gruesome atrocities committed during the Holocaust.
However, in one area, I found myself standing facing a wall with a quote written on it in massive letters, taken from Elie Weisel's harrowing memoir Night. The line said, "God is dead."
As a Christian-male-feminist-teacher-writer--husband-father-Democrat, I stood looking at the quote for a long time.
A long time.
I asked God, How am I supposed to read this, Lord? How could I ever say to someone who has experience such horror that such a claim is false?
I stood there and asked God as tears came down my cheeks and my heart burned inside of me.
And then, God spoke.
I heard this small voice bubbling up, and the words that became etched in my mind and soul were: "I am not dead, but my people have remained silent."
The words shocked me at once in their simplicity and their truth.
And in every great tragedy--even and especially those tragedies committed in the name of God but really nothing more than mass murder at the hands of men pretending to claim God as an excuse--the above line has been true.
In the Rwandan genocide, where were we?
In the current genocide in Darfur, where are we?
In the destruction and violence against women in the Congo, where are we?
In the systematic oppression of women in every country on the globe, where are we?
It has become painfully obvious that men--even good men--would often prefer to remain passive on the issue. And it has also become painfully obvious that those who profess to follow a faith don't see any of Christ's numerous class to action on behalf of the oppressed as reason enough to look outside the walls of their own church, and try to find something meaningful to fight for.
Sadly, for many in the Church, protesting gay rights seems to be the only rallying cry to which they respond.
But Christ, if we read what he's said and done, does something far different. He fights for those who are oppressed. He stands with the persecuted, the defeated, the weak, the poor, and the needy.
Christ never says, blessed are the rich and he never says blessed are those who judge others.
No.
It's time for men and for Christians to redefine--no, reinvent--the roles we have enacted for far too long. If we need a model, look at Jesus himself, who is startlingly different than most Christians I see today.
Jesus didn't dress in three-pieces suits, hang with the wealthy, and oppress women.
So, all of that to say that missing sleep is sometimes necessary when a voice of justice begins to creep into one's heart.
Perhaps we'll see a book like Lisa Shannon's come out which accounts for the way men will begin to stand up for equality and justice and oppose the oppression of women the world over.
Call me an idealist, but yeah, I'm holding my breath for this. It happens when those of us born into privilege are willing to peer out from behind the walls and see life as it is lived for the other 95% of the world. I've got a heck of a long way to walk on this path, but I want to try and follow the trail as best as I can.
Thus, Jen and I have been lovingly batting our eyelids at that incredibly attractive persona: Sleep.
However, sleep has eluded us. We are both coming more and more to accept this as a somewhat stable truth: in the due course of parenting, Sleep is never a guarantee.
But I've had another reason to miss even more sleep than I should have this past week. A friend let me borrow Steig Larsson's Milennium trilogy, and I have been utterly and completely absorbed in the life of Lisbeth Sanders.
In the third book now, The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest (after having skipped the first of the three books because we had watched the Swedish film adaptation before leaving the States in September), it's hard to stop reading.
Lisbeth's journey is harrowing and tragic and sad and the part of me that won't stop turning pages keeps saying, She has to get justice! Someone has to do something...it's going to be okay for Lisbeth, right? Right?!
And so, the pages turn and I keep hoping.
It strikes me now that Lisbeth's journey is far too familiar to many women the world over: at the mericless hands of players far more powerful than they, be they police officers, government officials, or men who happen to be on the same trains or streets where they walk, late at night.
What makes Lisbeth's story so fascinating, and yes, stand-up-and-cheer-for-her-ish, is that she sees the corruption within the system--she sees how despicably so many men behave, and they way so many wield power to abuse. Patriarchy, too often, is synonymous with misogyny. And so Lisbeth acts.
What stands out, of course, if the reticence and passivity of so many of us men. A recent book published by Lisa Shannon entitled A Thousand Sisters details the author's account of her transition from comfortable life to getting involved in the fight for justice for Congolese women. Shannon leaves a comfortable life in Portland, Oregon to travel to the Congo to work with women there, and she realizes what is at stake, and what atrocities are being committed against women every day, every hour, every minute, yes, every second.
Shannon's work is remarkable, powerful, and a model.
But what the fictional character of Lisbeth Sanders and the real-life journey of Lisa Shannon ask us is simple: Where are all the men?
Where are we, men, when women are abused? Where are we, men, when power structures that oppress women are held rigidly in place? Where are we?
The answer is, sadly, all too clear: we are often absent from the picture. As bystanders, we might like to claim, Hey, I'm not the one doing any injustice! But this line is woefully incompetent. Did such a claim work for those German citizens who sealed their lips during the genocide committed by the Nazi regime?
Before Jen and I and Tyler left for York, my brother Chris and I went to Washington DC. During our trip, we visited the Holocaust Memorial Museum, and I was struck--as most are--by the gruesome atrocities committed during the Holocaust.
However, in one area, I found myself standing facing a wall with a quote written on it in massive letters, taken from Elie Weisel's harrowing memoir Night. The line said, "God is dead."
As a Christian-male-feminist-teacher-writer--husband-father-Democrat, I stood looking at the quote for a long time.
A long time.
I asked God, How am I supposed to read this, Lord? How could I ever say to someone who has experience such horror that such a claim is false?
I stood there and asked God as tears came down my cheeks and my heart burned inside of me.
And then, God spoke.
I heard this small voice bubbling up, and the words that became etched in my mind and soul were: "I am not dead, but my people have remained silent."
The words shocked me at once in their simplicity and their truth.
And in every great tragedy--even and especially those tragedies committed in the name of God but really nothing more than mass murder at the hands of men pretending to claim God as an excuse--the above line has been true.
In the Rwandan genocide, where were we?
In the current genocide in Darfur, where are we?
In the destruction and violence against women in the Congo, where are we?
In the systematic oppression of women in every country on the globe, where are we?
It has become painfully obvious that men--even good men--would often prefer to remain passive on the issue. And it has also become painfully obvious that those who profess to follow a faith don't see any of Christ's numerous class to action on behalf of the oppressed as reason enough to look outside the walls of their own church, and try to find something meaningful to fight for.
Sadly, for many in the Church, protesting gay rights seems to be the only rallying cry to which they respond.
But Christ, if we read what he's said and done, does something far different. He fights for those who are oppressed. He stands with the persecuted, the defeated, the weak, the poor, and the needy.
Christ never says, blessed are the rich and he never says blessed are those who judge others.
No.
It's time for men and for Christians to redefine--no, reinvent--the roles we have enacted for far too long. If we need a model, look at Jesus himself, who is startlingly different than most Christians I see today.
Jesus didn't dress in three-pieces suits, hang with the wealthy, and oppress women.
So, all of that to say that missing sleep is sometimes necessary when a voice of justice begins to creep into one's heart.
Perhaps we'll see a book like Lisa Shannon's come out which accounts for the way men will begin to stand up for equality and justice and oppose the oppression of women the world over.
Call me an idealist, but yeah, I'm holding my breath for this. It happens when those of us born into privilege are willing to peer out from behind the walls and see life as it is lived for the other 95% of the world. I've got a heck of a long way to walk on this path, but I want to try and follow the trail as best as I can.
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Way We Walk
Today, as I made my way in the city center (or, rather, the City Centre as it's written on all the signs from Fulford Road on into York) I tried to really look at people as we crossed paths. Their faces so often seemed etched with concern. Most of us, I realize, look down as we walk, bundled up with our scarves, our coats zipped up to just beneath our chins, considering how we'll make it through the day, what we'll do about the problems that face us, how we'll find some way of living with freedom and hope.
As I passed the huge diggers that line a section of Main Street, I recalled how Tyler and I stood in front of them only yesterday, his eyes gazing on them as though they were a gift from God, placed there with their metal shovels, mounds of dirt, and massive wheels for his viewing pleasure.
Where are the diggers for us adults? What are the visions that call our eyes to look up and out upon something that warms us?
I think that for most of us, we reach a certain age and the idealism, perhaps, kicks off. Change the world? Naw. Too difficult. Too complicated.
Love in freedom? Hah! Impossible. Too many problems. Too many people telling us it's not that easy.
Do what brings joy to your heart? As if! Anyone who thinks it's possible to live in a world where capitalism is king and still follow your dreams--well, you haven't woken up yet. But you will. (Voice furrows eyebrows and nods slowly) Oh, you will.
Whatever reasons we have for letting go of simple joys like seeing a digger on the sidewalks of our lives, we do. It happens to us all. It's the time-tested and impenetrable subject of all great literature, from Homer to Shakespeare to Harper Lee to Toni Morrison.
Our English teachers (including myself, here) call it The Journey from Innocence to Experience, and I'm sure many of us have filled in flow charts and graphs finding the precise points when characters let go of Innocence and claimed Experience as their rallying cry.
And right they should. There is, truthfully, no other way.
But the question that ping-pongs itself back and froth across the gooey web of mess behind my eyes is: Whoever decided Experience would only have one face?
When we walk, most of our hearts are heavy for two reasons, I would venture: money and success. We have neither and want both. We have one but not the other. We have both but want more.
We tell our wive or husbands to wait. We tell our kids to hold on. We laugh our hearts down and we bully our souls. Not down, dang it all!
Instead, we must get a little more money, a little more success.
We convince ourselves--like heroin addicts--that one more hit will be enough. Just one more promotion. One more sale. One more account. One more title.
Just a bit more money. A touch more for retirement. A few extra dollars in this account. A bit more spending cash. Then--YES! THEN!--everything will be good and there'll be time to hug our kids and talk to our husbands and wives and listen to our hearts and remove our hands from the mouths of our souls.
Yes: Then there will be time and there will be space. Just let us finish our checklist of Capitalism's Approval! Is that so hard? Sheesh!
But then, there's the way we walk.
That stubborn demonstration of what's really going on inside us. Who we really are.
See, we don't walk like a free people.
We don't walk with our heads facing up and out.
We don't walk with a sense of authenticity about us.
We don't walk like people who feel pain but band together and somehow make it through.
We walk like people who live in captivity, constantly reminding ourselves that one more slice of the pie will bring us just enough freedom to let go of the whole game, once and for all.
But the truth is: no one wins. None of us, no matter how much we dedicate our lives to the gods of money and success, ever win.
And that, I think, is the real reason we walk the way we do. Deep down, we know it. We know we can never win. But, what would everyone think of us if we stopped playing the game?! How could we!? They'd think we have gone mad!
But maybe we'd walk a little freer. Perhaps we'd hug our kids a little tighter, listen to our wives and husbands a little more, laugh a little easier.
The interesting thing about walking is that you can do it differently every time out. Just because we may have walked a certain way into work today, doesn't mean we have to walk that same way home. There are countless ways to watch your feet slap the pavement of time, countless paths to take, countless visions to behold.
Maybe it's time to try something different. After all, who knows what diggers may sit on the sidewalks we have yet to discover.
As I passed the huge diggers that line a section of Main Street, I recalled how Tyler and I stood in front of them only yesterday, his eyes gazing on them as though they were a gift from God, placed there with their metal shovels, mounds of dirt, and massive wheels for his viewing pleasure.
Where are the diggers for us adults? What are the visions that call our eyes to look up and out upon something that warms us?
I think that for most of us, we reach a certain age and the idealism, perhaps, kicks off. Change the world? Naw. Too difficult. Too complicated.
Love in freedom? Hah! Impossible. Too many problems. Too many people telling us it's not that easy.
Do what brings joy to your heart? As if! Anyone who thinks it's possible to live in a world where capitalism is king and still follow your dreams--well, you haven't woken up yet. But you will. (Voice furrows eyebrows and nods slowly) Oh, you will.
Whatever reasons we have for letting go of simple joys like seeing a digger on the sidewalks of our lives, we do. It happens to us all. It's the time-tested and impenetrable subject of all great literature, from Homer to Shakespeare to Harper Lee to Toni Morrison.
Our English teachers (including myself, here) call it The Journey from Innocence to Experience, and I'm sure many of us have filled in flow charts and graphs finding the precise points when characters let go of Innocence and claimed Experience as their rallying cry.
And right they should. There is, truthfully, no other way.
But the question that ping-pongs itself back and froth across the gooey web of mess behind my eyes is: Whoever decided Experience would only have one face?
When we walk, most of our hearts are heavy for two reasons, I would venture: money and success. We have neither and want both. We have one but not the other. We have both but want more.
We tell our wive or husbands to wait. We tell our kids to hold on. We laugh our hearts down and we bully our souls. Not down, dang it all!
Instead, we must get a little more money, a little more success.
We convince ourselves--like heroin addicts--that one more hit will be enough. Just one more promotion. One more sale. One more account. One more title.
Just a bit more money. A touch more for retirement. A few extra dollars in this account. A bit more spending cash. Then--YES! THEN!--everything will be good and there'll be time to hug our kids and talk to our husbands and wives and listen to our hearts and remove our hands from the mouths of our souls.
Yes: Then there will be time and there will be space. Just let us finish our checklist of Capitalism's Approval! Is that so hard? Sheesh!
But then, there's the way we walk.
That stubborn demonstration of what's really going on inside us. Who we really are.
See, we don't walk like a free people.
We don't walk with our heads facing up and out.
We don't walk with a sense of authenticity about us.
We don't walk like people who feel pain but band together and somehow make it through.
We walk like people who live in captivity, constantly reminding ourselves that one more slice of the pie will bring us just enough freedom to let go of the whole game, once and for all.
But the truth is: no one wins. None of us, no matter how much we dedicate our lives to the gods of money and success, ever win.
And that, I think, is the real reason we walk the way we do. Deep down, we know it. We know we can never win. But, what would everyone think of us if we stopped playing the game?! How could we!? They'd think we have gone mad!
But maybe we'd walk a little freer. Perhaps we'd hug our kids a little tighter, listen to our wives and husbands a little more, laugh a little easier.
The interesting thing about walking is that you can do it differently every time out. Just because we may have walked a certain way into work today, doesn't mean we have to walk that same way home. There are countless ways to watch your feet slap the pavement of time, countless paths to take, countless visions to behold.
Maybe it's time to try something different. After all, who knows what diggers may sit on the sidewalks we have yet to discover.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Growing...Well, Growing...Old? (!?@#)
After a month in York, we're starting to feel a lot more comfortable with our little home, and our new little life. We even recently got some new things up on the walls which were bare for so long. We were at the Newgate Market in the city center this past Sunday, and we saw a guy selling posters.
Laminated posters!
For a couple who rejoices anytime we're able to manage a trip to any kind of store where home furnishings can be purchased--it's amazing how much becomes miraculous without a car--we were overjoyed to see posters for sale. Only a couple of miles from our home.
Laminated posters!
These babies were some serious goods, so we ended up choosing four large posters with which to decorate our home: one copy of Martin Luther King, Jr. giving his "I have a Dream" speech, with the entire speech in text below the image; one copy of some semi-motivational poster featuring a person dressed in a thick red coat climbing a huge, snowy mountain; one copy of Churchill's war slogan, "Keep Calm and Carry On"; and one copy of the original Casablanca movie poster.
After hanging them around our home later that night (eventually using tiny nails and a hammer that we got for a pound at a store called Poundworld--the UK equivalent to the Dollar Store or Family Dollar in the US), we felt like a King and a Queen in our little place.
It doesn't take much.
(Did I mention that these posters are laminated?)
After Tyler had practiced using his own Bob the Builder plastic hammer in the same spots where I used my Poundworld hammer moments earlier, and we had gotten him down to bed for the night, we breathed a sigh and sat down in our living room.
Then, we got up.
We washed the dishes, cleaned up the fake hammers, screwdrivers, saws, Bob the Builder trucks, diggers, excavators (you get the picture), and threw a load of laundry in.
And this is the interesting part. As I was throwing some clothes into the washing machine, I noticed my pant cuffs dragging along the floor. My shoes were off, and I thought, Hey, these pants need to last me three years, I don't want the cuffs to get all worn out already, etc...
So, what did I do? I did what anyone in my place would probably do: I bent down and rolled up the bottoms of my pant cuffs.
I rolled up my trousers, you might say.
I was wearing--to articulate it a bit differently--the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
And in a little more than one month, I am going to turn 30 years old.
So: I'm not even kidding when I tell you that this line flashed into my mind like a flashy flash: I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Turning around to see if the ghost of T.S. Eliot was, in fact, standing behind me in the kitchen, whispering his old poem as he watched me throw in in this load of laundry (he did, after all, emigrate to Britain, right?), I felt a little silly.
And a little old.
But then, I took solace. Because in that same poem, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,"--which I still remember vividly from Mrs. Ferrero's 11th grade English class at Windsor High School--Eliot also asks "Do I dare disturb the universe?"
Now, that sounds like a question I still want to answer.
(Instead of the latter question he asks, "Do I dare to eat a peach?")
Whew.
So, I'm okay, right? I'm not already starting to think that I'm old. I still want to disturb the universe a little, right?
After all, I was just rolling up my pant cuffs because hey, these pants have got to last three years.
As long as the laminated posters will.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
On Doing Without
I knew this move to the UK would involve giving up a few material possessions which I've come to hearitly enjoy: the car, the drying machine, the huge collection of books, the nice apartment 40 minutes west of Boston. What I didn't expect was to have to work at doing without something else.
Praise.
For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a teacher. In high school, when we had to fill out the endless numbers of "What profession do you hope to join...?" forms for colleges, our guidance department, teachers, or scholarships, I always felt lucky to have an immediate response: High school English teacher and basketball coach.
And I lived that dream for a while. (Well, I coached girls' Lacrosse and was the newspaper Advisor for a bit while I taught...close enough, right?)
But after we had our son, that dream wasn't what my heart thirsted for anymore. Don't get me wrong, I still love teaching, and some days as a stay-at-home-dad I do wake up and think, If I could just get back into that classroom with my 7th graders and talk about Deborah Ellis's The Breadwinner, or do a poetry project with them, or just be silly as we learn...
But what I realized after my latest post as a 7th grade teacher in Hudson was that I just wanted more time with my son. I wanted to be more a part of his life, more a teacher to him.
And after a month in York, no part of me regrets the change.
What I have been realizing, however, is that being a teacher involves a lot of encouragement and praise. I loved the students I have taught, and I enjoy keeping in touch with many of them over e-mail. I tried to care for them the way I would want to care for my own son if he was in the 7th grade. And my students cared for me, too. They would make these splendid cards, tell me nice things, and generally give me a feel-good boost.
So while the move to England has involved dealing with some withdrawal from our material do-withouts, it has also involved learning to do without the same kinds of praise. Indeed, after I make Tyler a pretty darn good grilled cheese sandwich, or successfully quell the rising tide of a tantrum (I'm batting maybe .375 on that front...okay, maybe .275), he doesn't write me a thank-you note or tell me that I have inspired him to go out and change the world.
Indeed, I relish and thank God for Tyler's reckless hugs, his wild leaps into my arms or catapults onto my stomach-area-ish, but largely being a stay-at-home parent is about learning how to work without the praise and recognition that a teacher receives.
Having done both, I realize now that I stand in the midst of a great opportunity. It's a chance to throw off my ego, my pride, my insecurities which often sought others to confirm that I am doing something well. Instead, it's a chance to begin to hear the quiet voice of God, whispering those encouragments on a hard morning when Tyler wakes up at 5am with a massive poop; it's the soft encouragment of God telling me to continue trying to get Tyler to nap well, even as the screams erupt from the room over; and it's the heart of God encouraging my own heart as I am reminded that nothing worth doing in this life can be done with the puspose of only doing it to please others.
There is a higher level to love than that.
I have a heck of a lot to learn about what it means to live a life of doing without. I am still going through the ups and downs of realizing that anytime Tyler and I want to go somewhere, we've got to walk.
And I certainly have a heck of a lot to learn about living without pats on the back. As a teacher, I learned to enjoy and thrive on those pats. As a stay-at-home-dad, I am learning to work hard for the sake of love alone--love for my wife, love for my son, and love for the characters I craft through fiction.
Doing without praise is hard for me--I'll confess. But it's also rewarding in a new kind of way. After all, the praise and encouragment of others always ends, and then we're left standing there, the same as before. Perhaps the most concise and poignant way to state the process I am learning to love is a line from a favorite movie of mine, Cool Runnings.
John Candy, who plays the coach of an olympic Jamaican Bobsled team, imparts to one of his athletes the following truth: "If you're not enough without the gold medal, you'll never be enough with it."
It reminds me that praise never creates anything--and it can never substitute for what matters most: our hearts. And so doing without is really about learning to be comfortable in our own skins, all things (literally) aside.
Praise.
For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a teacher. In high school, when we had to fill out the endless numbers of "What profession do you hope to join...?" forms for colleges, our guidance department, teachers, or scholarships, I always felt lucky to have an immediate response: High school English teacher and basketball coach.
And I lived that dream for a while. (Well, I coached girls' Lacrosse and was the newspaper Advisor for a bit while I taught...close enough, right?)
But after we had our son, that dream wasn't what my heart thirsted for anymore. Don't get me wrong, I still love teaching, and some days as a stay-at-home-dad I do wake up and think, If I could just get back into that classroom with my 7th graders and talk about Deborah Ellis's The Breadwinner, or do a poetry project with them, or just be silly as we learn...
But what I realized after my latest post as a 7th grade teacher in Hudson was that I just wanted more time with my son. I wanted to be more a part of his life, more a teacher to him.
And after a month in York, no part of me regrets the change.
What I have been realizing, however, is that being a teacher involves a lot of encouragement and praise. I loved the students I have taught, and I enjoy keeping in touch with many of them over e-mail. I tried to care for them the way I would want to care for my own son if he was in the 7th grade. And my students cared for me, too. They would make these splendid cards, tell me nice things, and generally give me a feel-good boost.
So while the move to England has involved dealing with some withdrawal from our material do-withouts, it has also involved learning to do without the same kinds of praise. Indeed, after I make Tyler a pretty darn good grilled cheese sandwich, or successfully quell the rising tide of a tantrum (I'm batting maybe .375 on that front...okay, maybe .275), he doesn't write me a thank-you note or tell me that I have inspired him to go out and change the world.
Indeed, I relish and thank God for Tyler's reckless hugs, his wild leaps into my arms or catapults onto my stomach-area-ish, but largely being a stay-at-home parent is about learning how to work without the praise and recognition that a teacher receives.
Having done both, I realize now that I stand in the midst of a great opportunity. It's a chance to throw off my ego, my pride, my insecurities which often sought others to confirm that I am doing something well. Instead, it's a chance to begin to hear the quiet voice of God, whispering those encouragments on a hard morning when Tyler wakes up at 5am with a massive poop; it's the soft encouragment of God telling me to continue trying to get Tyler to nap well, even as the screams erupt from the room over; and it's the heart of God encouraging my own heart as I am reminded that nothing worth doing in this life can be done with the puspose of only doing it to please others.
There is a higher level to love than that.
I have a heck of a lot to learn about what it means to live a life of doing without. I am still going through the ups and downs of realizing that anytime Tyler and I want to go somewhere, we've got to walk.
And I certainly have a heck of a lot to learn about living without pats on the back. As a teacher, I learned to enjoy and thrive on those pats. As a stay-at-home-dad, I am learning to work hard for the sake of love alone--love for my wife, love for my son, and love for the characters I craft through fiction.
Doing without praise is hard for me--I'll confess. But it's also rewarding in a new kind of way. After all, the praise and encouragment of others always ends, and then we're left standing there, the same as before. Perhaps the most concise and poignant way to state the process I am learning to love is a line from a favorite movie of mine, Cool Runnings.
John Candy, who plays the coach of an olympic Jamaican Bobsled team, imparts to one of his athletes the following truth: "If you're not enough without the gold medal, you'll never be enough with it."
It reminds me that praise never creates anything--and it can never substitute for what matters most: our hearts. And so doing without is really about learning to be comfortable in our own skins, all things (literally) aside.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Broken Bananas
A lot of things can be fixed after they've broken.
Bananas aren't included.
Tyler has ripped pages out of his colorful books; he's torn posters off the wall in his excitement to see them in closer view; he's enjoyed tearing off the various trucks from the Bob the Builder magazines. And with all of these mishaps, tape can provide a glorious solution.
But a few days ago, after we had peeled a banana for Tyler to eat, the thing just broke right in half.
"Fix it, please, Mommy Daddy, fix it," came Tyler's assured voice.
And of course, nothing worked. We didn't stoop so low as to try actually taping the banana, but I will I admit I held the broken top of the banana onto the bottom half and said, "All better!"
(I'm not proud of my attempt at ease here, but I have to confess that I tried the above method.)
Tyler was onto me right away. "No! Fix it, please, Daddy Mommy, fix it! Fix it!"
As his cries began to escalate into teary-eyed confusion as to what kind of world we live in where everything can't be fixed, it was hard to explain that this is, indeed, life.
Later that evening, it occurred to me that a lot of us still expect that broken bananas can be fixed. We might spend our whole lives trying to mend things that, in fact, need to be dealt with as is. Because, meanwhile, we're neglecting things that really could be fixed with the time, energy, and determination we possess.
We often spend our time trying to "fix" the way we look, the way others think of us, the size of our noses or the size of our homes. Often these pursuits are just as futile as trying to wrap a piece of tape around a banana and say to ourselves, "All better"
Instead, there are a host of things that are, indeed, broken, which we could fix if we tried to determine ourselves, our time, our resources, our attention.
Things like homelessness.
Poverty.
Abuse.
Trafficking.
A world is waiting to see if we're going to ever realize that we have all that we need to roll up our sleeves and dig into the real work we are called to do. Otherwise, the things we choose to fix won't ever make a genuine change in the lives of others, or ourselves.
Bananas aren't included.
Tyler has ripped pages out of his colorful books; he's torn posters off the wall in his excitement to see them in closer view; he's enjoyed tearing off the various trucks from the Bob the Builder magazines. And with all of these mishaps, tape can provide a glorious solution.
But a few days ago, after we had peeled a banana for Tyler to eat, the thing just broke right in half.
"Fix it, please, Mommy Daddy, fix it," came Tyler's assured voice.
And of course, nothing worked. We didn't stoop so low as to try actually taping the banana, but I will I admit I held the broken top of the banana onto the bottom half and said, "All better!"
(I'm not proud of my attempt at ease here, but I have to confess that I tried the above method.)
Tyler was onto me right away. "No! Fix it, please, Daddy Mommy, fix it! Fix it!"
As his cries began to escalate into teary-eyed confusion as to what kind of world we live in where everything can't be fixed, it was hard to explain that this is, indeed, life.
Later that evening, it occurred to me that a lot of us still expect that broken bananas can be fixed. We might spend our whole lives trying to mend things that, in fact, need to be dealt with as is. Because, meanwhile, we're neglecting things that really could be fixed with the time, energy, and determination we possess.
We often spend our time trying to "fix" the way we look, the way others think of us, the size of our noses or the size of our homes. Often these pursuits are just as futile as trying to wrap a piece of tape around a banana and say to ourselves, "All better"
Instead, there are a host of things that are, indeed, broken, which we could fix if we tried to determine ourselves, our time, our resources, our attention.
Things like homelessness.
Poverty.
Abuse.
Trafficking.
A world is waiting to see if we're going to ever realize that we have all that we need to roll up our sleeves and dig into the real work we are called to do. Otherwise, the things we choose to fix won't ever make a genuine change in the lives of others, or ourselves.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Looking for Warm? Not so Fast...
It's essentially impossible to get warm water in our little home on Lesley Avenue. Unlike the apartments we've rented in America, where the hot water is always ready, and we could turn on the beautiful handle, then add a bit of cold and get warm, here, we first turn on the water-heating mechanism inside of our boiler-system-thingy.
The water heats up, and then we can get hot (really, really hot) water. However, when we try and turn the handle for cold water, the stream rushing from the faucet simply turns cold.
Try again: hot on (scalding hot), cold faucet on...warm?...nope. Cold.
So, we've started to learn to live with the extremes of the water, and I'm starting to give up trying to find a nice warm water flow in which to wash dishes. Instead, this morning, as Tyler played with a large digger--trying to stuff a lego-man we affectionately call JO-JO MAN into the driver's seat of said digger--I simply let my hands get a bit burned as I washed the dishes.
It made me think of the conversations Jennifer and I have been having lately. (At night, once Tyler is down for sleep and we're sitting on comfy chairs in our little living room.) We've been talking about what she's studying, and it's pretty hard stuff to stomach.
27 million slaves worlwide exist today.
Today.
And that's a low projection, because it's difficult to know how many slaves are out there that haven't been found, or whose dire enslavement is kept a secret from authorioes and activist groups like Kevin Bales' Free the Slaves.
Many of the 27 million slaves are victims of sex trafficking--something many of us would rather not think about, let alone learn about.
But during our conversations, I realized that here I am, a 29 year old man who considers himself a pretty progressive guy, who listened to NPR to and from my teaching job back in the states, who reads progressive material and tries to engage with culture without being overtaken by it, and yet I had never heard this fact until Jennifer started researching.
The quandary I came to is simply this: how is that possible? How is it conceivable that such tragedy can exist in our world and yet awareness of it can be so scant?
We carried our conectures one step further to look at the idea of American Christianity. Jennifer and I have been a part of great churches in the U.S. These churches have certainly taught us much, and helped us grow and learn.
And yet.
We started to wonder if it's right for a church to seek so much safety. To steer clear of issues that should beckon the very heart of the church. I have yet to hear the word "slavery" mentioned in a sermon, and whenever we've heard talk of fundraising, it's usually in conjunction with a refurbishment or a remodel of the sanctuary, the parking lot, or missions work. Don't get me wrong, it seems most churches give to cuases that are beyond themselves, of course, but how much?
When I read of the way Jesus responds to those in need in the gospels, it seems his point is to heal out of his great love or great pity for a person. Tony Campolo makes the claim that when Jesus says, "Greater works than these will you do" regarding the miracles, Jesus really means that our collective love will be able to do even more.
So it is becoming harder and harder to see that if the status quo of our world is going to change, the church must certainly change. There are certainly groups--like Sojourners in DC with Jim Wallis, and others who live in communities that seek social justice and community-growth and change, like Shane Claiborne--who are doing it. But on the whole, it seems like we've accepted the fact that warm is okay.
Warm will do.
But it won't.
As long as we consent to live thinking that small change is sufficient, and that maintaining the status quo is fine when it comes to a world so much bigger than ourselves, we're already in dangerous territory.
Jennifer and I are still learning about the tension of consumerism, ownership, and giving, freedom. We've got tons more to learn. But the more I hear about the tragedy of slavery in the world today--and that amidst so many other crises--it becomes harder and harder to substantiate a way of life that calls for no wide-scale changes, and seeks instead to help us own more, own more, own more.
I worry that most of us may find that we end up owning lots, but sadly realizing it all only makes our hearts a bit warm.
Perhpas there is more heat to be had by taking other paths, other journies.
The water heats up, and then we can get hot (really, really hot) water. However, when we try and turn the handle for cold water, the stream rushing from the faucet simply turns cold.
Try again: hot on (scalding hot), cold faucet on...warm?...nope. Cold.
So, we've started to learn to live with the extremes of the water, and I'm starting to give up trying to find a nice warm water flow in which to wash dishes. Instead, this morning, as Tyler played with a large digger--trying to stuff a lego-man we affectionately call JO-JO MAN into the driver's seat of said digger--I simply let my hands get a bit burned as I washed the dishes.
It made me think of the conversations Jennifer and I have been having lately. (At night, once Tyler is down for sleep and we're sitting on comfy chairs in our little living room.) We've been talking about what she's studying, and it's pretty hard stuff to stomach.
27 million slaves worlwide exist today.
Today.
And that's a low projection, because it's difficult to know how many slaves are out there that haven't been found, or whose dire enslavement is kept a secret from authorioes and activist groups like Kevin Bales' Free the Slaves.
Many of the 27 million slaves are victims of sex trafficking--something many of us would rather not think about, let alone learn about.
But during our conversations, I realized that here I am, a 29 year old man who considers himself a pretty progressive guy, who listened to NPR to and from my teaching job back in the states, who reads progressive material and tries to engage with culture without being overtaken by it, and yet I had never heard this fact until Jennifer started researching.
The quandary I came to is simply this: how is that possible? How is it conceivable that such tragedy can exist in our world and yet awareness of it can be so scant?
We carried our conectures one step further to look at the idea of American Christianity. Jennifer and I have been a part of great churches in the U.S. These churches have certainly taught us much, and helped us grow and learn.
And yet.
We started to wonder if it's right for a church to seek so much safety. To steer clear of issues that should beckon the very heart of the church. I have yet to hear the word "slavery" mentioned in a sermon, and whenever we've heard talk of fundraising, it's usually in conjunction with a refurbishment or a remodel of the sanctuary, the parking lot, or missions work. Don't get me wrong, it seems most churches give to cuases that are beyond themselves, of course, but how much?
When I read of the way Jesus responds to those in need in the gospels, it seems his point is to heal out of his great love or great pity for a person. Tony Campolo makes the claim that when Jesus says, "Greater works than these will you do" regarding the miracles, Jesus really means that our collective love will be able to do even more.
So it is becoming harder and harder to see that if the status quo of our world is going to change, the church must certainly change. There are certainly groups--like Sojourners in DC with Jim Wallis, and others who live in communities that seek social justice and community-growth and change, like Shane Claiborne--who are doing it. But on the whole, it seems like we've accepted the fact that warm is okay.
Warm will do.
But it won't.
As long as we consent to live thinking that small change is sufficient, and that maintaining the status quo is fine when it comes to a world so much bigger than ourselves, we're already in dangerous territory.
Jennifer and I are still learning about the tension of consumerism, ownership, and giving, freedom. We've got tons more to learn. But the more I hear about the tragedy of slavery in the world today--and that amidst so many other crises--it becomes harder and harder to substantiate a way of life that calls for no wide-scale changes, and seeks instead to help us own more, own more, own more.
I worry that most of us may find that we end up owning lots, but sadly realizing it all only makes our hearts a bit warm.
Perhpas there is more heat to be had by taking other paths, other journies.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Leaving Home
Feels scary.
Feels downright different.
Is right.
That is, it's right for my wife, Jennifer, our son, Tyler, and myself. We've lived in New Eng;and and Arizona during our marriage and parenthood thus far, and for the past six months we've heard the whispers beckoning us to an adventure overseas.
At first, we weren't necessarily sure where, for what, and why. After all, I had a great job teaching 7th grade English at the public middle school in Hudson, MA. Jen was an artist as a stay-at-home-mom and writer, and Tyler seemed to be growing strong, learning lots, and loving life.
However, as I type this words during the early morning, our flight is scheduled to take off for London at the end of this month, and after spending gobs of money to apply for visas, plane tickets, and tuition, we're finally making the leap.
Jen will be pursuing a PhD at the University of York, where she'll study for Sociology--specifically, how to stop human trafficking, Meanwhile, I'll be a stay-at-home father and work on writing (and perhpas try and teach part-time if we can find somethign available).
This new direction has us both scared and yet thrilled. We have asked ourselves in the last weeks and months: why uproot from our lives here, with a toddler, and do the exact opposite of what Anmerican culture tells us we should be doing right now? Why not rather put a down payment on a little home, build a retirement fund, climb the salary ladder, and save up to buy an SUV?
We found two problems with this plan--a plan we almost decided to take. The first was that it seemed like we couldn't find very many American families who pursued these things and we actually happy with their lives. Everything our culture tells us we shoudl be doing, in other words, seemed to us to bring very little lasting joy. Instead, we saw people counting down to retirement, when they could leave jobs they don't really like and find a pool or some other body of water where they could sit and drink alcoholic beverages.
Those who were buying homes as quickly as possible seemed ever anxious about payments, repairs, and other necessities of home owning.
Not that we never want a home, or a retirement fund. And yet, we sensed that the time wasn't quite right for us to dive into such pursuits--or, at least, that it wasn't right for us to pursue them blindly, merely because our culture was waving big flags that said, "Open! This Way!"
Jen's sensed the call to work to stop human trafficking, I sensed the call to be home with my son and to write, and the rest, as they say, is history.
We don't know this path. It's certainly not the path that has been preached to us by countless television commercials and classrooms. Yes, we're scared. But we're also thrilled by what this adventure will teach us--about ourselves, our family, and the world in which we live.
Feels downright different.
Is right.
That is, it's right for my wife, Jennifer, our son, Tyler, and myself. We've lived in New Eng;and and Arizona during our marriage and parenthood thus far, and for the past six months we've heard the whispers beckoning us to an adventure overseas.
At first, we weren't necessarily sure where, for what, and why. After all, I had a great job teaching 7th grade English at the public middle school in Hudson, MA. Jen was an artist as a stay-at-home-mom and writer, and Tyler seemed to be growing strong, learning lots, and loving life.
However, as I type this words during the early morning, our flight is scheduled to take off for London at the end of this month, and after spending gobs of money to apply for visas, plane tickets, and tuition, we're finally making the leap.
Jen will be pursuing a PhD at the University of York, where she'll study for Sociology--specifically, how to stop human trafficking, Meanwhile, I'll be a stay-at-home father and work on writing (and perhpas try and teach part-time if we can find somethign available).
This new direction has us both scared and yet thrilled. We have asked ourselves in the last weeks and months: why uproot from our lives here, with a toddler, and do the exact opposite of what Anmerican culture tells us we should be doing right now? Why not rather put a down payment on a little home, build a retirement fund, climb the salary ladder, and save up to buy an SUV?
We found two problems with this plan--a plan we almost decided to take. The first was that it seemed like we couldn't find very many American families who pursued these things and we actually happy with their lives. Everything our culture tells us we shoudl be doing, in other words, seemed to us to bring very little lasting joy. Instead, we saw people counting down to retirement, when they could leave jobs they don't really like and find a pool or some other body of water where they could sit and drink alcoholic beverages.
Those who were buying homes as quickly as possible seemed ever anxious about payments, repairs, and other necessities of home owning.
Not that we never want a home, or a retirement fund. And yet, we sensed that the time wasn't quite right for us to dive into such pursuits--or, at least, that it wasn't right for us to pursue them blindly, merely because our culture was waving big flags that said, "Open! This Way!"
Jen's sensed the call to work to stop human trafficking, I sensed the call to be home with my son and to write, and the rest, as they say, is history.
We don't know this path. It's certainly not the path that has been preached to us by countless television commercials and classrooms. Yes, we're scared. But we're also thrilled by what this adventure will teach us--about ourselves, our family, and the world in which we live.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Trading Epiphanies
Once upon a time, I used to have the kind of epiphanies that arrived when I was sitting at the edge of the ocean, where the water kisses the sand and the sun smiles and leans back in his chair watching it all happen. Those kinds of thoughtful, reflective, transforming moments happen much less, lately.
Now, my epiphanies come when a full glass of ice water is knocked onto my lap by my 18-month old son Tyler while we're out at a restaurant to celebrate Jennifer and her remarkable mommy-hood.
Lately, epiphanies shock me. They grab hold of me and say: Live this life, damn it! Don't miss a moment; don't waste a second!
They arrive when Tyler burps (for real) and then finds the sound of his own burping so strange and new and delightful that he continues burping (for pretend) for the next five minutes because it makes his Daddy and his Mommy just about bust their guts laughing. When Jen and I finally catch our breath and stare at our little man full in the face--yup: epiphany. Life is meant to be laughed at.
When our little man has just been srubbed clean in a bath foaming with enough bubbles to cover Godzilla, and we're now drying him off and about to exit the bathroom for the bedroom to put on his pajamas covered in dinosaurs playing with a variety of sports equipment, and then--splat!...splat!...spalatta-tatta-plop-tat!--the diarrhea-like substance cascades down his read end and lands in a surplus of medium-sized piles all over the bathroom floor--yup: epiphany. Life gives you surprises; you can get mad at life's surprises or you can use them as bookmarks to remember the stages you've been through.
When Jennifer and I have gotten our little man down to sleep, and then we've cleaned up the kitchen, and folded the laundry that's been sitting in the dryer for two days, and cleaned up all the disembodied parts of Mr. Potato Head, and picked up the various foods (rice, Cheerios, avocado) that has been squashed into the carpet--when all of this is done and we sit close to one another with a glass of wine and speak softly, whisper about the dreams yet to come, the antics of the day, the subtle sadnesses and thousand tiny triumphs and the mess and beauty of it all--yup: epiphany. No matter how deep the chaos of any moment feels, it will pass. It will pass.
I can't say that sometimes a part of me doesn't recall those long, still moments on a beach somewhere, or sitting for hours in a cafe--and yet, the epiphanies I have now feel somehow more authentic--more tested, perhaps. They feel more right for the path I am called to walk. Surely others have their own paths, frought with different epiphanies, different sadnesses and triumphs, but I feel a sense of gratefulness for mine.
My new epiphanies feel like those stones along the shores of such oceans--those stones that have been washed up and then taken back into the deep waters, time and time again, where they are tossed and shifted and combed over and over and over until all that's left is the appreciation for what is, not what once was.
Now, my epiphanies come when a full glass of ice water is knocked onto my lap by my 18-month old son Tyler while we're out at a restaurant to celebrate Jennifer and her remarkable mommy-hood.
Lately, epiphanies shock me. They grab hold of me and say: Live this life, damn it! Don't miss a moment; don't waste a second!
They arrive when Tyler burps (for real) and then finds the sound of his own burping so strange and new and delightful that he continues burping (for pretend) for the next five minutes because it makes his Daddy and his Mommy just about bust their guts laughing. When Jen and I finally catch our breath and stare at our little man full in the face--yup: epiphany. Life is meant to be laughed at.
When our little man has just been srubbed clean in a bath foaming with enough bubbles to cover Godzilla, and we're now drying him off and about to exit the bathroom for the bedroom to put on his pajamas covered in dinosaurs playing with a variety of sports equipment, and then--splat!...splat!...spalatta-tatta-plop-tat!--the diarrhea-like substance cascades down his read end and lands in a surplus of medium-sized piles all over the bathroom floor--yup: epiphany. Life gives you surprises; you can get mad at life's surprises or you can use them as bookmarks to remember the stages you've been through.
When Jennifer and I have gotten our little man down to sleep, and then we've cleaned up the kitchen, and folded the laundry that's been sitting in the dryer for two days, and cleaned up all the disembodied parts of Mr. Potato Head, and picked up the various foods (rice, Cheerios, avocado) that has been squashed into the carpet--when all of this is done and we sit close to one another with a glass of wine and speak softly, whisper about the dreams yet to come, the antics of the day, the subtle sadnesses and thousand tiny triumphs and the mess and beauty of it all--yup: epiphany. No matter how deep the chaos of any moment feels, it will pass. It will pass.
I can't say that sometimes a part of me doesn't recall those long, still moments on a beach somewhere, or sitting for hours in a cafe--and yet, the epiphanies I have now feel somehow more authentic--more tested, perhaps. They feel more right for the path I am called to walk. Surely others have their own paths, frought with different epiphanies, different sadnesses and triumphs, but I feel a sense of gratefulness for mine.
My new epiphanies feel like those stones along the shores of such oceans--those stones that have been washed up and then taken back into the deep waters, time and time again, where they are tossed and shifted and combed over and over and over until all that's left is the appreciation for what is, not what once was.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
A Beckoning Back Through Obama
In a recent New York Times editorial, Ms. Dowd writes insightfully regarding the recent clashes of presidential hopefuls Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. Indeed, this far into the contest, Barack Obama has shown a great aptitude for remaining calm, remembering his motivations for getting involved in politics, and not hitting below the belt.
I will admit: I am a person who believes in the possibility that we might actually elect a leader here in America who cares more about the state of American lives than about the self--a leader who would want to serve and not simply garner power.
My idealism--before it seeps too far into ignorance--is based partly on an upbringing in which my parents always voted. After a long day at work in a Hartford Insurance building, my Dad made it a priority to vote whenever voting was possible. As well, my mother talked about it often, and made sure to be present to make her belief tangible via the machines at Town Hall.
I remember watching them with an almost surreal fascination. Deeply, I believed that my parents actually chose who would govern our town, state and country.
Everywhere we can be infected by negators to such a (childish...innocent...or possible?) belief. I am not immune to such infection, and went through a phase during which I refused to read, watch or listen to anything political.
I've changed. I've circled back around to the way I felt when I watched my parents grab their coats and walk out the door on a cold February New England night. Perhaps, my innocent beliefs as a child have in some way become invigorated by the words of Mr. Obama. His example, his ideas and his authenticity beckon me back to a place where I believe in what might come to pass, in what we still might make of America.
I will admit: I am a person who believes in the possibility that we might actually elect a leader here in America who cares more about the state of American lives than about the self--a leader who would want to serve and not simply garner power.
My idealism--before it seeps too far into ignorance--is based partly on an upbringing in which my parents always voted. After a long day at work in a Hartford Insurance building, my Dad made it a priority to vote whenever voting was possible. As well, my mother talked about it often, and made sure to be present to make her belief tangible via the machines at Town Hall.
I remember watching them with an almost surreal fascination. Deeply, I believed that my parents actually chose who would govern our town, state and country.
Everywhere we can be infected by negators to such a (childish...innocent...or possible?) belief. I am not immune to such infection, and went through a phase during which I refused to read, watch or listen to anything political.
I've changed. I've circled back around to the way I felt when I watched my parents grab their coats and walk out the door on a cold February New England night. Perhaps, my innocent beliefs as a child have in some way become invigorated by the words of Mr. Obama. His example, his ideas and his authenticity beckon me back to a place where I believe in what might come to pass, in what we still might make of America.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
How Health Arrives
While my wife and I have been married only a short two years, our journey togther has taught us some powerful things. The most important of these may be that emotional and spiritual health seems to arrive only when we are willing to explore our roots. How have we come to be the way we are? What influences in my life have inspired / denigrated / motivated / silenced me and the voice I possess?
How willing we are to investigate where we've come from says a lot about how much we want to grow.
In my class today, my students and I acted out one of my favorite texts, Plato's Allegory of the Cave. It is a beautiful essay which explores how many of us live: so as to hide behind what we have always known to be true, rather than explore the new possibilities of our lives, which may be more true than the comforts we have known for so long.
During a long walk last night, my wife said something I found to be profound and moving, which helped to connect a lot of divergent thoughts I have encountered lately. Her words: "We must be willing to confront what has happened in our past if we want to embrace the opportunities of our present."
I agree!
How willing we are to investigate where we've come from says a lot about how much we want to grow.
In my class today, my students and I acted out one of my favorite texts, Plato's Allegory of the Cave. It is a beautiful essay which explores how many of us live: so as to hide behind what we have always known to be true, rather than explore the new possibilities of our lives, which may be more true than the comforts we have known for so long.
During a long walk last night, my wife said something I found to be profound and moving, which helped to connect a lot of divergent thoughts I have encountered lately. Her words: "We must be willing to confront what has happened in our past if we want to embrace the opportunities of our present."
I agree!
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