I recently read an estimate that an average person living in a developed country has approximately 30,000 days to "experience [his] existence." The estimate was followed by the assertion that 30,000 days is all the time a person can "rationally" expect to have. Any expectation of any existence before or after this 30,000 days was labeled impossible to prove and therefore irrational. The emphasis was on "rational thinking" which the writer embraced as descriptive of his beliefs while hotly rejecting the term "atheist" as pejorative. The writing leads me to begin wondering.
If you only had 30,000 days to “experience your existence,” and then that was it, no more, none. You knew this, rationally, to be a fact; then it seems to me it would be rational to conclude that you would make all life decisions with this fact foremost in your mind. I am not quite sure exactly what those life decisions would be, nor that it is rational to conclude everyone would make the same decisions (the history of rationalism does not support that expectation), but certainly for many this 30,000 day limit would influence their decisions.
I can’t help but wonder though, whether those life decisions would change if there was a possibility, a mere possibility, that you might have an infinite amount of time, a quantity of time that makes 30,000 days shrink into insignificance; an eternity, let us say, to “experience your existence.” Certainly, the history of man’s past rational conclusions leads us to consider the possibility that at this time, we may not have all the facts concerning our existence. There may be existences beyond our 30,000 days we yet know nothing about. I think a rational person, for considering all possible contingencies is certainly rational, might modify his initial decisions when considering this possibility.
Another thought occurs. What if the life decisions you make during your 30,000 days determine the quality of your eternal experience? That is a belief held by many, in a variety of faiths, both in the present and throughout all recorded history. Certainly, it is not rational to conclude that even the most massive of mass delusions could influence that many people through history to such similar conclusions. It seems more rational to consider the possibility, even the merest possibility, that how you choose to live during your 30,000 days determines the quality of your experience for all eternity. Would the possibility of an eternity determined by your 30,000-day existence make it seem even shorter and even more precious? Possibly precious is too weak a word. Would not the life choices you make become crucial?
What if you came to believe—for belief may be what would be required, because the “rational” arguments against this are persuasive—what if you came to believe this eternity was a certainty and not just a possibility? How would your choices change then? How important would those choices become? Are we forced, rationally, to consider this possibility also?
I am beginning to sweat just a bit. Who needs this kind of pressure? I am beginning to wish rationalism had a better record of accomplishment. The history of rational man is full of rational certainties reversed when more data was discovered. With that track record, it seems rational to make life decisions considering the possibility that what looks like irrational belief now will become rational truth when we have more data. However, as we continue to give weight to more and more "beliefs" in the name of rationalism the clarity and certainty of rationalism seems to blur more and more. There is comfort in the certainty that given all significant data, rational men will inevitably get the answers right, but that is cold comfort for me. History is long, but I only have 30,000 days.
Furthermore, a great many believe the whole point of the 30,000 days you have, the reason you have them, is to prepare you for, and give you an opportunity to, experience the best eternity possible, and—here’s the kicker—the quality of that eternity, they believe, is determined by the decisions you make, the things you choose to believe during your 30,000 days. Is it not the most rational path to consider this possibility also? How odd that rationalism so forcefully pushes us to embrace irrationalism.
That is it! That is enough! Too much to consider! Do I have to get all this right? What happens if I mess up, have a weak moment, get a little tired, distracted, or just do not make the best, most rational decision about something? Have I blown the whole thing? My 30,000 days are diminished by these lapses in rationality; they may be destroyed by just plain wrong conclusions—of course only because I didn’t have all the facts—and finally there is still the merest possibility my eternity may also be screwed up by my bad choices.
It seems to me rationality collapses because it is rigid, unforgiving, and ultimately, cannot carry its own weight. The most rational thing for me to do is to make what rationalists may consider the very irrational decision to believe in a loving, forgiving God—even when I cannot always see his love in what he does or does not do. It seems best for me to give God my faith and service during my 30,000 days and trust to his love for the quality of existence I experience for eternity.
Certainly, life is precious and short, but is it all we have? I believe not. I think it is rational to believe there is more.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Truth du Jour
“What you say may be true for you, but it is not for me.”
Car crash, whiplash! That “my truth” is separate, distinct, and disparate from “your truth” crashed into me with such force my head popped back and forth at the whip/tip end of my flailing body. In that swirling blur, I had something like a chicken’s last thought, that final, squawking half idea as grandma gave a last twisting flip, popping the head off the body, sending it into beak-open, surprise-eyed oblivion, “Squaaaaak doooo yooooou meean?” >pop< But my head remained on my body. I found myself something short of a miraculous, but bodiless, coming-to-consciousness on the compost heap. I was traumatized, but ambulatory, with a perpetual pain in my neck.
Truth is . . . well . . . truth. I may be wrong about what I believe to be truth; you may be wrong about what you believe to be truth, but our errors do not make or unmake truth. Just because you believe something is right or wrong, does not make it so. To call truth false is a lie. To call a lie truth is a lie. I can call some truth “absolute,” some “eternal,” and other truths “conditional” or “ephemeral,” but those labels are merely tests, filters to separate lies from truth, for if I know a thing and know it to be neither absolute nor eternal I know it is not truth.
It would certainly be useful to me to believe truth is relative. If there is no absolute truth, then there are no moral absolutes and I can easily justify all kinds of bad behavior. Any choice to fulfill my personal desires can be justified as true for me regardless of who else I harm, and I can shrug off the pain of those hurt by my choices. I can say they deserve their pain because they cannot find it in their little hearts to be happy for me. I can declare them narrow, judgmental, and intolerant. I can assert their joy-killing beliefs will lead them inevitably to sadness and despair. I can even elevate relativism to the level of virtue and drape myself in a flag emblazoned with the slogans, “Tolerance” and “Pluralism,” and assert a claim for the moral high ground. I can call truth false and lies truth. I can lie, but it is not an enduring or believable lie. It will out eventually.
When I assert there is no such thing as absolute truth, my words simply “don’t mean,” as Gertrude Stein phrased it. What is it that I am saying? “The absolute truth about absolute truth is that there is no absolute truth.” The statement is tautologous, prima facie nonsense at best. Pick at the prim, white, shallow facade of the assertion and fingernails scrape into a greasy black layer of justification. The slightest pressure more and a finger plunges into the rotting filth of selfishness long covered over and hidden from view. The stench assaults the nostrils and I rush off to cleanse hands with hot water and soap.
As long as that lie is at the core of my values, there will always be a hint of the stench of moral decay about me. In my presence people’s nostrils will flare, they will glance around furtively trying to locate the source of the stench. If the visits are short enough, their friendship more shallow than the facade, and the facade remains intact, they may never know source of their discomfort, but the length of their visits will abbreviate and the time between visits will grow.
The false banners of “Tolerance” and “Pluralism” draped about me do not hide the stench either. The verity in tolerance is found in respect for others' beliefs. I embrace this truth when I respect individuals and seek to understand them as they express and live out their beliefs. I do not respect any belief if I think one is just as good as another, or just as bad as another, that no belief accurately represents reality in any meaningful way. What I call “my truth” is actually a truth du jour with pragmatic utility rather than eternal value. If my truth’s only value is that it is mine, then no other truth can have value because it is not mine. As the stench grows thicker, it ripples the light and the words on the banners shift in and out of vision, we see the word “Tolerance” really reads, “Indifference” and “Pluralism” reads “Particularism.”
Monday, December 19, 2005
e-verities
At his Nobel Prize acceptance speech in Stockholm, Sweden in 1950, William Faulkner, hoping to be heard by young writers, said:
He spoke these words at a point in history when it seemed the USSR and the US stood glaring at one another with trembling fingers poised over buttons that could destroy the world many times over. They caught my attention two decades later, during a summer spent immersed in many other Faulkner writings for which he is more famous. That he identified “love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice” as truth, universal and lasting, reinforced my hope moving-toward-belief that there were things in life that were not “ephemeral and doomed.”
Decades later still--when I found myself reeling, doubting, and feeling doomed even more so than when first forming my beliefs--Faulkner’s words were recalled to me via wordplay encountered surfing the Net. A line in a Publisher’s Weekly news story used, or coined, the word, “e-verities” and brought to my mind Faulkner's “eternal verities.” About that time, some of my students introduced me to blogging, and on an impulse, I began a blog to explore verities. I thought the word, “e-verities,” an appropriate title because the “e” could be an abreviation for “eternal,” “ephemeral,” or “electronic.” The ambiguity of the word reflected the ambiguity of the values being explored and the medium where the exploration was to be recorded.
This post attempts to refocus my purpose. I began e-verities to examine values like those listed by Faulkner: love, honor, pity, pride, compassion, and sacrifice, asking if they are truth, asking if they are eternal, asking if they last beyond this ephemeral and doomed world.
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed--love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, and victories without hope and worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
He spoke these words at a point in history when it seemed the USSR and the US stood glaring at one another with trembling fingers poised over buttons that could destroy the world many times over. They caught my attention two decades later, during a summer spent immersed in many other Faulkner writings for which he is more famous. That he identified “love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice” as truth, universal and lasting, reinforced my hope moving-toward-belief that there were things in life that were not “ephemeral and doomed.”
Decades later still--when I found myself reeling, doubting, and feeling doomed even more so than when first forming my beliefs--Faulkner’s words were recalled to me via wordplay encountered surfing the Net. A line in a Publisher’s Weekly news story used, or coined, the word, “e-verities” and brought to my mind Faulkner's “eternal verities.” About that time, some of my students introduced me to blogging, and on an impulse, I began a blog to explore verities. I thought the word, “e-verities,” an appropriate title because the “e” could be an abreviation for “eternal,” “ephemeral,” or “electronic.” The ambiguity of the word reflected the ambiguity of the values being explored and the medium where the exploration was to be recorded.
This post attempts to refocus my purpose. I began e-verities to examine values like those listed by Faulkner: love, honor, pity, pride, compassion, and sacrifice, asking if they are truth, asking if they are eternal, asking if they last beyond this ephemeral and doomed world.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Accessibility
The week before Thanksgiving, with much inner trepidation and hesitation, I chose to attend Thespian Festival in a wheelchair. I borrowed a loaner from church, and my students hauled it on and off the yellow dog, the school bus, each day for me. The boys would set it up and I would climb down and into the chair, leaving my forearm crutches behind on the bus.
The reason for the trepidation is what I perceive to be a trade off. Each time I've chosen to use some additional assist, I got the desired result—increased mobility—but ultimately lost ability, a classic one step forward and two back. When at age thirty I first began using a cane—to go faster, I told myself—I did not expect to require it for basic mobility at thirty-five, or to need two canes for longer walks by forty. When I began using crutches for occasional longer walks at forty-five, I did not expect to require them to get across the room in my own home at fifty-five.
So as I climbed down off the school bus and into the chair that first morning, I couldn’t shake the dark conviction that I had better be planning ramp construction for my home, and shopping around for a wheelchair I can haul around in the WRX. The therapy and corrective surgery I endured through my childhood had as its goal moving me out of braces and off crutches. Going into a wheelchair is like giving up on a life-long struggle, worse even, a retreat behind my starting point. The only wheelchairs I ever remember using were the obligatory ones required by the hospital when checking out after surgery, and a dim, possibly imagined, memory of using one during that eighteen months I was in the hospital when I first came down with polio.
In my experience, there are no surgeries, assistive aids or techniques that make you "as good as new." No Dr., medical equipment salesperson, vocational counselor, or occupational therapist will use that phrase, not a wise one anyway. Wisdom aside, no one who attends to the advice of Counsel will say “good as new." In this age of litigation, such careless phraseology is an invitation to being sued. Even though I'm not sure anyone would really believe the phrase today. I wouldn't, but perhaps my experience is not normative. I believe all that technology, modern medicine, and modern science can do for the handicapped is “mitigate damage,” a legal term meaning to make better, but not to make whole--a long way, in fact, from "as good as new."
I felt deep reservations about leaving my crutches on the bus almost every time I did it. I didn't trust the chair to get me everywhere I wanted to go, even though I can't get everywhere I want to go even using the crutches--certainly I can't get where I want to go as fast as I want to go using them. It wasn’t logic that made me want to hang on to them. It was an emotional compulsion.
Logically, using a wheelchair was the best decision. I could move around with more ease and speed. In fact, I liked the speed. I haven’t been able to go so fast in decades. I was not as tired at the end of the weekend as I have been in the past. In many ways, I could monitor kids better because I was more mobile. Speed and mobility does not seem to be the choice many people make. I noticed a couple of students at the Festival who were temporarily in wheelchairs. For the most part, they allowed themselves to be placidly pushed around from place to place by a friend. When I reach a point where I have to be in a chair all the time I don’t think I will suffer being pushed around, set off to the side where I can see, and allow myself to be moved to the next overlook as the group and the action move on as long as I have any other option. Who would want to be like that, to be—what—furniture, baggage, a burden to others without even the usefulness of furniture or baggage? That’s pretty strong language as I see it appear on the screen from my fingertips. My logical best decision is still emotionally uncomfortable.
Emotion is probably why I feel it is such a production to haul the chair on and off the bus, but the places that aren't accessible to someone in a wheelchair are objective fact. At one point on our trip, we took an hour and a half at a mall for lunch and shopping. I spent most of our free time locating and using an accessible restroom, locating the lone elevator so I could get to the food court, negotiating a plate of food and a drink to a table, eating, and bussing my own table. At each step, I clocked myself so I could be sure not to get out so far that I didn't have time to get back to the bus by deadline.
Wheeling back to the bus, I estimated I had enough time to browse a bookstore. In the store, I noticed two things right away: First, the aisles between the bookshelves were wide enough to negotiate in my wheelchair. Second, stacks of books had been added to the aisle floors, increasing the books on display--it is after all the beginning of the Christmas shopping season and the more product displayed the greater profit potential. At one turn, I found myself with a book tangled in the wheelchair spokes. It was inadvertently captured during a tight turn through aisle book stacks.
A Doctor once told me a physical difference was a significant life change if you had to modify your lifestyle to accommodate it. If I can’t get lost in books in a bookstore without having my attention yanked out of the books and onto the path my chair is threading through the shelves, then my browsing days are over. I can shop, but not browse. On the other hand, in recent years tired feet and weak legs curtailed my browsing. Later, as I wheeled down the mall, passing strolling shoppers on my way back to the bus, it occurred to me that drink-in-hand strolls do not happen in a wheelchair. It was an odd thought though. Since I have been on crutches, such a stroll has been out of the question, also I do not remember ever strolling drink in hand even when I had a free hand to hold the drink rather than a crutch or a cane. Are these lifestyle changes or minor inconveniences?
If strolling, browsing, clocking my travel time, and always keeping the path to an accessible restroom in mind are minor inconveniences, some of the other trade-offs are potentially major. Spending the day in a wheelchair makes my feet swell more than usual, requiring more prone-with-elevated-feet time to recover. In addition, after the first day, my back hurt in the evening, on into the next day, and continued to hurt until a day after the trip was over. There may have been some additional strain on my back from pushing or sitting in the chair. Finally, after three twelve-to-fifteen-hour days in the chair, I perceived myself to be weaker--less able to walk, though that perception could have been a kind of hypochondria, a negative assessment prompted by my emotional reaction to what I perceived as giving up. In fact, I cannot objectively prove a cause and effect association between any physical setback and the use of any new assist. The physical setback could be caused by age, weight, the illusive post-polio syndrome, or I don’t know what—barometric pressure, maybe? Well, I did say potentially major.
What is truth here? I think the truth is about limited accessibility, but not the kind of accessibility the ADA addresses. My last three months in Abilene nearly thirty years ago I worked as a night shift custodian in the old downtown Timex factory. Three of us were responsible for daily sweeping, dusting, trash emptying, and window cleaning along with a rotating schedule of larger jobs. We were busy. There was really too much to do. I learned quickly that if we did not clean as well as someone I never saw thought we should have, we had to suffer a motivational talk from our supervisor. The result of a couple of motivational talks was a brisk work pace and a little compulsiveness about cleanliness. After two weeks, I noticed that my perspective on my environment had changed. On a walk through a classroom building at school, I noticed every scrap of paper on the floor, every smudge on the windows, etc. etc. I didn’t feel compelled to run around cleaning up everything in sight, but to a certain extent my perceptions were hijacked by my job. This is what I mean by limited accessibility.
When a leisurely lunch and relaxing stroll in a mall is consumed by things like potty runs, transporting a meal to a table and then to the trash, long runs to the lone elevator in a city block, etc.; my perceptions, thoughts, and energies have been hijacked by minutia and I’m left with limited access to my own faculties. I appreciate what the ADA attempts to do. It does help, but like all other assists it is a mitigation of damages. Accessibility is limited and can never be made as good as new.
The reason for the trepidation is what I perceive to be a trade off. Each time I've chosen to use some additional assist, I got the desired result—increased mobility—but ultimately lost ability, a classic one step forward and two back. When at age thirty I first began using a cane—to go faster, I told myself—I did not expect to require it for basic mobility at thirty-five, or to need two canes for longer walks by forty. When I began using crutches for occasional longer walks at forty-five, I did not expect to require them to get across the room in my own home at fifty-five.
So as I climbed down off the school bus and into the chair that first morning, I couldn’t shake the dark conviction that I had better be planning ramp construction for my home, and shopping around for a wheelchair I can haul around in the WRX. The therapy and corrective surgery I endured through my childhood had as its goal moving me out of braces and off crutches. Going into a wheelchair is like giving up on a life-long struggle, worse even, a retreat behind my starting point. The only wheelchairs I ever remember using were the obligatory ones required by the hospital when checking out after surgery, and a dim, possibly imagined, memory of using one during that eighteen months I was in the hospital when I first came down with polio.
In my experience, there are no surgeries, assistive aids or techniques that make you "as good as new." No Dr., medical equipment salesperson, vocational counselor, or occupational therapist will use that phrase, not a wise one anyway. Wisdom aside, no one who attends to the advice of Counsel will say “good as new." In this age of litigation, such careless phraseology is an invitation to being sued. Even though I'm not sure anyone would really believe the phrase today. I wouldn't, but perhaps my experience is not normative. I believe all that technology, modern medicine, and modern science can do for the handicapped is “mitigate damage,” a legal term meaning to make better, but not to make whole--a long way, in fact, from "as good as new."
I felt deep reservations about leaving my crutches on the bus almost every time I did it. I didn't trust the chair to get me everywhere I wanted to go, even though I can't get everywhere I want to go even using the crutches--certainly I can't get where I want to go as fast as I want to go using them. It wasn’t logic that made me want to hang on to them. It was an emotional compulsion.
Logically, using a wheelchair was the best decision. I could move around with more ease and speed. In fact, I liked the speed. I haven’t been able to go so fast in decades. I was not as tired at the end of the weekend as I have been in the past. In many ways, I could monitor kids better because I was more mobile. Speed and mobility does not seem to be the choice many people make. I noticed a couple of students at the Festival who were temporarily in wheelchairs. For the most part, they allowed themselves to be placidly pushed around from place to place by a friend. When I reach a point where I have to be in a chair all the time I don’t think I will suffer being pushed around, set off to the side where I can see, and allow myself to be moved to the next overlook as the group and the action move on as long as I have any other option. Who would want to be like that, to be—what—furniture, baggage, a burden to others without even the usefulness of furniture or baggage? That’s pretty strong language as I see it appear on the screen from my fingertips. My logical best decision is still emotionally uncomfortable.
Emotion is probably why I feel it is such a production to haul the chair on and off the bus, but the places that aren't accessible to someone in a wheelchair are objective fact. At one point on our trip, we took an hour and a half at a mall for lunch and shopping. I spent most of our free time locating and using an accessible restroom, locating the lone elevator so I could get to the food court, negotiating a plate of food and a drink to a table, eating, and bussing my own table. At each step, I clocked myself so I could be sure not to get out so far that I didn't have time to get back to the bus by deadline.
Wheeling back to the bus, I estimated I had enough time to browse a bookstore. In the store, I noticed two things right away: First, the aisles between the bookshelves were wide enough to negotiate in my wheelchair. Second, stacks of books had been added to the aisle floors, increasing the books on display--it is after all the beginning of the Christmas shopping season and the more product displayed the greater profit potential. At one turn, I found myself with a book tangled in the wheelchair spokes. It was inadvertently captured during a tight turn through aisle book stacks.
A Doctor once told me a physical difference was a significant life change if you had to modify your lifestyle to accommodate it. If I can’t get lost in books in a bookstore without having my attention yanked out of the books and onto the path my chair is threading through the shelves, then my browsing days are over. I can shop, but not browse. On the other hand, in recent years tired feet and weak legs curtailed my browsing. Later, as I wheeled down the mall, passing strolling shoppers on my way back to the bus, it occurred to me that drink-in-hand strolls do not happen in a wheelchair. It was an odd thought though. Since I have been on crutches, such a stroll has been out of the question, also I do not remember ever strolling drink in hand even when I had a free hand to hold the drink rather than a crutch or a cane. Are these lifestyle changes or minor inconveniences?
If strolling, browsing, clocking my travel time, and always keeping the path to an accessible restroom in mind are minor inconveniences, some of the other trade-offs are potentially major. Spending the day in a wheelchair makes my feet swell more than usual, requiring more prone-with-elevated-feet time to recover. In addition, after the first day, my back hurt in the evening, on into the next day, and continued to hurt until a day after the trip was over. There may have been some additional strain on my back from pushing or sitting in the chair. Finally, after three twelve-to-fifteen-hour days in the chair, I perceived myself to be weaker--less able to walk, though that perception could have been a kind of hypochondria, a negative assessment prompted by my emotional reaction to what I perceived as giving up. In fact, I cannot objectively prove a cause and effect association between any physical setback and the use of any new assist. The physical setback could be caused by age, weight, the illusive post-polio syndrome, or I don’t know what—barometric pressure, maybe? Well, I did say potentially major.
What is truth here? I think the truth is about limited accessibility, but not the kind of accessibility the ADA addresses. My last three months in Abilene nearly thirty years ago I worked as a night shift custodian in the old downtown Timex factory. Three of us were responsible for daily sweeping, dusting, trash emptying, and window cleaning along with a rotating schedule of larger jobs. We were busy. There was really too much to do. I learned quickly that if we did not clean as well as someone I never saw thought we should have, we had to suffer a motivational talk from our supervisor. The result of a couple of motivational talks was a brisk work pace and a little compulsiveness about cleanliness. After two weeks, I noticed that my perspective on my environment had changed. On a walk through a classroom building at school, I noticed every scrap of paper on the floor, every smudge on the windows, etc. etc. I didn’t feel compelled to run around cleaning up everything in sight, but to a certain extent my perceptions were hijacked by my job. This is what I mean by limited accessibility.
When a leisurely lunch and relaxing stroll in a mall is consumed by things like potty runs, transporting a meal to a table and then to the trash, long runs to the lone elevator in a city block, etc.; my perceptions, thoughts, and energies have been hijacked by minutia and I’m left with limited access to my own faculties. I appreciate what the ADA attempts to do. It does help, but like all other assists it is a mitigation of damages. Accessibility is limited and can never be made as good as new.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Sunday, November 06, 2005
What is Memory?
His name was Bruce, I believe, and I really do not remember much about him other than one fourth-grade day he challenged me to meet him at the bike racks after school to fight. It is as if he appeared in my memories of elementary school saying those words and disappeared after the conflict was over. I do not remember why he wanted to fight me. I do not remember him seeming angry with me even as he challenged me. Nor do I remember being frightened, surprised, anything but ready to meet him. I was ready to fight. I guess I was angry with him at the time he challenged me, but I have no memory of anger. I was certainly mad at him after we met that first time at the bike racks, and I remember why.
Maybe he did not like the way I looked. Now that I look back on it, I must have looked like an unusual kid in the fourth grade. I walked on crutches and I rode a bike to school. It is odd that I do not remember this specifically but I guess I lay the wooden crutches across my bike’s basket, climbed on and rode away. The certain memory I have is that I had the crutches before I climbed on the bike and after I climbed off.
What may have seemed odd to people then was that I could ride a bike at all, but it did not seem odd to me. My left leg and foot just took a free ride on the left pedal because all my motive force came from my right leg. After becoming an adult, I encountered people who expressed amazement that I could ride a bike, but I do not remember anyone saying that when I was a kid. Maybe they thought if they called it to my attention I would suddenly be unable to ride. However, I do not think their amazement would have immobilized or surprised me because they would be expressing amazement at something that was obviously easy and common for me.
It was not just crutches across my bike basket either; I had just begun playing the trombone. I took it back and forth from home to school faithfully so I could practice every night as I was told to do. I remember putting the trombone case across the top of my bike basket. It always reminded me of an airplane wing. I have no memory of it, but I must have put my crutches across my basket in the same way. Seems to me like I used to hold the case, and I guess the crutches, on the top of the basket with a bungee cord. I really do not remember using the crutches all the time in the fifth grade; they were such an extension of me I seldom thought about them.
That huge basket seemed to fit the big beast of a bike I rode. It had what I later learned to call balloon tires, full fenders, and a wide stamped metal tank that housed twin battery powered headlights between the front tire fork and the seat. The bike had come from Sears and Roebuck, a Christmas present, but I bought that basket myself with allowance money and money I got from deposits on bottles I collected from the roadsides and cashed in at the neighborhood grocery store. I bought that extra large basket specifically because it would hold many bottles and I would not have to make so many trips back home while collecting.
To get back to Bruce, I really only have two days worth of memories of him—the two days I met him at the bike rack after school at Wiley Post Elementary School, to fight. Oh, but I cannot tell you any more about Bruce until I tell you something about Wiley Post.
Unlike Bruce who I thought of as a foreigner—a northerner maybe, Wiley Post, after whom our school had been named, was an Oklahoma boy and a famous pilot—though I don’t think he had Indian blood like most of us who attended his namesake school, or like his friend Will Rogers. Post’s plane, a hybrid Lockheed Orion-Explorer writers have termed a “beast,” had the same clunky oversized wing-look my bike had with a trombone case and crutches bungee corded sideways across the top of the basket.
Another thing about Wiley Post was he had a patch over one eye. I always wondered how he could fly without the depth perception two eyes provided, but never asked anyone about it, almost as if I did not think anyone had noticed and I did not want to bring it up lest he be deprived of his chance to fly. Of course, by the time I knew of him he had been dead for several years and could not ever be deprived of his chance to fly, but that did not seem to matter to me. I kept quiet about it anyway.
Because of that eye patch maybe, as I remember, he had a kind of set back, squarish look about his gaze and even about his stance. His squarish, squinty, one-eyed look spoke volumes to me of his bravery in the face of the adventures I knew he must have experienced.
Bruce, on the other hand, had a bean shaped body and a bean shaped head—reminded me of two white navy beans, a small one stacked vertically on top of a big one. His black hair was cropped close. He had button eyes, and walked with a slight tilt forward, as if his forehead always preceded him everywhere he went. He was neat, precise, earnest, bland, and one day for reasons I cannot remember, he challenged me to “meet him at the bike racks after school” to fight.
The day he issued the challenge, I remember being in a crowd of other kids, but I do not remember any of them noticing or commenting on the challenge. I went to the bike racks after school--and here is one of the strange things about this memory--there was no one else there, just Bruce. I have no memory of other kids, no one was there getting bicycles and heading home. Nor were there, in my memory at least, teacher cars parked anywhere. This does not seem possible to me. I have been teaching for over twenty-five years, there is usually at least one teacher car at a school, especially right after school. I do not know why I have no memory of any one else at school. I do remember Bruce being there, standing by the bike racks, waiting. He was wearing a Boy Scout shirt.
We use to do that—wear our scout shirts to school on days we had den or pack meetings. I do not remember anyone wearing a full uniform to school, but scout shirts and blue jeans were a common, if not official, scouting uniform. Bruce was older than the rest of us. We were little fellows, little blue-shirted, yellow-scarved, Cubs. He was brown-shirted, a Boy Scout.
He was waiting by the bike racks as I walked up. I do not remember feeling anything but ready--no fear, no excitement, nothing. Bruce showed no signs of emotion either. He glanced at me in a blank, bland, unemotional way and began walking toward me, looking down and to my right, not meeting my gaze. I almost turned to look to my right when he began talking. He said, “I can’t stay and fight. I gotta go to Scouts.” Simultaneous with the word “Scouts” he punched me in the stomach, turned around and walked away at his steady, plodding, forehead first pace.
I felt emotion then. With the wind knocked out of me, and my stomach hurting, anger and frustration pumped inside my head as I looked at his retreating figure. I did not even try to go after him. In spite of the obvious fact that I could not catch him if he broke into even the slightest run, chasing after him never entered my mind. I have no memory of what happened next. I guess I loaded up my bike and rode home.
At that time, I did not know the meaning of the word “irony,” but through my head-pulsing frustration and rage, I knew the feeling of the word. Bruce did not have time to stay and fight because he had to go to Scouts. Somehow, the hypocrisy of his statement cooled my anger. Even though to many he won that fight--did damage to his enemy and escaped unscathed—I thought his hypocritical statement was a sign of cowardice, both because fighting at the bike-racks was a very un Boy Scout thing to do, and because in uttering it he took a cheap shot and walked away.
I do not remember telling my parents, teachers, or anyone about the “fight.” I did not talk about it until I saw Bruce at school the next day. To my memory we were in the same place, same crowd of students, with the same words said, except this time it was me challenging him. I remember some heat in the words I hurled at his bland face. At the bike racks after school, it was almost the same scene again. Again inexplicably, we were alone, no students, no teachers in sight. Once again, he was waiting. However, this time as I came up on him, he did not advance on me to hit and rationalize. As I stepped up and squared off to face him, he looked to my right again, except this time his eyes were raised looking at some distance behind me. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw my mother rounding the drive that circled up to the school.
It is another inexplicable memory. My mother never picked me up from school. She worked. My memory does not tell me why she was picking me up that day. Maybe there was more general knowledge about the previous day’s “fight” that my memory holds. As soon as Bruce saw her, he turned to walk away again. I remember another flash of anger as I looked at his retreating back. Taking a few steps forward I raised one of my crutches high over my left shoulder with both hands. At the highest stretch of my preparatory move, I remember hearing my mother scream, “Ronnie, no!” At her scream, I paused. Bruce paused. Everything seemed to pause, all the absent students, teachers, even the empty schoolyard. The pause seemed long, thoughtful on my part. But it could have only been a heartbeat, because I brought the flat side of my crutch down across his upper back before the echo of her “no!” drifted into the silence.
“Huh,” was the satisfying sound Bruce made as the solid force of the blow pushed air from his lungs. His arms flew out and he fell forward. A second breath was expelled as his chest hit the ground, “huh, huh!” He got back up immediately, seemingly unhurt. Again, memory fails me. I have a dim memory of him shrugging off my mother’s earnest queries as he turned, eyes averted, towards his home. I have a half memory of my mother scolding me in the car all the way home, but I remember no further consequences, no conferences with teachers, other parents, principals . . . nothing. After that second meeting at the bike rack, I have no further memories of Bruce . . . nothing.
Can memory be truth if it fades in and out like distant music on the wind?
Maybe he did not like the way I looked. Now that I look back on it, I must have looked like an unusual kid in the fourth grade. I walked on crutches and I rode a bike to school. It is odd that I do not remember this specifically but I guess I lay the wooden crutches across my bike’s basket, climbed on and rode away. The certain memory I have is that I had the crutches before I climbed on the bike and after I climbed off.
What may have seemed odd to people then was that I could ride a bike at all, but it did not seem odd to me. My left leg and foot just took a free ride on the left pedal because all my motive force came from my right leg. After becoming an adult, I encountered people who expressed amazement that I could ride a bike, but I do not remember anyone saying that when I was a kid. Maybe they thought if they called it to my attention I would suddenly be unable to ride. However, I do not think their amazement would have immobilized or surprised me because they would be expressing amazement at something that was obviously easy and common for me.
It was not just crutches across my bike basket either; I had just begun playing the trombone. I took it back and forth from home to school faithfully so I could practice every night as I was told to do. I remember putting the trombone case across the top of my bike basket. It always reminded me of an airplane wing. I have no memory of it, but I must have put my crutches across my basket in the same way. Seems to me like I used to hold the case, and I guess the crutches, on the top of the basket with a bungee cord. I really do not remember using the crutches all the time in the fifth grade; they were such an extension of me I seldom thought about them.
That huge basket seemed to fit the big beast of a bike I rode. It had what I later learned to call balloon tires, full fenders, and a wide stamped metal tank that housed twin battery powered headlights between the front tire fork and the seat. The bike had come from Sears and Roebuck, a Christmas present, but I bought that basket myself with allowance money and money I got from deposits on bottles I collected from the roadsides and cashed in at the neighborhood grocery store. I bought that extra large basket specifically because it would hold many bottles and I would not have to make so many trips back home while collecting.
To get back to Bruce, I really only have two days worth of memories of him—the two days I met him at the bike rack after school at Wiley Post Elementary School, to fight. Oh, but I cannot tell you any more about Bruce until I tell you something about Wiley Post.
Unlike Bruce who I thought of as a foreigner—a northerner maybe, Wiley Post, after whom our school had been named, was an Oklahoma boy and a famous pilot—though I don’t think he had Indian blood like most of us who attended his namesake school, or like his friend Will Rogers. Post’s plane, a hybrid Lockheed Orion-Explorer writers have termed a “beast,” had the same clunky oversized wing-look my bike had with a trombone case and crutches bungee corded sideways across the top of the basket.
Another thing about Wiley Post was he had a patch over one eye. I always wondered how he could fly without the depth perception two eyes provided, but never asked anyone about it, almost as if I did not think anyone had noticed and I did not want to bring it up lest he be deprived of his chance to fly. Of course, by the time I knew of him he had been dead for several years and could not ever be deprived of his chance to fly, but that did not seem to matter to me. I kept quiet about it anyway.
Because of that eye patch maybe, as I remember, he had a kind of set back, squarish look about his gaze and even about his stance. His squarish, squinty, one-eyed look spoke volumes to me of his bravery in the face of the adventures I knew he must have experienced.
Bruce, on the other hand, had a bean shaped body and a bean shaped head—reminded me of two white navy beans, a small one stacked vertically on top of a big one. His black hair was cropped close. He had button eyes, and walked with a slight tilt forward, as if his forehead always preceded him everywhere he went. He was neat, precise, earnest, bland, and one day for reasons I cannot remember, he challenged me to “meet him at the bike racks after school” to fight.
The day he issued the challenge, I remember being in a crowd of other kids, but I do not remember any of them noticing or commenting on the challenge. I went to the bike racks after school--and here is one of the strange things about this memory--there was no one else there, just Bruce. I have no memory of other kids, no one was there getting bicycles and heading home. Nor were there, in my memory at least, teacher cars parked anywhere. This does not seem possible to me. I have been teaching for over twenty-five years, there is usually at least one teacher car at a school, especially right after school. I do not know why I have no memory of any one else at school. I do remember Bruce being there, standing by the bike racks, waiting. He was wearing a Boy Scout shirt.
We use to do that—wear our scout shirts to school on days we had den or pack meetings. I do not remember anyone wearing a full uniform to school, but scout shirts and blue jeans were a common, if not official, scouting uniform. Bruce was older than the rest of us. We were little fellows, little blue-shirted, yellow-scarved, Cubs. He was brown-shirted, a Boy Scout.
He was waiting by the bike racks as I walked up. I do not remember feeling anything but ready--no fear, no excitement, nothing. Bruce showed no signs of emotion either. He glanced at me in a blank, bland, unemotional way and began walking toward me, looking down and to my right, not meeting my gaze. I almost turned to look to my right when he began talking. He said, “I can’t stay and fight. I gotta go to Scouts.” Simultaneous with the word “Scouts” he punched me in the stomach, turned around and walked away at his steady, plodding, forehead first pace.
I felt emotion then. With the wind knocked out of me, and my stomach hurting, anger and frustration pumped inside my head as I looked at his retreating figure. I did not even try to go after him. In spite of the obvious fact that I could not catch him if he broke into even the slightest run, chasing after him never entered my mind. I have no memory of what happened next. I guess I loaded up my bike and rode home.
At that time, I did not know the meaning of the word “irony,” but through my head-pulsing frustration and rage, I knew the feeling of the word. Bruce did not have time to stay and fight because he had to go to Scouts. Somehow, the hypocrisy of his statement cooled my anger. Even though to many he won that fight--did damage to his enemy and escaped unscathed—I thought his hypocritical statement was a sign of cowardice, both because fighting at the bike-racks was a very un Boy Scout thing to do, and because in uttering it he took a cheap shot and walked away.
I do not remember telling my parents, teachers, or anyone about the “fight.” I did not talk about it until I saw Bruce at school the next day. To my memory we were in the same place, same crowd of students, with the same words said, except this time it was me challenging him. I remember some heat in the words I hurled at his bland face. At the bike racks after school, it was almost the same scene again. Again inexplicably, we were alone, no students, no teachers in sight. Once again, he was waiting. However, this time as I came up on him, he did not advance on me to hit and rationalize. As I stepped up and squared off to face him, he looked to my right again, except this time his eyes were raised looking at some distance behind me. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw my mother rounding the drive that circled up to the school.
It is another inexplicable memory. My mother never picked me up from school. She worked. My memory does not tell me why she was picking me up that day. Maybe there was more general knowledge about the previous day’s “fight” that my memory holds. As soon as Bruce saw her, he turned to walk away again. I remember another flash of anger as I looked at his retreating back. Taking a few steps forward I raised one of my crutches high over my left shoulder with both hands. At the highest stretch of my preparatory move, I remember hearing my mother scream, “Ronnie, no!” At her scream, I paused. Bruce paused. Everything seemed to pause, all the absent students, teachers, even the empty schoolyard. The pause seemed long, thoughtful on my part. But it could have only been a heartbeat, because I brought the flat side of my crutch down across his upper back before the echo of her “no!” drifted into the silence.
“Huh,” was the satisfying sound Bruce made as the solid force of the blow pushed air from his lungs. His arms flew out and he fell forward. A second breath was expelled as his chest hit the ground, “huh, huh!” He got back up immediately, seemingly unhurt. Again, memory fails me. I have a dim memory of him shrugging off my mother’s earnest queries as he turned, eyes averted, towards his home. I have a half memory of my mother scolding me in the car all the way home, but I remember no further consequences, no conferences with teachers, other parents, principals . . . nothing. After that second meeting at the bike rack, I have no further memories of Bruce . . . nothing.
Can memory be truth if it fades in and out like distant music on the wind?
Monday, October 24, 2005
The Cowardly Trencher Once Again
October 17, 2005 between 9:00 A.M. and 6:00 P.M. the Cowardly Trencher pulled into my yard once again, spun his tires, and dug a double trench through my nearly recovered lawn.
Pathetic
Vacuous
Poisoned with self-induced spite
Ephemeral and even more transient than the blast of noise his stereo spits as he spins and sprays the grass and dirt in a shower across my drive..
Pathetic
Vacuous
Poisoned with self-induced spite
Ephemeral and even more transient than the blast of noise his stereo spits as he spins and sprays the grass and dirt in a shower across my drive..
Monday, September 26, 2005
The Slam Book
Looking at the referring URLs for e-verities visitors in the last week, I came upon a link to http://www.ratemyteachers.com/ . I was reminded of something from my junior high years.
A little over forty years ago, I remember hearing about and seeing an occasional glimpse of something called a "slam book." I remember a spiral-bound notebook decorated outside with glued cutouts and crayon drawings. On the inside, there was one name on each otherwise blank page. The book was passed around and comments were written about the students named on each page. There may also have been some kind of legend identifying the students making comments.
I don't believe I ever read a slam book or even held one in my hands. This was for two reasons. First, junior high principals judged the books to be mean and hurtful in spirit, and therefore confiscated every one they found. Second, the students making and passing them around seemed to me to be part of the "in-group.” Whatever that phrase meant in reality, it had a clear meaning to me. The in-group was not any group that associated with me. In fact, I was so far from being part of any in-group that I was untroubled by the distance. I don't remember ever wanting to read from or write in a slam book. The books and the opinions in them didn't concern me, and I was unconcerned about what the in-group opinions of me were. I reserved my agonies of insecurity for closer relationships.
It now occurs to me the principals may have judged wrongly. The motivation for making slam books was probably more insecurity than meanness. In social groups substituting pretense for openness it seems there might be an aching desire to know what others really think. In fact, in such social groups there might also be an aching desire on the part of in-group members to say what they really think of others.
I suppose students who feel they cannot honestly express negative feelings or opinions about their teachers without fear of unfair reprisal have a real emotional need for the anonymous slam book outlet of RateMyTeacher. In fact, Michael Hussey, developer of the site says one of the reasons he created it was because as a student he had “nowhere to go for constructive criticism without fear of grade retribution." The fear Hussey shares with his anonymous high school raters is possibly the most significant teacher criticism offered, because any teacher reprisal for such expressions would be unprofessional, unethical, and in my opinion immoral.
A cheap-shot rebuttal to this articulated retribution fear would be to say Hussey and the students expect to receive what they know they would dish out. I would rather rebut their criticism by encouraging them to be authentic and open about their feelings and opinions. I would further encourage students to avoid giving anonymous criticism. Anonymity is frequently a prima facie reason for ignoring criticism, and by definition ignored criticism cannot be constructive. Finally, I encourage any criticism, even if anonymous, by posting a link to this cyber slam book below.
The verities here are honesty and transparency, what some have called authenticity. Living authentically brings the eternal part of your being into the here and now. To hide behind pretense (for example, by hurling anonymous criticisms from behind a barricade of false propriety), elevates the ephemeral beyond its true value and crowds real value from your life.
A little over forty years ago, I remember hearing about and seeing an occasional glimpse of something called a "slam book." I remember a spiral-bound notebook decorated outside with glued cutouts and crayon drawings. On the inside, there was one name on each otherwise blank page. The book was passed around and comments were written about the students named on each page. There may also have been some kind of legend identifying the students making comments.
I don't believe I ever read a slam book or even held one in my hands. This was for two reasons. First, junior high principals judged the books to be mean and hurtful in spirit, and therefore confiscated every one they found. Second, the students making and passing them around seemed to me to be part of the "in-group.” Whatever that phrase meant in reality, it had a clear meaning to me. The in-group was not any group that associated with me. In fact, I was so far from being part of any in-group that I was untroubled by the distance. I don't remember ever wanting to read from or write in a slam book. The books and the opinions in them didn't concern me, and I was unconcerned about what the in-group opinions of me were. I reserved my agonies of insecurity for closer relationships.
It now occurs to me the principals may have judged wrongly. The motivation for making slam books was probably more insecurity than meanness. In social groups substituting pretense for openness it seems there might be an aching desire to know what others really think. In fact, in such social groups there might also be an aching desire on the part of in-group members to say what they really think of others.
I suppose students who feel they cannot honestly express negative feelings or opinions about their teachers without fear of unfair reprisal have a real emotional need for the anonymous slam book outlet of RateMyTeacher. In fact, Michael Hussey, developer of the site says one of the reasons he created it was because as a student he had “nowhere to go for constructive criticism without fear of grade retribution." The fear Hussey shares with his anonymous high school raters is possibly the most significant teacher criticism offered, because any teacher reprisal for such expressions would be unprofessional, unethical, and in my opinion immoral.
A cheap-shot rebuttal to this articulated retribution fear would be to say Hussey and the students expect to receive what they know they would dish out. I would rather rebut their criticism by encouraging them to be authentic and open about their feelings and opinions. I would further encourage students to avoid giving anonymous criticism. Anonymity is frequently a prima facie reason for ignoring criticism, and by definition ignored criticism cannot be constructive. Finally, I encourage any criticism, even if anonymous, by posting a link to this cyber slam book below.
The verities here are honesty and transparency, what some have called authenticity. Living authentically brings the eternal part of your being into the here and now. To hide behind pretense (for example, by hurling anonymous criticisms from behind a barricade of false propriety), elevates the ephemeral beyond its true value and crowds real value from your life.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Lovely Rita, hurricane, where would I be without you?
Monday I go to school to teach the SAT prep class at 7:00 A. M. thinking they will settle down and get to work so I can finish uploading my grades to the mainframe. They don’t. Once again many are tardy and two of the regular tardies have to talk their way through the days test section. I’m pretty proud of myself because I’m running ahead of schedule and won’t be going up there at 4:30 A.M. Tuesday to finish exporting grades at the last minute. Suddenly I’m getting “Disk Full” messages from the server in central administration, so I can’t finish my grades. At first, the message is that the grades will not save anywhere, but I manage to force a save to my computer hard drive. I finish recording assignments and do all the necessary steps except for the exporting. Though on days when a third of the class arrives late, I can spend most of the period just delivering the days assignment instructions individually to the tardy students, helping them determine the sections they need to make up. With so many trailing in, making sure my attendance is accurate, takes no small part of the period. After class there are always several of the SAT tardies doing makeup work and asking questions about missing sections.
A1 begins, but less than thirty minutes into class there is a fire alarm. I send all the students to the parking lot and take up my duty station at the door. Through our haphazard emergency communication system of Principals yelling down the hallway, I discover this was an actual alarm set off by one of the sensors in a utility room. The students are outside for ten or twenty minutes before we get an all clear message shouted to us. The students come in jazzed. I struggle for their focus for the remainder of the period, send them on their way and watch my A2 class come in just as jazzed.
Less than thirty minutes into class the fire alarm rings again and we evacuate again. This time the shouted message down the hall is that we have a bomb threat and we will have to keep the students outside until the building is searched. We move the Choir, Dance, and Tech Theatre kids under the shade trees knowing they will be outside a while. After forty-five minutes or so, we get the all clear, but as soon as we are in the classroom, we are told to stay in lockdown. From somewhere I get the message they are bringing in bomb sniffing dogs to check the building. We stay in A2 until about 12:30, nearly an hour longer than usual. They extend third period a bit to get all the students through lunch. We end the day with an abbreviated A4 period.
I get very little exporting completed the morning of such a crazy day even after technology fixes the “disk full” problem, but I turn off the classroom lights during my A3 planning period, retire to my office, and finish exporting grades. After school, I go home and begin watching the Rita storm track. On my way into my neighborhood, I notice HL&P trucks working on our power lines and find every clock inside my house flashing.
I have a Center stages board meeting at 7:00 P.M. that drags on until after 9:00. I go home and am caught up watching the weather reports. Going to bed about 2:00 A.M., I re-set my flashing alarm clock, but wake up at 7:08. I’ve missed the beginning of my SAT prep class! I don’t get to school until 7:45, the end of the class. The students have taken a walk, but I have Three Theatre I students hoping to make up declined performances at the last minute. I open the grade program to upload grade changes for the students, but the computer says, “file full” again. About five minutes before grades are due, the problem is apparently fixed once again and I export the class containing the students who made up their performances that morning. At 8:00, the fire alarm goes off again, but the principal gets on the P.A. and tells us it is a faulty sensor. Turns out the alarms had been going off periodically since about 6:30 A.M.
It’s another crazy day. Students are jazzed again. Rita is in the middle of the Gulf, turning into a category five monster that looks like it is pointed straight at Freeport. I fumble through, actually getting the day's lesson done with the Theatre Arts I classes, and am pleased to hear the district announce school will be turned out for the rest of the week. I hang around school for over an hour backing up my school files to a CD and go home with the intention of grabbing a few things and going to Houston.
At home, my malaise sets in. I decide to leave Wednesday morning. Most of the night I watch weather reports that seem to say Freeport is the Rita bull’s eye. I’m awakened Wednesday by the sound of neighbors boarding up their houses. I get up and begin to putter and dither. If I had not promised Veronica, Roger, and Suzanne I would go to Houston; I might have schlepped around and procrastinated myself into staying in Lake Jackson. I’m headed toward another brown funk—a dorky day. I can’t remember the way Suzanne referred to that when I mentioned it, something like, “not a good mind set.”
I stay with Roger, Suzanne, Christopher, and Laura for the rest of the week, watching constant news updates hour by hour. What first looks like a category five storm aimed for Freeport eventually resolves itself into a category three storm going in at Sabine Pass on the Texas/Louisiana border.
This afternoon I came back home. The house is untouched by the storm that earlier in the week seemed destined to cover it in a twenty-foot storm surge. The B.I.S.D. storm holiday has been extended to Wednesday. By the time it is all over we will have missed a week of school--days we will have to make up later in the year.
A1 begins, but less than thirty minutes into class there is a fire alarm. I send all the students to the parking lot and take up my duty station at the door. Through our haphazard emergency communication system of Principals yelling down the hallway, I discover this was an actual alarm set off by one of the sensors in a utility room. The students are outside for ten or twenty minutes before we get an all clear message shouted to us. The students come in jazzed. I struggle for their focus for the remainder of the period, send them on their way and watch my A2 class come in just as jazzed.
Less than thirty minutes into class the fire alarm rings again and we evacuate again. This time the shouted message down the hall is that we have a bomb threat and we will have to keep the students outside until the building is searched. We move the Choir, Dance, and Tech Theatre kids under the shade trees knowing they will be outside a while. After forty-five minutes or so, we get the all clear, but as soon as we are in the classroom, we are told to stay in lockdown. From somewhere I get the message they are bringing in bomb sniffing dogs to check the building. We stay in A2 until about 12:30, nearly an hour longer than usual. They extend third period a bit to get all the students through lunch. We end the day with an abbreviated A4 period.
I get very little exporting completed the morning of such a crazy day even after technology fixes the “disk full” problem, but I turn off the classroom lights during my A3 planning period, retire to my office, and finish exporting grades. After school, I go home and begin watching the Rita storm track. On my way into my neighborhood, I notice HL&P trucks working on our power lines and find every clock inside my house flashing.
I have a Center stages board meeting at 7:00 P.M. that drags on until after 9:00. I go home and am caught up watching the weather reports. Going to bed about 2:00 A.M., I re-set my flashing alarm clock, but wake up at 7:08. I’ve missed the beginning of my SAT prep class! I don’t get to school until 7:45, the end of the class. The students have taken a walk, but I have Three Theatre I students hoping to make up declined performances at the last minute. I open the grade program to upload grade changes for the students, but the computer says, “file full” again. About five minutes before grades are due, the problem is apparently fixed once again and I export the class containing the students who made up their performances that morning. At 8:00, the fire alarm goes off again, but the principal gets on the P.A. and tells us it is a faulty sensor. Turns out the alarms had been going off periodically since about 6:30 A.M.
It’s another crazy day. Students are jazzed again. Rita is in the middle of the Gulf, turning into a category five monster that looks like it is pointed straight at Freeport. I fumble through, actually getting the day's lesson done with the Theatre Arts I classes, and am pleased to hear the district announce school will be turned out for the rest of the week. I hang around school for over an hour backing up my school files to a CD and go home with the intention of grabbing a few things and going to Houston.
At home, my malaise sets in. I decide to leave Wednesday morning. Most of the night I watch weather reports that seem to say Freeport is the Rita bull’s eye. I’m awakened Wednesday by the sound of neighbors boarding up their houses. I get up and begin to putter and dither. If I had not promised Veronica, Roger, and Suzanne I would go to Houston; I might have schlepped around and procrastinated myself into staying in Lake Jackson. I’m headed toward another brown funk—a dorky day. I can’t remember the way Suzanne referred to that when I mentioned it, something like, “not a good mind set.”
I stay with Roger, Suzanne, Christopher, and Laura for the rest of the week, watching constant news updates hour by hour. What first looks like a category five storm aimed for Freeport eventually resolves itself into a category three storm going in at Sabine Pass on the Texas/Louisiana border.
This afternoon I came back home. The house is untouched by the storm that earlier in the week seemed destined to cover it in a twenty-foot storm surge. The B.I.S.D. storm holiday has been extended to Wednesday. By the time it is all over we will have missed a week of school--days we will have to make up later in the year.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Career Milestone
Her name was Paula.
She was in my Advanced Theatre class over nineteen years ago. She walked into my classroom at Open House this evening with her two high school age children.
She said a lot of nice things--my class was her favorite, I was the only teacher she even remembered, etc. etc. She is trying to persuade at least one of her kids to take Theatre.
The children of my former students are attending Brazoswood.
I'm certifiably an old guy.
She was in my Advanced Theatre class over nineteen years ago. She walked into my classroom at Open House this evening with her two high school age children.
She said a lot of nice things--my class was her favorite, I was the only teacher she even remembered, etc. etc. She is trying to persuade at least one of her kids to take Theatre.
The children of my former students are attending Brazoswood.
I'm certifiably an old guy.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Fingers and Thumbs
Christianity is not known for its diversity, for its tolerance of those who do not conform to group norms. This is our culture’s general perception of Christianity even though the most casual survey of groups calling themselves Christian reveals a surprising diversity of worldviews and lifestyles.
Unfortunately, this Christian diversity sometimes separates itself into homogeneous groups over differences difficult for the general culture to perceive. These subgroups then behave toward each other in ways ranging from benign neglect to open, violent, hostility. Tolerance is highly valued in contemporary culture, and the Christian history of intolerance is a fatal affront. Even the most tolerant and broadminded members of our culture withhold their acceptance from such narrow-minded sectarianism. The only thing the tolerant cannot stand is intolerance.
Accepting this cultural perception of Christianity on its face, I assert that for most individuals personal interactions with Christians are not close encounters with the narrow kind. Face to face, Christians—from as many of the groups claiming the name as I have personal experience—seem more interested in understanding God’s word and in following it’s tenets, than they are in playing a self-righteous version of king on the mountain. Christians actually seek to practice ideals of behavior such as, “Love those who hate you,” a choice contrasting sharply those broadminded people who cannot tolerate the intolerant. While understanding and following God’s word may not be the highest value for these diverse Christian groups, it seems to be an important value.
In fact, in my forty years as a believer I personally have never come face to face with one of the most damning of the general cultural views of Christians: that they celebrate and bolster their self-righteousness by being joyful about the impending or actual destruction of those they deem unrighteous. I simply have not had experiences validating this view. Christians in my personal experience are too acutely aware of their own failings to be anything but uncomfortable with the idea of anyone else "getting what they have got coming to them." These Christians typically rely on grace and strive for perfection rather than claim perfection and withhold grace from others.
This is not to say there are no self-righteous Christians, joyful at the destruction of those they deem sinful. Christians are not perfect; hence the felt need for grace.
Nor is this to say my personal experience is normative. It is not. My faith fellowship is what many would label fundamentalist and sectarian. My heritage is the “anti” congregations of the “non instrument” Churches of Christ, though I have been a member of more mainstream (if these labels can mean anything) Churches of Christ as an adult. Additionally, for the last three decades of my life I have made a personal study of what now seems to me to be the peculiar differences that divide Christians. While I have not been a world explorer of all things Christian, neither have I been cloistered in a sect.
I believe my experience with Christians has not been sheltered from their bad behavior. Certainly, my experience as a Christian has not been sheltered from my own bad behavior. Self-righteousness, judgementalism, and intolerance exist among the Christians—and also in my own heart--but they are not typical attitudes. These attitudes are not characteristic. As a lifelong insider among the fundamentalist sectarians, I believe my non-normative experience would more likely place me in contact with those our culture would expect to be self-righteous, judgmental, and intolerant than the norm. I believe my view of the group’s characteristic behavior is more accurate than the views of outsiders making conclusions based on brief encounters or secondhand information.
Finally, this is not to negate my earlier observation that the rich diversity of Christian groups treat each other with the full range of negative behaviors. It is not unusual to find group behavior falling short of high standards of individual behavior practiced by members of the group. I further assert these negative behaviors are not typical even though the general culture perceives them to be. I believe Christianity is far more diverse and tolerant than the general culture judges it to be.
I submit that diversity is a basic tenet of Christianity. It remains a basic tenet of Christianity in spite of the appearance that Christians divide themselves into homogeneous sub-sects and gaze on one another with suspicion. One of the most compelling arguments for diversity presented in our culture--for like it or not Christianity is part of our culture--comes from an extended metaphor in Christian writings, the one-body metaphor, in First Corinthians, 12:14-20. It is normative for Christians to look to passages like this for standards of behavior to follow in their daily lives. It reads:
The larger context of this passage reveals the metaphor to be part of guidelines about using spiritual gifts, leading some Christians at first glance to limit the passages’ application to “spiritual gifts.” However, a look at the lists in the chapter (12: 8-10 and 28) to define “spiritual gifts” from context broadens the metaphor’s application.
Some of these talents, skills and abilities, these “spiritual gifts,” are miraculous and others are non-miraculous. Mislabeling all spiritual gifts in this passage as miraculous, wrongly limits it. The inclusion of non-miraculous gifts, “faith,” “teaching,” “administration,” and “helping others,” rightly broadens the passages’ application. In another “one body” passage, Romans12:6-21, the list of gifts includes even more non-miraculous, non-religious activity. From these examples, I argue that every aspect of Christian life utilizes spiritual gifts. It follows that the tolerance, acceptance, and diversity presented in the metaphor also extends to every aspect of life.
The one-body metaphor gives an ideal behavior for both the group member who feels alienated from his group and for the group seeking to alienate one of their group. The ideal tells me I cannot deny my place in the group because I am not like them nor because I do not have the position I honor. The ideal also tells a group they cannot deny a place to others merely because they are different. More importantly, the one-body metaphor emphasizes the crucial need for diversity, the homogeneous body can accomplish little, and the diversified body can accomplish much. The body is strong because of diversity not in spite of diversity.
The example is clear. The eye cannot hear. The ear cannot see. All the diverse parts of the body are important. To extend the metaphor further, we note that physiologists and anthropologists say the "opposable thumb" is key to the hand’s remarkable utility and strength. The "opposable thumb" is a characterization that seems inappropriate for something creating utility and strength. The whole concept of something in opposition being positive seems counterintuitive. Thumbs look different from fingers, are placed on the hand differently, and approach hand tasks from a different angle, yet if all these things were not so, the hand’s utility and strength would be diminished.
The application of the example is also clear. The person whose appearance is different, who sees things differently, and who approaches things differently, from a very different perspective, can greatly increase group utility and strength. In fact, that “thumb” may be the person essential to group success. There is no stronger argument for diversity.
However, more needs to be said about opposable thumb. Thumbs actually work in opposition to the fingers? Surely it is foolish to extend the “one body” metaphor this far. It is stretched to the breaking point. It is counterintuitive for a group to embrace a member who is so different they appear to work in opposition to the group. It is counterintuitive for an individual to think he can be an effective member of a group so obviously different from himself. Yet, that is precisely what the one-body passages assert.
During my student days, the college library hung a sign just inside the entrance: “People who work together can have anything they want, including a quiet library.” It's a truism that working together for a common goal in the same spirit, enables success. The one-body passages of Romans and Corinthians also talk about working together for a common goal in the same spirit. Diverse people who accept the shallow conclusion they are too different from one another, and begin treating each other as strangers, all pursuing varied goals, at cross-purposes with one another will not have anything they want. A diverse group of people all pursuing one goal, yielding to one another, respecting the diversity of viewpoints, skills, and approaches, while working together for a common goal, in one spirit, can, as the sign in the library said, have anything.
Unfortunately, this Christian diversity sometimes separates itself into homogeneous groups over differences difficult for the general culture to perceive. These subgroups then behave toward each other in ways ranging from benign neglect to open, violent, hostility. Tolerance is highly valued in contemporary culture, and the Christian history of intolerance is a fatal affront. Even the most tolerant and broadminded members of our culture withhold their acceptance from such narrow-minded sectarianism. The only thing the tolerant cannot stand is intolerance.
Accepting this cultural perception of Christianity on its face, I assert that for most individuals personal interactions with Christians are not close encounters with the narrow kind. Face to face, Christians—from as many of the groups claiming the name as I have personal experience—seem more interested in understanding God’s word and in following it’s tenets, than they are in playing a self-righteous version of king on the mountain. Christians actually seek to practice ideals of behavior such as, “Love those who hate you,” a choice contrasting sharply those broadminded people who cannot tolerate the intolerant. While understanding and following God’s word may not be the highest value for these diverse Christian groups, it seems to be an important value.
In fact, in my forty years as a believer I personally have never come face to face with one of the most damning of the general cultural views of Christians: that they celebrate and bolster their self-righteousness by being joyful about the impending or actual destruction of those they deem unrighteous. I simply have not had experiences validating this view. Christians in my personal experience are too acutely aware of their own failings to be anything but uncomfortable with the idea of anyone else "getting what they have got coming to them." These Christians typically rely on grace and strive for perfection rather than claim perfection and withhold grace from others.
This is not to say there are no self-righteous Christians, joyful at the destruction of those they deem sinful. Christians are not perfect; hence the felt need for grace.
Nor is this to say my personal experience is normative. It is not. My faith fellowship is what many would label fundamentalist and sectarian. My heritage is the “anti” congregations of the “non instrument” Churches of Christ, though I have been a member of more mainstream (if these labels can mean anything) Churches of Christ as an adult. Additionally, for the last three decades of my life I have made a personal study of what now seems to me to be the peculiar differences that divide Christians. While I have not been a world explorer of all things Christian, neither have I been cloistered in a sect.
I believe my experience with Christians has not been sheltered from their bad behavior. Certainly, my experience as a Christian has not been sheltered from my own bad behavior. Self-righteousness, judgementalism, and intolerance exist among the Christians—and also in my own heart--but they are not typical attitudes. These attitudes are not characteristic. As a lifelong insider among the fundamentalist sectarians, I believe my non-normative experience would more likely place me in contact with those our culture would expect to be self-righteous, judgmental, and intolerant than the norm. I believe my view of the group’s characteristic behavior is more accurate than the views of outsiders making conclusions based on brief encounters or secondhand information.
Finally, this is not to negate my earlier observation that the rich diversity of Christian groups treat each other with the full range of negative behaviors. It is not unusual to find group behavior falling short of high standards of individual behavior practiced by members of the group. I further assert these negative behaviors are not typical even though the general culture perceives them to be. I believe Christianity is far more diverse and tolerant than the general culture judges it to be.
I submit that diversity is a basic tenet of Christianity. It remains a basic tenet of Christianity in spite of the appearance that Christians divide themselves into homogeneous sub-sects and gaze on one another with suspicion. One of the most compelling arguments for diversity presented in our culture--for like it or not Christianity is part of our culture--comes from an extended metaphor in Christian writings, the one-body metaphor, in First Corinthians, 12:14-20. It is normative for Christians to look to passages like this for standards of behavior to follow in their daily lives. It reads:
Now the body is not made up of one part but of many. If the foot should say, "Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body," it would not for that reason cease to be part of the body. And if the ear should say, "Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body," it would not for that reason cease to be part of the body. If the whole body were an eye, where would the sense of hearing be? If the whole body were an ear, where would the sense of smell be? But in fact God has arranged the parts in the body, every one of them, just as he wanted them to be. If they were all one part, where would the body be? As it is, there are many parts, but one body. (Net Bible)
The larger context of this passage reveals the metaphor to be part of guidelines about using spiritual gifts, leading some Christians at first glance to limit the passages’ application to “spiritual gifts.” However, a look at the lists in the chapter (12: 8-10 and 28) to define “spiritual gifts” from context broadens the metaphor’s application.
To one there is given through the Spirit the message of wisdom, to another the message of knowledge by means of the same Spirit, to another faith by the same Spirit, to another gifts of healing by that one Spirit, to another miraculous powers, to another prophecy, to another distinguishing between spirits, to another speaking in different kinds of tongues, and to still another the interpretation of tongues.
* * *
. . . in the church God has appointed first of all apostles, second prophets, third teachers, then workers of miracles, also those having gifts of healing, those able to help others, those with gifts of administration, and those speaking in different kinds of tongues. (Net Bible)
Some of these talents, skills and abilities, these “spiritual gifts,” are miraculous and others are non-miraculous. Mislabeling all spiritual gifts in this passage as miraculous, wrongly limits it. The inclusion of non-miraculous gifts, “faith,” “teaching,” “administration,” and “helping others,” rightly broadens the passages’ application. In another “one body” passage, Romans12:6-21, the list of gifts includes even more non-miraculous, non-religious activity. From these examples, I argue that every aspect of Christian life utilizes spiritual gifts. It follows that the tolerance, acceptance, and diversity presented in the metaphor also extends to every aspect of life.
The one-body metaphor gives an ideal behavior for both the group member who feels alienated from his group and for the group seeking to alienate one of their group. The ideal tells me I cannot deny my place in the group because I am not like them nor because I do not have the position I honor. The ideal also tells a group they cannot deny a place to others merely because they are different. More importantly, the one-body metaphor emphasizes the crucial need for diversity, the homogeneous body can accomplish little, and the diversified body can accomplish much. The body is strong because of diversity not in spite of diversity.
The example is clear. The eye cannot hear. The ear cannot see. All the diverse parts of the body are important. To extend the metaphor further, we note that physiologists and anthropologists say the "opposable thumb" is key to the hand’s remarkable utility and strength. The "opposable thumb" is a characterization that seems inappropriate for something creating utility and strength. The whole concept of something in opposition being positive seems counterintuitive. Thumbs look different from fingers, are placed on the hand differently, and approach hand tasks from a different angle, yet if all these things were not so, the hand’s utility and strength would be diminished.
The application of the example is also clear. The person whose appearance is different, who sees things differently, and who approaches things differently, from a very different perspective, can greatly increase group utility and strength. In fact, that “thumb” may be the person essential to group success. There is no stronger argument for diversity.
However, more needs to be said about opposable thumb. Thumbs actually work in opposition to the fingers? Surely it is foolish to extend the “one body” metaphor this far. It is stretched to the breaking point. It is counterintuitive for a group to embrace a member who is so different they appear to work in opposition to the group. It is counterintuitive for an individual to think he can be an effective member of a group so obviously different from himself. Yet, that is precisely what the one-body passages assert.
During my student days, the college library hung a sign just inside the entrance: “People who work together can have anything they want, including a quiet library.” It's a truism that working together for a common goal in the same spirit, enables success. The one-body passages of Romans and Corinthians also talk about working together for a common goal in the same spirit. Diverse people who accept the shallow conclusion they are too different from one another, and begin treating each other as strangers, all pursuing varied goals, at cross-purposes with one another will not have anything they want. A diverse group of people all pursuing one goal, yielding to one another, respecting the diversity of viewpoints, skills, and approaches, while working together for a common goal, in one spirit, can, as the sign in the library said, have anything.
By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another. (NIV, John 13:35)
Sunday, August 07, 2005
In-service, Day 1, Poor Judd is Dead
8:30 A.M. Ethyl and Imogene?
Who in the world are these people?
Student Council paid these two to come in and talk to the staff? Full costumes, makeup, props, scripted comic whatever. Actually, I'm thinking it is improvisational in places, 'cause I just saw them fumble the hand off. Imogene's mike keeps going out and in.
"Imogene" looks and sounds like a history teacher from Freeport I taught summer school with ten years ago. She told me in the faculty lounge at lunch one time that people "like me," alluding to my long hair, would give opinions "like that." I don't even remember the subject or opinion, but the comment stuck in my memory. You remember how people treat you long after you forget what you've talked about. Suddenly this last year this nemesis from the past was one of the teachers who shared my classroom. As we reacquainted ourselves, she made a point to complement me on what I had "done with the program." I got the sense she was trying to make up for her past comments.
These performers may be giving us an attempt at comedy rather than trying to give us some kind of message. I've just noticed they are doing many lines, comic lines, without connecting physical reactions. Actually, that's Imogene who is so frozen. Turns out, she was a Theatre teacher. Another reason I should not try to act in community productions.
I'm thinking that maybe they are trying to send us a message using negative examples. The first skit is in the chairs in the center, and then they go to the tables on the side. Full prop set-up. However, they need to be elevated so everyone can see them. Too big an audience for a floor level performance.
"Imogene" also looks and sounds like one of our counselors that later was in our lunch party. She said then several people thought she was the performer at first. This was not really a compliment, I don't think, but the faculty person didn't seem to pick up on that.
Okay I guess the intent is to make us laugh and brighten our spirits. The APs have time to fill during campus workshops and so there is pressure to fill the slots, regardless. There is no comprehensive plan and no needs assessment by the teachers, so the APs choose what is at hand. I guess motivation is a better choice than others they could have made.
I remember developing and presenting workshops for Region 10 during the years I worked there. We would take interest inventories from staff in the region and then I would get data and prepare in-service presentations on the identified needs, but there was a lot of discretion in the selection. Even with extensive needs assessments, I'm not sure the exact people who identified the needs ever were delivered the workshops they identified.
The performers are now calling some of our faculty members to the stage and giving "awards." I wonder if these are set ups or improvisational? The first two teachers are hamming it up and I can see the performers struggling to keep the segment going in the planned direction. No set-ups here. The teachers are being too cute, so the performers are having a tough time keeping up the premise. Now they have one of the APs up. She will play it straight. After the first two teachers, the performers dropped off the script long enough to say, "I don't want to call anyone else up here. This is the craziest school I've ever been to."
Now they are doing a back stage change (al la Greater Tuna, except not as fast).
It's 9:14 A.M., and they are scheduled to go until 9:30 A.M. so I think we only have a bit more to endure. I'm thinking there is an intended message after all, about the dedication and devotion of teachers who are not recognized for their work and achievements. They picked a mythical "Dorothy Watson," who dies in the course of the play, and talk about all the things she did for students. Then suddenly the characters are deciding to retire and going over the things they can do on teacher retirement money. Substitute teaching? Now they are back to all the things Dorothy Watson did for which she received no honor while living.
They are digging a deep hole of sadness here.
At 9:20, they haven't made the change. I wonder where the inspirational part is coming in.
Okay here it is, at 9:23. There are hundreds of people of people at the Dorothy Watson funeral. Everyone is recognizing her decades of devotion. Watson's students have gone on to do great things, etc. etc.
Except it is getting too sentimental, too cloying for me, and it is not motivational for me to think of recognition received only over a tombstone. Reminds me of the song from Oklahoma in which Curley tries to persuade Judd to commit suicide by telling him how much everyone will be sorry for how they treated him while he was alive.
At 9:25 one performer, Melissa by actual name, begins to make a personal testimonial about her thirty years of teaching. She talks while taking her wig off, falsies out. At 9:29 the other performer, Rhonda, comes out and makes her testimonial. She talks of the teachers who helped her grow up. Now she talks about her acting partner, her high school drama teacher.
We're into 9:31 and the other lady is making her final send off, the serious message---a baby bird metaphor. The set-up includes make-up mirrors. They are stripping make-up and making these final monologues/testimonials.
Ended at 9:41.
So it looks like Rhonda is going around doing these humorous performances with her former high school Theatre teacher, Melissa. Inspirational, motivational presentations to boost morale etc. etc. etc.
My morale is not boosted.
Poor Judd is dead.
A candle lights his head.
He's looking oh so pretty and serene,
And folks are feelin' sad,
Cause they use to treat him bad,
And now they know their friend is gone for good.
Ephemeral stuff, this, except for the bit about people remembering how you treat them longer than they remember what you've talked about.
Who in the world are these people?
Student Council paid these two to come in and talk to the staff? Full costumes, makeup, props, scripted comic whatever. Actually, I'm thinking it is improvisational in places, 'cause I just saw them fumble the hand off. Imogene's mike keeps going out and in.
"Imogene" looks and sounds like a history teacher from Freeport I taught summer school with ten years ago. She told me in the faculty lounge at lunch one time that people "like me," alluding to my long hair, would give opinions "like that." I don't even remember the subject or opinion, but the comment stuck in my memory. You remember how people treat you long after you forget what you've talked about. Suddenly this last year this nemesis from the past was one of the teachers who shared my classroom. As we reacquainted ourselves, she made a point to complement me on what I had "done with the program." I got the sense she was trying to make up for her past comments.
These performers may be giving us an attempt at comedy rather than trying to give us some kind of message. I've just noticed they are doing many lines, comic lines, without connecting physical reactions. Actually, that's Imogene who is so frozen. Turns out, she was a Theatre teacher. Another reason I should not try to act in community productions.
I'm thinking that maybe they are trying to send us a message using negative examples. The first skit is in the chairs in the center, and then they go to the tables on the side. Full prop set-up. However, they need to be elevated so everyone can see them. Too big an audience for a floor level performance.
"Imogene" also looks and sounds like one of our counselors that later was in our lunch party. She said then several people thought she was the performer at first. This was not really a compliment, I don't think, but the faculty person didn't seem to pick up on that.
Okay I guess the intent is to make us laugh and brighten our spirits. The APs have time to fill during campus workshops and so there is pressure to fill the slots, regardless. There is no comprehensive plan and no needs assessment by the teachers, so the APs choose what is at hand. I guess motivation is a better choice than others they could have made.
I remember developing and presenting workshops for Region 10 during the years I worked there. We would take interest inventories from staff in the region and then I would get data and prepare in-service presentations on the identified needs, but there was a lot of discretion in the selection. Even with extensive needs assessments, I'm not sure the exact people who identified the needs ever were delivered the workshops they identified.
The performers are now calling some of our faculty members to the stage and giving "awards." I wonder if these are set ups or improvisational? The first two teachers are hamming it up and I can see the performers struggling to keep the segment going in the planned direction. No set-ups here. The teachers are being too cute, so the performers are having a tough time keeping up the premise. Now they have one of the APs up. She will play it straight. After the first two teachers, the performers dropped off the script long enough to say, "I don't want to call anyone else up here. This is the craziest school I've ever been to."
Now they are doing a back stage change (al la Greater Tuna, except not as fast).
It's 9:14 A.M., and they are scheduled to go until 9:30 A.M. so I think we only have a bit more to endure. I'm thinking there is an intended message after all, about the dedication and devotion of teachers who are not recognized for their work and achievements. They picked a mythical "Dorothy Watson," who dies in the course of the play, and talk about all the things she did for students. Then suddenly the characters are deciding to retire and going over the things they can do on teacher retirement money. Substitute teaching? Now they are back to all the things Dorothy Watson did for which she received no honor while living.
They are digging a deep hole of sadness here.
At 9:20, they haven't made the change. I wonder where the inspirational part is coming in.
Okay here it is, at 9:23. There are hundreds of people of people at the Dorothy Watson funeral. Everyone is recognizing her decades of devotion. Watson's students have gone on to do great things, etc. etc.
Except it is getting too sentimental, too cloying for me, and it is not motivational for me to think of recognition received only over a tombstone. Reminds me of the song from Oklahoma in which Curley tries to persuade Judd to commit suicide by telling him how much everyone will be sorry for how they treated him while he was alive.
At 9:25 one performer, Melissa by actual name, begins to make a personal testimonial about her thirty years of teaching. She talks while taking her wig off, falsies out. At 9:29 the other performer, Rhonda, comes out and makes her testimonial. She talks of the teachers who helped her grow up. Now she talks about her acting partner, her high school drama teacher.
We're into 9:31 and the other lady is making her final send off, the serious message---a baby bird metaphor. The set-up includes make-up mirrors. They are stripping make-up and making these final monologues/testimonials.
Ended at 9:41.
So it looks like Rhonda is going around doing these humorous performances with her former high school Theatre teacher, Melissa. Inspirational, motivational presentations to boost morale etc. etc. etc.
My morale is not boosted.
Poor Judd is dead.
A candle lights his head.
He's looking oh so pretty and serene,
And folks are feelin' sad,
Cause they use to treat him bad,
And now they know their friend is gone for good.
Ephemeral stuff, this, except for the bit about people remembering how you treat them longer than they remember what you've talked about.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Tale from the Tech Booth
So I'm up at Centerstages helping to light a show and an acquaintance, one of the regulars out there, drops by the tech booth to chat. As we talk theatre stuff and inconsequentials, she steers the conversation toward the subject of Connie and Bruce. This is a pattern I have grown to recognize. I begin to pull in my emotions and prepare for an uncomfortable moment or two.
It usually begins with commiseration, "I don't know how you got through it," or some such. Then a gentle tugging, an attempt to pull out my feelings, i.e. "It must have been rough," etc. I usually try to be honest without being explicit or detailed.
This time I said, "It was the worst thing I've ever been through, and it's probably obvious I'm not completely through it yet."
She said, "I don't know Connie very well, but from what I know of Bruce I can't find it in me to respect the man."
"I'm sure he has his good qualities, but he is not one of my favorite people right now," I offer, "I guess everyone would expect that opinion from me."
"Well, I don't think much of him, going after another man's wife like that, and there was that other married woman he was also seeing at the same time he was seeing Connie."
I'm stunned. I wonder what this is all about. The acquaintance doesn't seem to be eyeing me to see my reaction. I judge she is just venting her own feelings. I manage to tell her my feelings and then stop, "I'm sorry to hear that. It makes me sad."
"Well," she said, "I may be wrong--maybe it wasn't while he was seeing Connie, but it was just before she left you."
"I still love her, and I hoped at least one consequence of this mess might be she would be happy." I shut myself down.
I kept myself from saying more. I was about to spill over. I've decided if talking about it could have saved the marriage, then it would have been saved, because I have a lot of words. They flow from me as if I have what my mother so crudely use to call "diarrhea of the mouth." I'm glad I didn't let myself be pulled into giving details.
"I don't know," she is dropping into a tone of wry regret, "a man who doesn't respect other's wedding vows probably won't respect his own. I couldn't be happy with someone like that."
I have nothing to say. I don't dare open up any more. After a brief silence we drift back into conversation about inconsequentials.
Afterwards, I'm sad for days.
It usually begins with commiseration, "I don't know how you got through it," or some such. Then a gentle tugging, an attempt to pull out my feelings, i.e. "It must have been rough," etc. I usually try to be honest without being explicit or detailed.
This time I said, "It was the worst thing I've ever been through, and it's probably obvious I'm not completely through it yet."
She said, "I don't know Connie very well, but from what I know of Bruce I can't find it in me to respect the man."
"I'm sure he has his good qualities, but he is not one of my favorite people right now," I offer, "I guess everyone would expect that opinion from me."
"Well, I don't think much of him, going after another man's wife like that, and there was that other married woman he was also seeing at the same time he was seeing Connie."
I'm stunned. I wonder what this is all about. The acquaintance doesn't seem to be eyeing me to see my reaction. I judge she is just venting her own feelings. I manage to tell her my feelings and then stop, "I'm sorry to hear that. It makes me sad."
"Well," she said, "I may be wrong--maybe it wasn't while he was seeing Connie, but it was just before she left you."
"I still love her, and I hoped at least one consequence of this mess might be she would be happy." I shut myself down.
I kept myself from saying more. I was about to spill over. I've decided if talking about it could have saved the marriage, then it would have been saved, because I have a lot of words. They flow from me as if I have what my mother so crudely use to call "diarrhea of the mouth." I'm glad I didn't let myself be pulled into giving details.
"I don't know," she is dropping into a tone of wry regret, "a man who doesn't respect other's wedding vows probably won't respect his own. I couldn't be happy with someone like that."
I have nothing to say. I don't dare open up any more. After a brief silence we drift back into conversation about inconsequentials.
Afterwards, I'm sad for days.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Like a Ghost Who Continues to Haunt You
Okay, so what is now years ago, I'm in what at that time was a rare argument with my then-wife, Connie. I think I know her better than I know anyone else in the world. I know I love and trust her more than anyone else in the world. She is saying unbelievable, never-heard-before things to and about me: "I don't love her." "I never was a good husband or father." "Bruce (her "special friend") will be so much better a father for our son than I." At one particularly low point she said she "wished I was dead." I am reeling in shock at what she is saying, at her never before seen or heard vitriolic anger.
I manage to form words I thought would console her, or defuse her, or something her, "You are upset, you can't possibly mean what you are saying."
She explodes, "Don't tell me what I mean. The only time I say what I really mean is when I'm angry. The rest of the time I say what I think I'm supposed to say."
"So unless you are angry, you are not really telling me truthfully what you think?" I'm dizzy, heart palpitating, veering between crying in frustration and laughing at the absurd statement.
"Yes, I have to be angry to say what I really think!" Discussion ended. No more words to be said or listened to.
So today, here I am listening to phone messages from her inviting me over to her house tomorrow afternoon for an informal birthday party she is giving our son.
But there is still more background:
For the last two years Connie and Bruce have ignored me whenever we meet in public and no one we know is near. However, when there are observers--people we know--nearby Connie and Bruce are civil, even cordial.
In addition, the other party she had for my son recently was a cast party for one of my play casts last year. I found out there was a party when one embarrassed kid asked me if I would be upset at students who went to the "secret party." I pretended to know all about it, feigned exhaustion as my reason for not attending, and reassured the kid it wasn't really a secret party.
Finally please note: While we were married Connie never was comfortable hosting a cast party. Out of a hundred productions, I can count on one hand the times we hosted my students.
So with the swirling nightmare above as context, today I find myself listening to her recorded messages to see if she sounds angry so I can decide if this is a sincere invitation or something else.
I wryly decide she is probably insincere because she doesn't sound angry. After a moment the absurdity of this whole convoluted nightmare hits me and I begin to laugh.
More than one consoling person has told me--with a direct gaze and falling inflections--that, "Divorce is like a death" * pause, deep look * "You have to go through the stages of grieving."
If that is true, then an ex is like a ghost who continues to haunt you long after death. I don't believe exorcism is one of the stages of grief. It should be.
I manage to form words I thought would console her, or defuse her, or something her, "You are upset, you can't possibly mean what you are saying."
She explodes, "Don't tell me what I mean. The only time I say what I really mean is when I'm angry. The rest of the time I say what I think I'm supposed to say."
"So unless you are angry, you are not really telling me truthfully what you think?" I'm dizzy, heart palpitating, veering between crying in frustration and laughing at the absurd statement.
"Yes, I have to be angry to say what I really think!" Discussion ended. No more words to be said or listened to.
So today, here I am listening to phone messages from her inviting me over to her house tomorrow afternoon for an informal birthday party she is giving our son.
But there is still more background:
For the last two years Connie and Bruce have ignored me whenever we meet in public and no one we know is near. However, when there are observers--people we know--nearby Connie and Bruce are civil, even cordial.
In addition, the other party she had for my son recently was a cast party for one of my play casts last year. I found out there was a party when one embarrassed kid asked me if I would be upset at students who went to the "secret party." I pretended to know all about it, feigned exhaustion as my reason for not attending, and reassured the kid it wasn't really a secret party.
Finally please note: While we were married Connie never was comfortable hosting a cast party. Out of a hundred productions, I can count on one hand the times we hosted my students.
So with the swirling nightmare above as context, today I find myself listening to her recorded messages to see if she sounds angry so I can decide if this is a sincere invitation or something else.
I wryly decide she is probably insincere because she doesn't sound angry. After a moment the absurdity of this whole convoluted nightmare hits me and I begin to laugh.
More than one consoling person has told me--with a direct gaze and falling inflections--that, "Divorce is like a death" * pause, deep look * "You have to go through the stages of grieving."
If that is true, then an ex is like a ghost who continues to haunt you long after death. I don't believe exorcism is one of the stages of grief. It should be.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Where the pygmies rule, everybody else has to crouch.
I believe Richard Mitchell's writings are out of print. They are worthy reads. Check the link for internet copies. Below is a short excerpt from one of my favorite sections. Though the metaphor is not original ("Bureaucracy is a giant mechanism operated by pygmies." Honore de Balzac), Mitchell's use of it to describe our schools is dead on.
Where the pygmies rule, everybody else has to crouch.
"For years, I have been looking around for the key, the master metaphor, the one striking analogy that would clarify and dramatize the nature of our schools. They are . . . like some island nation in which the traditional, mild, but inefficient governance once exercised by a genteel but effete and distracted aristocracy has been taken over, without any bloodshed at all, by bands of persistent pygmies from the unexplored interior. The less than worldly aristocrats, far more interested in watching for comets and collecting Lepidoptera than in zoning rules and customs control, were not displeased to accede when the pygmies drifted in and offered to do all the hard work. It seemed such a good idea at the time, but by now the pygmies are in charge of everything, and the bemused aristocrats, whose ancestral estates have been converted to miniature golf courses, find that they are sipping their soup out of very small spoons."
Mitchell, Richard. The Graves of Academe. Accessed 25 December 2004.
Where the pygmies rule, everybody else has to crouch.
"For years, I have been looking around for the key, the master metaphor, the one striking analogy that would clarify and dramatize the nature of our schools. They are . . . like some island nation in which the traditional, mild, but inefficient governance once exercised by a genteel but effete and distracted aristocracy has been taken over, without any bloodshed at all, by bands of persistent pygmies from the unexplored interior. The less than worldly aristocrats, far more interested in watching for comets and collecting Lepidoptera than in zoning rules and customs control, were not displeased to accede when the pygmies drifted in and offered to do all the hard work. It seemed such a good idea at the time, but by now the pygmies are in charge of everything, and the bemused aristocrats, whose ancestral estates have been converted to miniature golf courses, find that they are sipping their soup out of very small spoons."
Mitchell, Richard. The Graves of Academe. Accessed 25 December 2004.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Character Below the Belt
Bland buttocks untouched by light.
Flaccid, blank mange moons,
Balling beneath, puckered waistband, beige belt.
An ash ass undistinguished from the
Moon face ascendant,
Obverse facing, obtuse face,
Crowning brittle, black, comb over,
Wisping, above the pale forehorizon.
Below, blank craters and black pebble pupils.
Slow blink blinding as
Parsing lips push out:
“I’m so, so, sorry . . . We couldn't help it.”
Self-absolving, self-absorbed,
Slipping responsibility,
Fleeing free will,
Avoiding agency, guilt, blame,
Character slumps below the belt.
Flaccid, blank mange moons,
Balling beneath, puckered waistband, beige belt.
An ash ass undistinguished from the
Moon face ascendant,
Obverse facing, obtuse face,
Crowning brittle, black, comb over,
Wisping, above the pale forehorizon.
Below, blank craters and black pebble pupils.
Slow blink blinding as
Parsing lips push out:
“I’m so, so, sorry . . . We couldn't help it.”
Self-absolving, self-absorbed,
Slipping responsibility,
Fleeing free will,
Avoiding agency, guilt, blame,
Character slumps below the belt.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Job and Losing Children
Recently I read a poem as part of the funeral services for a girl who grew up in our congregation. Though she was nearly thirty when she died, my strongest memories of her are as a young teen. I have known the family for nearly two decades and watched the girl grow up. The event filled me with feelings and fears of loss.
Reading the poem was surprisingly difficult. I felt for the parents' loss, but the strongest feelings came because I couldn't separate the event from the possible loss of my own children. I was nearly wrecked emotionally. I have always lived close to my emotions and have only recently had urges to bury them or hide from them. Because my emotions tend to be on the surface, they do not usually surprise me, but recently, I have been startled by a rush of feelings coming from nowhere to hijack me. When I stood in front of the congregation, my old performance focus asserted itself, but for two hours before I began to read I was a sweating, heart-thumping wreck. After the funeral, I couldn't shake the malaise that set in.
Rolled into this was an e-mail from my oldest friend about the death of a young person from his congregation and the grief of the parents. The grief and loss put my friend in mind of Job. He mentioned this to the father of the lost child. The father responded that he hoped he was not like Job. My friend asked me if I thought Job had a good ending.
My first thought was, I don't know. Our Wednesday night class has been reading through Philip Yancey's book Disappointed With God, a topical study on spiritual alienation drawn from Job. I've given our study only fragmentary attention, but after the funeral, I went back, looked at Job, and decided I may have never given it any close attention. I remember reading bits and pieces; maybe I've even attempted to read completely through it in my personal study. Several years ago, I read the Bible in one of those congregational programs, Read Through the Bible in One Year. I'm sure I ran my eyes all the way through Job with some level of consciousness then, but I have no memories of the text details. So what do I know about Job? Perhaps I'm too ignorant to have an opinion.
I've had contact with the book; why do I not remember it? I've read about Job, heard my good friend preach a sermon on Job, and discussed the book with him before. I've been in the play J.B, Archibald McLeish's poetic dramatization of Job. (During rehearsals, when a question about the biblical source came up, i.e.: "Did Job's wife really tell him to curse God and die?" The director would answer--in this case, "yes"--and say, "It's somewhere in Ecclesiastes." At that time I couldn't remember anyone anywhere in the Bible saying, "curse God and die" and went digging through Ecclesiastes, to discover Job wasn't there; he's in Job). I've listened to other sermons from it, but didn't retain any comprehensive detailed knowledge, probably some kind of avoidance on my part. In fact, that may be the significant question. Have I been avoiding thoughts of Job for my whole life? I want to be God's man, but Job? He's not the role model that leaps to mind. The price he paid for faith was fearful. My petty struggles have nearly overwhelmed me. I'm afraid I couldn't be a Job. In that sense I'm like the grieving father, I hope I'm not like Job.
I do think Job has a good ending, but I think how good the ending seems to a person depends somewhat on their personal emotional perspective. One who has just lost a child may not wish to be like Job, mindful of the other things Job lost. Being like Job would mean many more losses to come.
There has been a time recently when the merest passing thought of losing my children, or my parents sent me into a heart palpitating panic. I was loss sensitized. The loss of Connie, our marriage, my family--at least as I had always thought of them; also, the loss of my life, as I had always thought of it. These losses were almost more than I could bear. They took me to the edge, where I remain, occasionally glancing into the abyss. The idea of more loss immobilized me. I could barely see through the loss I was experiencing. The prospect of further loss blanked out everything.
After a deep loss, one can't see through the grief and pain to any ending, good or bad, and the thought of further loss is unbearable. In my experience, strong emotion can blind one even to a visceral reality, can blind one to an obvious-to-others truth, and certainly can blind one to the intangible belief that situations will end well no matter how bad they look in the present. It's in this black pit that one encounters thoughts of suicide, the abyss below the blank grey future.
Then too the "good" ending of Job involves what appear, superficially, to be replacement children, "And he also had seven sons and three daughters." (Job 42:13) I have no problem with replacement possessions, but I feel no other children could fill the emptiness created by the loss of Phillip or Veronica. While other children would be their own blessing, at best they would be a kind of mitigation of heart damage, not a doubling of, nor a replacement of the blessings of being Veronica's and Phillip's father.
These are strong feelings and I'm afraid they exaggerate earthly experiences above their true status. To God, I'm sure, the earthly relationship of father/child is ephemeral, brief. So regardless of how I feel, the important qualities of the love I share with my children must be the eternal ones, and not those qualities and experiences dependent on physical, earthly proximity. I understand scripture to say our eternal relationships are most important to God. Compelling evidence of this to me is God sent his son Jesus to earth to be tortured and die at the hands of those in open rebellion to Him. It is my understanding this sacrifice was made so everyone could be reconciled to Him for eternity. It is my feeling that this sacrifice could only be made when the true verity is eternal love and not earthly physical associations. Sitting in a puddle of my earth spattered feelings I stretch to embrace the eternal qualities of love.
In his e-mail, my friend's final view of Job is precise, clear, and on target. As is frequently the case, he's a pillar anchored in bedrock and I'm a wood chip on the waves. He wrote:
Reading the poem was surprisingly difficult. I felt for the parents' loss, but the strongest feelings came because I couldn't separate the event from the possible loss of my own children. I was nearly wrecked emotionally. I have always lived close to my emotions and have only recently had urges to bury them or hide from them. Because my emotions tend to be on the surface, they do not usually surprise me, but recently, I have been startled by a rush of feelings coming from nowhere to hijack me. When I stood in front of the congregation, my old performance focus asserted itself, but for two hours before I began to read I was a sweating, heart-thumping wreck. After the funeral, I couldn't shake the malaise that set in.
Rolled into this was an e-mail from my oldest friend about the death of a young person from his congregation and the grief of the parents. The grief and loss put my friend in mind of Job. He mentioned this to the father of the lost child. The father responded that he hoped he was not like Job. My friend asked me if I thought Job had a good ending.
My first thought was, I don't know. Our Wednesday night class has been reading through Philip Yancey's book Disappointed With God, a topical study on spiritual alienation drawn from Job. I've given our study only fragmentary attention, but after the funeral, I went back, looked at Job, and decided I may have never given it any close attention. I remember reading bits and pieces; maybe I've even attempted to read completely through it in my personal study. Several years ago, I read the Bible in one of those congregational programs, Read Through the Bible in One Year. I'm sure I ran my eyes all the way through Job with some level of consciousness then, but I have no memories of the text details. So what do I know about Job? Perhaps I'm too ignorant to have an opinion.
I've had contact with the book; why do I not remember it? I've read about Job, heard my good friend preach a sermon on Job, and discussed the book with him before. I've been in the play J.B, Archibald McLeish's poetic dramatization of Job. (During rehearsals, when a question about the biblical source came up, i.e.: "Did Job's wife really tell him to curse God and die?" The director would answer--in this case, "yes"--and say, "It's somewhere in Ecclesiastes." At that time I couldn't remember anyone anywhere in the Bible saying, "curse God and die" and went digging through Ecclesiastes, to discover Job wasn't there; he's in Job). I've listened to other sermons from it, but didn't retain any comprehensive detailed knowledge, probably some kind of avoidance on my part. In fact, that may be the significant question. Have I been avoiding thoughts of Job for my whole life? I want to be God's man, but Job? He's not the role model that leaps to mind. The price he paid for faith was fearful. My petty struggles have nearly overwhelmed me. I'm afraid I couldn't be a Job. In that sense I'm like the grieving father, I hope I'm not like Job.
I do think Job has a good ending, but I think how good the ending seems to a person depends somewhat on their personal emotional perspective. One who has just lost a child may not wish to be like Job, mindful of the other things Job lost. Being like Job would mean many more losses to come.
There has been a time recently when the merest passing thought of losing my children, or my parents sent me into a heart palpitating panic. I was loss sensitized. The loss of Connie, our marriage, my family--at least as I had always thought of them; also, the loss of my life, as I had always thought of it. These losses were almost more than I could bear. They took me to the edge, where I remain, occasionally glancing into the abyss. The idea of more loss immobilized me. I could barely see through the loss I was experiencing. The prospect of further loss blanked out everything.
After a deep loss, one can't see through the grief and pain to any ending, good or bad, and the thought of further loss is unbearable. In my experience, strong emotion can blind one even to a visceral reality, can blind one to an obvious-to-others truth, and certainly can blind one to the intangible belief that situations will end well no matter how bad they look in the present. It's in this black pit that one encounters thoughts of suicide, the abyss below the blank grey future.
Then too the "good" ending of Job involves what appear, superficially, to be replacement children, "And he also had seven sons and three daughters." (Job 42:13) I have no problem with replacement possessions, but I feel no other children could fill the emptiness created by the loss of Phillip or Veronica. While other children would be their own blessing, at best they would be a kind of mitigation of heart damage, not a doubling of, nor a replacement of the blessings of being Veronica's and Phillip's father.
These are strong feelings and I'm afraid they exaggerate earthly experiences above their true status. To God, I'm sure, the earthly relationship of father/child is ephemeral, brief. So regardless of how I feel, the important qualities of the love I share with my children must be the eternal ones, and not those qualities and experiences dependent on physical, earthly proximity. I understand scripture to say our eternal relationships are most important to God. Compelling evidence of this to me is God sent his son Jesus to earth to be tortured and die at the hands of those in open rebellion to Him. It is my understanding this sacrifice was made so everyone could be reconciled to Him for eternity. It is my feeling that this sacrifice could only be made when the true verity is eternal love and not earthly physical associations. Sitting in a puddle of my earth spattered feelings I stretch to embrace the eternal qualities of love.
In his e-mail, my friend's final view of Job is precise, clear, and on target. As is frequently the case, he's a pillar anchored in bedrock and I'm a wood chip on the waves. He wrote:
This then is the good ending of Job: to have God say, "My servant." I think this would be a good ending to any task, experience, or even to a life.In the end, God calls Job, "my servant." He said Job had spoken what was right concerning God. Job's brothers and sisters comforted and consoled him over all the trouble God had brought on him. Then God blessed him. I don't want to be noticed by Satan, but if a lot of bad things happen to me because I was noticed, I want God to say, "my servant."
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Going out With a Lie
What is the truth? It's near the end of the semester and once again I see students who leave the lab with a lie rather than a grade. As the final deadlines near, students who: slept in class, surfed the net, shortcut or skipped the tutorials, and rushed into multiple attempts guessing mastery test questions, begin to see the consequences of their choices looming. They then begin to exhibit elaborate rationalizing behavior.
Girls who have 100% attendance begin to talk about child care conflicts, sick babies, or suddenly uncooperative parent or grandparent babysitters. These comments increase in frequency as it becomes more obvious they cannot pass the class. Coming down to the wire they are absent, perhaps even missing a final exam worth the points needed to pass.
People who have insisted on absolute independence throughout the semester, suddenly cannot do anything without a teacher at their elbow, approving their every choice, suggesting possible answers--a mental/emotional equivalent of guiding their hand as they write. This behavior is most often followed by comments or gestures suggesting they are not being helped if the teacher is not at their side immediately or does not have a ready list of suggested answers for each question.
Possibly the worst behavior, at least most disturbing to the learning environment, is the student who begins to push his behavior boundaries, possibly even pushing the "teacher's buttons" to create conflict in class. Students are very adept at detecting what behavior they can exhibit that will draw the teacher towards his own worse behavior.
Without conscious intent, these students build reasons, rationalizations, to which they ascribe their academic failure. I'm not sure whether they truly believe these constructs themselves, or whether they perceive the lie while they avoid it.
I still believe the real apocalyptic battleground of this age is within our individual hearts. If it is so easy, if it is perhaps an innate ability, to construct rationalizations to avert responsibility of and consequences for our own behavior, then the battlefield of the heart is lost. The defeat we avoid facing is "not our fault, beyond our control," and we secretly claim a kind of victory, but the victory is a lie. While we believe the lie, we are lost to the truth, defeated utterly, and a path back to the truth is less possible.
Girls who have 100% attendance begin to talk about child care conflicts, sick babies, or suddenly uncooperative parent or grandparent babysitters. These comments increase in frequency as it becomes more obvious they cannot pass the class. Coming down to the wire they are absent, perhaps even missing a final exam worth the points needed to pass.
People who have insisted on absolute independence throughout the semester, suddenly cannot do anything without a teacher at their elbow, approving their every choice, suggesting possible answers--a mental/emotional equivalent of guiding their hand as they write. This behavior is most often followed by comments or gestures suggesting they are not being helped if the teacher is not at their side immediately or does not have a ready list of suggested answers for each question.
Possibly the worst behavior, at least most disturbing to the learning environment, is the student who begins to push his behavior boundaries, possibly even pushing the "teacher's buttons" to create conflict in class. Students are very adept at detecting what behavior they can exhibit that will draw the teacher towards his own worse behavior.
Without conscious intent, these students build reasons, rationalizations, to which they ascribe their academic failure. I'm not sure whether they truly believe these constructs themselves, or whether they perceive the lie while they avoid it.
I still believe the real apocalyptic battleground of this age is within our individual hearts. If it is so easy, if it is perhaps an innate ability, to construct rationalizations to avert responsibility of and consequences for our own behavior, then the battlefield of the heart is lost. The defeat we avoid facing is "not our fault, beyond our control," and we secretly claim a kind of victory, but the victory is a lie. While we believe the lie, we are lost to the truth, defeated utterly, and a path back to the truth is less possible.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Only Sith Deal in Absolutes
Struck a nerve!
As of this date and time, a Google search gets 10,000 hits, on that phrase or it's many permutations, i.e. "Only a Sith. . . Only the Sith . . . Only a Sith Lord" etc. etc. "deals in . . . deals with" etc. etc.
A bumper sticker is available with some permutation of the phrase, your choice of style: "with or without a picture of George Bush."
Some of my favorite phrases recalled from looking at way less than 10,000 hits: Philosophy, who needs it? * What an absolute thing to say. * It's just light and sound! Stop trying to make it into something else!
Of the ones I read, many were apparently honest reactions to the movie, the phrase, the ideas they present.
Some of the reactions followed what I believe may be an inherent human tendency for many of us, to make meaning. Our minds eschew meaninglessness, so we seek to make meaning out of all stimuli. It's possible we sometimes try to make meaning where there is none.
More disturbing than individuals on a quest for meaning where there may be none, are those with an apparent agenda who latch on to any popular event and spin it to mean what they want it to mean.
I wonder if Blogging merely increases the quantity of spin in the universe. Is entropy possibly each atom becoming so absorbed in its' own perspective that it spins off into the icy black isolation of deep space, ultimately unaware of anything else? Talk about going over to the Dark Side, wow.
As of this date and time, a Google search gets 10,000 hits, on that phrase or it's many permutations, i.e. "Only a Sith. . . Only the Sith . . . Only a Sith Lord" etc. etc. "deals in . . . deals with" etc. etc.
A bumper sticker is available with some permutation of the phrase, your choice of style: "with or without a picture of George Bush."
Some of my favorite phrases recalled from looking at way less than 10,000 hits: Philosophy, who needs it? * What an absolute thing to say. * It's just light and sound! Stop trying to make it into something else!
Of the ones I read, many were apparently honest reactions to the movie, the phrase, the ideas they present.
Some of the reactions followed what I believe may be an inherent human tendency for many of us, to make meaning. Our minds eschew meaninglessness, so we seek to make meaning out of all stimuli. It's possible we sometimes try to make meaning where there is none.
More disturbing than individuals on a quest for meaning where there may be none, are those with an apparent agenda who latch on to any popular event and spin it to mean what they want it to mean.
I wonder if Blogging merely increases the quantity of spin in the universe. Is entropy possibly each atom becoming so absorbed in its' own perspective that it spins off into the icy black isolation of deep space, ultimately unaware of anything else? Talk about going over to the Dark Side, wow.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Verities Sans Eternity
I was reading "Making Ethical Decisions" from the Josephson Institute of Ethics web site. Stumbled onto it doing research for curriculum writing at school. I was drawn to it for some reason. Perhaps it was the apparent certainty of the views, a longing for the certainty of my fundamentalist upbringing, or even curiosity. I perceive a disconnect when someone is earnest about abstract values but absent a view of eternity. The disconnect reveals my own narrow perspective I know, but it persists.
"Not all lies are unethical, even though all lies are dishonest. . . . Occasionally, dishonesty is ethically justifiable, as when the police lie in undercover operations or when one lies to criminals or terrorists to save lives."
This reasoning is the first tell that the highest value of the writer is human life. Later he goes on to say, "But don't kid yourself: occasions for ethically sanctioned lying are rare and require serving a very high purpose indeed, such as saving a life . . ."
In the choice between doing good or doing evil, this is doing good by doing evil, it could be called dry water, or bright darkness.
I know what you're going to say: "Only a Sith would speak in such absolutes." Well, perhaps you weren't going to say that. It's hard to imagine any situation, or movie even, in which that statement makes sense--certainly no situation or movie in my experience.
In the battle against evil, when good steps onto evil's battleground, picks up evil weapons, and begins to wage war, the war ends. There is only one side. Evil has won.
"Not all lies are unethical, even though all lies are dishonest. . . . Occasionally, dishonesty is ethically justifiable, as when the police lie in undercover operations or when one lies to criminals or terrorists to save lives."
This reasoning is the first tell that the highest value of the writer is human life. Later he goes on to say, "But don't kid yourself: occasions for ethically sanctioned lying are rare and require serving a very high purpose indeed, such as saving a life . . ."
In the choice between doing good or doing evil, this is doing good by doing evil, it could be called dry water, or bright darkness.
I know what you're going to say: "Only a Sith would speak in such absolutes." Well, perhaps you weren't going to say that. It's hard to imagine any situation, or movie even, in which that statement makes sense--certainly no situation or movie in my experience.
In the battle against evil, when good steps onto evil's battleground, picks up evil weapons, and begins to wage war, the war ends. There is only one side. Evil has won.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Ending Badly Because of Betrayal
Betrayers betray. Regardless of their rationalizations--"it's what I did, not who I am"--one is what one does. More betrayal is almost inevitable.
In the short time of a lifetime the new togetherness will likely end in betrayal, or if surviving, it could be pockmarked by years of betrayals, a kind of Brectian purgatory, more hell than happily-ever-after.
Eternity for the unrepentant betrayer brings inevitable justice--another bad end.
God's forgiveness is always available, but embracing that mercy seems to require admission of wrong if not actual repentance, and their rationalizations preclude either.
Of course these limits on forgiveness are constructed from logic. In the sphere of God's power, one should not be so foolish as to place conditions or limits on God's forgiveness. God's power transcends man's puny logical constructs.
Hope does endure.
In the short time of a lifetime the new togetherness will likely end in betrayal, or if surviving, it could be pockmarked by years of betrayals, a kind of Brectian purgatory, more hell than happily-ever-after.
Eternity for the unrepentant betrayer brings inevitable justice--another bad end.
God's forgiveness is always available, but embracing that mercy seems to require admission of wrong if not actual repentance, and their rationalizations preclude either.
Of course these limits on forgiveness are constructed from logic. In the sphere of God's power, one should not be so foolish as to place conditions or limits on God's forgiveness. God's power transcends man's puny logical constructs.
Hope does endure.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
The Illusion of Control
Is happiness, or the good old basic American right to pursue it, one of the eternal verities? The notion that happiness can be pursued, caught, and kept assumes one has a measure of control over one’s own life and feelings that may not exist. One of the mantras of the $160-an-hour listeners, the psychologists/psychiatrists, is: “We are responsible for our own feelings. We choose our own feelings. We control our own happiness.”
Do the paid listeners believe this mantra to be truth or do they merely pronounce it true as part of a treatment protocol? Certainly, change is less likely if the patient, sitting on the cushy couch, writing checks for the opportunity to fill listening ears, is unhappy, wants to be happy, and believes he is incapable of making himself happy. So paid listeners chant the mantra, and the check-writers receive what?--hope, perhaps even actual empowerment.
Faith listeners suggest it is self-deception to think one has that kind of control. While the context of their mantra is metaphysical/philosophical, perhaps it is more likely to be true. It carries more authority because it is untainted by self-interest. One is not required to pay them to hear their mantra: “You can control only whether you do evil or good.” The choice to do evil or good in even the smallest actions has infinite, eternal, and universal consequences, but at the personal level only a few potential emotional consequences: happiness, sadness, an emotional flatness that is neither. Possibly personal happiness ceases to be a preoccupation when one concentrates on doing the right thing. A focus on the choice between the über-values of good and evil may push the obsession for personal happiness into a more appropriate perspective.
Doing good without concern for personal happiness is one of the eternal verities. Though the phrase “doing good” seems so non-specific and subject to personal interpretation as to appear meaningless, if one assumes the possibility that “good” may exist, that it is a worthy thing, and that it may actually be done, then a view of how unselfishness raises even the least “doing good” to the level of the eternal verities becomes clearer. The taint that drags any action out of the eternal and into the finite is self-interest, selfishness. Happiness, joy, and the abundant life are not evil, but grasping them may be. At their happiest, most joyful, and most abundant they are by-products of “doing good,” and cannot be the goal.
The same writings that codify and objectify the specifics of “doing good” assert the superiority of that choice over the pursuit of happiness even as they identify the joyful abundance inevitable in a selfless life. The way to lose happiness is to pursue, catch a hold of it, and try to keep it. To gain that which is greater than happiness, one must break off the pursuit, refocus on doing good and allow all ephemeral and empty seductions to slough away from life like the excreta they are.
Do the paid listeners believe this mantra to be truth or do they merely pronounce it true as part of a treatment protocol? Certainly, change is less likely if the patient, sitting on the cushy couch, writing checks for the opportunity to fill listening ears, is unhappy, wants to be happy, and believes he is incapable of making himself happy. So paid listeners chant the mantra, and the check-writers receive what?--hope, perhaps even actual empowerment.
Faith listeners suggest it is self-deception to think one has that kind of control. While the context of their mantra is metaphysical/philosophical, perhaps it is more likely to be true. It carries more authority because it is untainted by self-interest. One is not required to pay them to hear their mantra: “You can control only whether you do evil or good.” The choice to do evil or good in even the smallest actions has infinite, eternal, and universal consequences, but at the personal level only a few potential emotional consequences: happiness, sadness, an emotional flatness that is neither. Possibly personal happiness ceases to be a preoccupation when one concentrates on doing the right thing. A focus on the choice between the über-values of good and evil may push the obsession for personal happiness into a more appropriate perspective.
Doing good without concern for personal happiness is one of the eternal verities. Though the phrase “doing good” seems so non-specific and subject to personal interpretation as to appear meaningless, if one assumes the possibility that “good” may exist, that it is a worthy thing, and that it may actually be done, then a view of how unselfishness raises even the least “doing good” to the level of the eternal verities becomes clearer. The taint that drags any action out of the eternal and into the finite is self-interest, selfishness. Happiness, joy, and the abundant life are not evil, but grasping them may be. At their happiest, most joyful, and most abundant they are by-products of “doing good,” and cannot be the goal.
The same writings that codify and objectify the specifics of “doing good” assert the superiority of that choice over the pursuit of happiness even as they identify the joyful abundance inevitable in a selfless life. The way to lose happiness is to pursue, catch a hold of it, and try to keep it. To gain that which is greater than happiness, one must break off the pursuit, refocus on doing good and allow all ephemeral and empty seductions to slough away from life like the excreta they are.
Friday, May 27, 2005
The Cowardly Trencher's Return
This week, motivated by the Cowardly Trencher's return, I checked a name that had come to me against the student car database. I got a hit. It turns out "the name" drives a tan 1997 Chevy Z71, matching the description of the truck I saw drive across my lawn last June.
My memory of his behavior in my class leads me to conclude he is capable of a stunt or two like the trenchings, also he was a sneak--not a kid with much honor or courage. I wouldn't have thought he had the concentration to keep it up this long.
We'll see what happens. The police knew his name from some other incidents. The question now is what to do with the knowledge. The information is probably not enough to convict him for more than the one time I saw, even though he may have been doing this for nearly a year. I think to get him the help he needs we need to gather more evidence and arrest him when we can prove this is a long term pattern of behavior.
My memory of his behavior in my class leads me to conclude he is capable of a stunt or two like the trenchings, also he was a sneak--not a kid with much honor or courage. I wouldn't have thought he had the concentration to keep it up this long.
We'll see what happens. The police knew his name from some other incidents. The question now is what to do with the knowledge. The information is probably not enough to convict him for more than the one time I saw, even though he may have been doing this for nearly a year. I think to get him the help he needs we need to gather more evidence and arrest him when we can prove this is a long term pattern of behavior.
Dos Tipos de Ciudado
Watched the whole thing on Turner Classic Movies this evening. It was made in the early 50's, I believe. It seemed liked a Hispanic Hope/Crosby road movie written by Moliere, almost as interesting for the core plot elements it didn't talk about as it was for those it dealt with openly.
"Honor" was one of plot engines that drove the story. Found one of the verities embeded in the dialogue:
“You two are together because of a betrayal. It will end badly.” Jorge Negrete in Dos Tipos de Ciudado
"Honor" was one of plot engines that drove the story. Found one of the verities embeded in the dialogue:
“You two are together because of a betrayal. It will end badly.” Jorge Negrete in Dos Tipos de Ciudado
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Sleep Is a Brief Visitor
It's 9:30 P. M. and I'm sitting at my computer writing in between sleeping. I would drop off, head bowed, otherwise sitting upright in my chair. Phillip is studying. Suddenly I hear him say, "Dad, Dad." I wake and look over at him. "Maybe you better go to bed."
So I begin a sloth-like move toward bed. As soon as I lay down, I'm more awake. I read, get sleepy, turn off the light about 10:00 P. M.
One-thirty A. M. I wake. I lay in bed forty-five minutes. I get up, come here, turn on the TV, and begin to drift aimlessly on the internet. I read through the most recent blog posts of my students, and drift to writing here again.
Sleep. Please come back. Sleeeeep, perchance to dream . . . Again.
So I begin a sloth-like move toward bed. As soon as I lay down, I'm more awake. I read, get sleepy, turn off the light about 10:00 P. M.
One-thirty A. M. I wake. I lay in bed forty-five minutes. I get up, come here, turn on the TV, and begin to drift aimlessly on the internet. I read through the most recent blog posts of my students, and drift to writing here again.
Sleep. Please come back. Sleeeeep, perchance to dream . . . Again.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Vocabulary Based Dialect Identification
Your Linguistic Profile: |
| 65% General American English |
| 20% Yankee |
| 15% Dixie |
| 0% Midwestern |
| 0% Upper Midwestern |
Monday, May 02, 2005
Part 3: I Don't Think I Can Do That.
So, six months into the tragedy I am enduring Connie and Bruce seeing each other for hours every week. By then, Connie has agreed to go to a counselor with me, saying, “It won’t make any difference.” She is still my wife, but she won’t work with me with the counselor on our marriage. Her apparent purpose in attending is to try to convince the counselor that our marriage is over and to get the counselor to convince me to—I don’t know what—leave her and the kids maybe? I am in a crazy state of despair. I can’t figure out why she hasn’t left and yet won’t stop seeing Bruce. I keep hoping she is staying because she hasn’t really made up her mind to leave.
I know Bruce’s former boss, I guess he’s the person who held the title director of intellectual properties out at Dow before Bruce. He had retired and moved away from our town. I had always known him to be an honorable man with high moral convictions. I had also heard Connie tell me how much Bruce respected him. In a fit of despair, I called this man one evening and told him about Connie and Bruce. I asked him if he would consider calling Bruce and asking him to consider not seeing Connie for six months so we can look at our marriage without the distraction of him standing outside of it and inviting Connie to leave. Sound familiar?
This man of integrity, former elder of a Church of Christ, told me how sorry he was that “this thing had happened.” However, in response to my plea he said, “I don’t think I can do that.”
I know Bruce’s former boss, I guess he’s the person who held the title director of intellectual properties out at Dow before Bruce. He had retired and moved away from our town. I had always known him to be an honorable man with high moral convictions. I had also heard Connie tell me how much Bruce respected him. In a fit of despair, I called this man one evening and told him about Connie and Bruce. I asked him if he would consider calling Bruce and asking him to consider not seeing Connie for six months so we can look at our marriage without the distraction of him standing outside of it and inviting Connie to leave. Sound familiar?
This man of integrity, former elder of a Church of Christ, told me how sorry he was that “this thing had happened.” However, in response to my plea he said, “I don’t think I can do that.”
Sunday, April 24, 2005
3:00 A.M.
So two nights running I'm sitting here staring at the screen at 3:00 A. M. No sense to be found in this. Reason, purpose, meaning. The kids have a word for it. Meh
Monday, April 11, 2005
Part 2: I Don't Think I Can Do That.
So it was still January, in my hallway talk with Bruce I heard him say he couldn't help himself--he could not end his relationship with my wife. Even so, after that Connie seemed to thaw incrementally, or perhaps I was hoping for the best so strongly I imagined it. I told her I thought we owed the kids our best effort to save our marriage. I asked her to stop seeing Bruce for six months and go to counseling with me. I told her that after six months of counseling I would step aside if she still wanted to leave me for Bruce.
She said, "I don't think I can do that."
She said, "I don't think I can do that."
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Part 1: I Don't Think I Can Do That
So it's mid-January after the mid-December discovery of Connie's relationship with Bruce. I am in the worst pain of my life.
I try to talk to her, but she says she can't talk about it. In the evening, if we are in the same room, she drifts silently away. She is dead to me. In public, she pretends everything is okay. In church, we sit together as a family like we have for over a decade and a half. In the evenings, she is gone several hours a week at string quartet practice, Symphony practice, Symphony Board meetings, Symphony committee meetings, string quartet performances, and Symphony performances. All with Bruce. She speaks almost normally in front of Phillip at home, but does not talk to me when we are alone.
I'm reeling, staggering through emotional white noise, blinded by emotional pain. Several times a day I'm locking myself in the faculty restroom and sobbing through the class breaks. When the bell rings, I go teach class. At night, I can't sleep. Each night Connie climbs into our bed, refuses to talk about "it," turns her back to me and goes immediately to sleep. After an hour or so listening to her even breathing, I get up, clean, launder, read, pray, sob, cry, or sit leadenly in front of the fireplace. When morning comes, I shower and go to school.
So like I said it's mid-January and we are presenting our Winter Cabaret performances. Bruce's daughter is one of my star performers. He attends the performance. I am in a pain bubble, distant from the events around me, but smiling, meeting parents, congratulating the students--all the little details of a performance night. After the program the parents begin to drift away, and the students begin strike. I notice Bruce is headed toward the parking lot. I catch up with him in the hallway, and ask if I may speak with him.
He stops, glances around, and looks at me. I tell him I understand how he can be in love with Connie because I love her too, but that she is married and what they are doing is wrong. I tell him I'm sure he is a man of integrity and honor, and I expect him to do the right thing.
He moves his head closer to me and tilts it slightly to the side saying, "I am so. . . so. . . sorry this has happened. We didn't choose this. It just happened. We couldn't help it."
The tear pressure behind my eyes is enormous. I squeeze out, "Apparently there are things wrong in our marriage that I didn't know about, but I still love Connie and want to try and save our marriage--to try to keep our family together. I ask you to stop seeing her for six months so we can work on our marriage without you standing there inviting her out. If she still feels the same after six months, I will step out of the way." I stand there, looking at him, controlling the tear pressure.
After a pause, he says, "I don't think I can do that."
I try to talk to her, but she says she can't talk about it. In the evening, if we are in the same room, she drifts silently away. She is dead to me. In public, she pretends everything is okay. In church, we sit together as a family like we have for over a decade and a half. In the evenings, she is gone several hours a week at string quartet practice, Symphony practice, Symphony Board meetings, Symphony committee meetings, string quartet performances, and Symphony performances. All with Bruce. She speaks almost normally in front of Phillip at home, but does not talk to me when we are alone.
I'm reeling, staggering through emotional white noise, blinded by emotional pain. Several times a day I'm locking myself in the faculty restroom and sobbing through the class breaks. When the bell rings, I go teach class. At night, I can't sleep. Each night Connie climbs into our bed, refuses to talk about "it," turns her back to me and goes immediately to sleep. After an hour or so listening to her even breathing, I get up, clean, launder, read, pray, sob, cry, or sit leadenly in front of the fireplace. When morning comes, I shower and go to school.
So like I said it's mid-January and we are presenting our Winter Cabaret performances. Bruce's daughter is one of my star performers. He attends the performance. I am in a pain bubble, distant from the events around me, but smiling, meeting parents, congratulating the students--all the little details of a performance night. After the program the parents begin to drift away, and the students begin strike. I notice Bruce is headed toward the parking lot. I catch up with him in the hallway, and ask if I may speak with him.
He stops, glances around, and looks at me. I tell him I understand how he can be in love with Connie because I love her too, but that she is married and what they are doing is wrong. I tell him I'm sure he is a man of integrity and honor, and I expect him to do the right thing.
He moves his head closer to me and tilts it slightly to the side saying, "I am so. . . so. . . sorry this has happened. We didn't choose this. It just happened. We couldn't help it."
The tear pressure behind my eyes is enormous. I squeeze out, "Apparently there are things wrong in our marriage that I didn't know about, but I still love Connie and want to try and save our marriage--to try to keep our family together. I ask you to stop seeing her for six months so we can work on our marriage without you standing there inviting her out. If she still feels the same after six months, I will step out of the way." I stand there, looking at him, controlling the tear pressure.
After a pause, he says, "I don't think I can do that."
Thursday, March 31, 2005
The largest play contest in the world.
Each fall about twelve hundred Texas high schools begin requisite paperwork to enter the University Interscholastic League One-Act Play Competition. In March the competition begins in earnest as part of the UIL Academic Spring Meet. For all schools there is a District competition. For many there is a preliminary competition called Zone. By May, four levels of competition later, forty schools begin the three-day state competition. After those three days, fifteen schools have been identified as first, second, and third place plays in their divisions, essentially saying two-thirds of that fifteen are not as good as the first place plays, yet the UIL asserts "in a well-run one act-play competition there are no losers." This, of course, is total crap. Losers abound even in a perfectly run competition. This year we were losers.
We responded well to the judge's decision, but it was a shock. Even this old twenty-one year veteran had the wind knocked out of him by the decision. In my opinion, this was the best production I've directed in a decade. The students also felt like they had a winning play. Parents that attended the competition thought we certainly would advance. The judge had a different opinion. In a three school Zone, we were the third place Alternate Advancing Play. We stood, we clapped for the first and second plays' coaches, we smiled, thanked the hosts, climbed on our bus and went to dinner, but we felt like losers. I imagine, in spite of our best efforts, we walked like losers, and our vocal inflections sounded like losers. We did not advance to District. In my twenty-one year history, I have advanced lesser plays to Regionals.
The contest was well-run, but we were losers.
We responded well to the judge's decision, but it was a shock. Even this old twenty-one year veteran had the wind knocked out of him by the decision. In my opinion, this was the best production I've directed in a decade. The students also felt like they had a winning play. Parents that attended the competition thought we certainly would advance. The judge had a different opinion. In a three school Zone, we were the third place Alternate Advancing Play. We stood, we clapped for the first and second plays' coaches, we smiled, thanked the hosts, climbed on our bus and went to dinner, but we felt like losers. I imagine, in spite of our best efforts, we walked like losers, and our vocal inflections sounded like losers. We did not advance to District. In my twenty-one year history, I have advanced lesser plays to Regionals.
The contest was well-run, but we were losers.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
This is Texas
So what happened is Bruce Story, who had been my wife’s stand partner in the civic symphony for fifteen years, suddenly seems to be around a lot, seems to be spending extra time with Connie, seems to be the frequent subject of her conversations. Suddenly she is serving on the symphony board as secretary to his president, suddenly she is in a string quartet with him, and suddenly she has extra rehearsals and performances. Suddenly she is real interested in doing gym time, real interested in dyeing the grey out of her hair, facial creams, wrinkle creams.
I notice Connie's growing concern over unimportant and secondary signs of ageing. I tell her I love her and care more about her than about wrinkles and gray hair. Her reaction is startling. She displays anger in response to my assurances of love. I'm startled and puzzled, but I love her give her space on the issue.
Suddenly the poor, lonely, divorced Bruce is invited over to have dinner with our family. Later, he goes on a business trip to Japan and returns with presents for the family. It is a tea set, Japanese teas, candy. . . other gifts. Connie places the tea set on display in our living room.
Suddenly in November she stops telling me she loves me. My “I love you’s.” receive an “I know.” rather than an “I love you” response. That same month Bruce’s daughter tells a room full of my students within my hearing that, “Mr. White’s wife is my Daddy’s girlfriend.” I’m thick. I’m clueless. I cannot imagine what is happening, but something is happening.
So in December one evening Connie seems to be sneaking around the house, acting odd. She is taking stationary into the bathroom and locking the door. She comes out with a note card in a sealed envelope. I ask her what is going on. She says, “nothing.” I say she is “acting strangely.” She says I am “not allowing her any privacy.” I ask, “what is the note card.” She says she has written a note to her “special friend.” She says it’s “for Bruce.” I ask to read it. She says, “no.” I ask her, “what kind of note could she be writing to another man that her husband can’t read.”
She says nothing. The truth is out. I'm thick, but I'm not igneous.
So now I think: This is Texas, at the very least I owe Bruce a punch in the mouth.
Because this is Texas, I think he should be happy to take the punch in the mouth in lieu of shotgun pellets in the butt.
After all, this is Texas.
I notice Connie's growing concern over unimportant and secondary signs of ageing. I tell her I love her and care more about her than about wrinkles and gray hair. Her reaction is startling. She displays anger in response to my assurances of love. I'm startled and puzzled, but I love her give her space on the issue.
Suddenly the poor, lonely, divorced Bruce is invited over to have dinner with our family. Later, he goes on a business trip to Japan and returns with presents for the family. It is a tea set, Japanese teas, candy. . . other gifts. Connie places the tea set on display in our living room.
Suddenly in November she stops telling me she loves me. My “I love you’s.” receive an “I know.” rather than an “I love you” response. That same month Bruce’s daughter tells a room full of my students within my hearing that, “Mr. White’s wife is my Daddy’s girlfriend.” I’m thick. I’m clueless. I cannot imagine what is happening, but something is happening.
So in December one evening Connie seems to be sneaking around the house, acting odd. She is taking stationary into the bathroom and locking the door. She comes out with a note card in a sealed envelope. I ask her what is going on. She says, “nothing.” I say she is “acting strangely.” She says I am “not allowing her any privacy.” I ask, “what is the note card.” She says she has written a note to her “special friend.” She says it’s “for Bruce.” I ask to read it. She says, “no.” I ask her, “what kind of note could she be writing to another man that her husband can’t read.”
She says nothing. The truth is out. I'm thick, but I'm not igneous.
So now I think: This is Texas, at the very least I owe Bruce a punch in the mouth.
Because this is Texas, I think he should be happy to take the punch in the mouth in lieu of shotgun pellets in the butt.
After all, this is Texas.
Honesty
Don’t be confused. Honesty is independent of loyalty, love, faithfulness, and certainly of greed, lust, and selfishness. It is it’s own verity. Loyalty is stripped of it’s virtue when it motivates lying. To lie because you love fills the heart of love with filth. Lying to demonstrate faithfulness is oxymoronic.
It is fantasy to believe a person to be honest if he lies only for very good reasons. It is worse than fantasy. To believe that is to believe a lie is truth. Honesty is respect and reverence for truth. Someone who will lie for you will lie to you, so don’t believe someone who tries to flatter or honor you by lying for you. That person lies and is not to be trusted.
The “lie for a good reason” is the first dilution leading to the total moral dissolution expressed in Pilate’s deep, doubting question, “What is truth?” When you no longer can see truth, when you begin to doubt it’s very existence, you have reached inevitable consequence of lies.
It is fantasy to believe a person to be honest if he lies only for very good reasons. It is worse than fantasy. To believe that is to believe a lie is truth. Honesty is respect and reverence for truth. Someone who will lie for you will lie to you, so don’t believe someone who tries to flatter or honor you by lying for you. That person lies and is not to be trusted.
The “lie for a good reason” is the first dilution leading to the total moral dissolution expressed in Pilate’s deep, doubting question, “What is truth?” When you no longer can see truth, when you begin to doubt it’s very existence, you have reached inevitable consequence of lies.
My Left Foot
Where this begins, maybe, is with my left foot, but it's not an inspiring story about a palsied guy who performs creative miracles with a paintbrush grasped between the toes of his left foot. Those stories are part of the literature the able-bodied find inspirational, "If the cripple guy can do that, then I--for sure--can get off my duff and accomplish something." Inspirational? As soon as I began to encounter the stories in junior high Language Arts textbooks, I hated them. Super cripple stories, after reading them, I felt expected to do something extra-ordinary to overcome my limitations, or, perhaps, as compensation, to show myself worthy of the sacred trust given me by my handicap, the duty to provide an inspiration for the able-bodied.
My left foot does not have a full complement of muscles--it is, perhaps, the weakest appendage on my body. I am not possessed of the supernatural character, determination, grit, stubbornness, or whatever it takes to be an inspiration to the able-bodied, and this story is not about overcoming, but about being overcome.
So. My left foot does not have a full complement of muscles. Because of this, taking a step with this foot requires more friction between the sole of the shoe and the floor than is needed by a fully muscled appendage. Most don't realize it, but feet are dynamic. They grab the ground during even the simplest saunter. Toes grip and flex; weight constantly shifts from the heel of the foot, to the side of the foot, to the toes and back. You are walking down the hall, a friend calls from behind, you look over your right shoulder, stop, and turn to answer. You are oblivious, but your left foot has just made a series of complex adjustments carrying your weight, changing your momentum, and balancing it--all without your conscious attention.
My left foot doesn't do that. While I have some flex and control in my ankle and big toe, basically, I lift my foot an inch from the floor and throw it forward by raising and moving my hip. My left foot lands on the floor in the direction I am moving and, if it finds friction, stays where it landed. I push off with my right foot; my weight is carried over my left foot in a kind-of pole vault--like the stiff old days of pole vaulting without the flex and launch of the modern poles--until my right foot lands again and takes my body weight.
Where this now goes is into the fine arts faculty restroom. Down the hall from my classroom, is a small uni-sex restroom with a sink in one corner, mirror over the sink, commode in another corner, drain in the middle of the floor, fire alarm on the wall, and a lock on the doorknob. Added to the lock on the knob is a slide bolt on the door--you raise the little knob, slide the little bar across the door crack into a loop of metal on the facing, and the door is locked, even to someone with a key. This was added after the new fine arts wing was opened and we, through surprise and error. discovered that while a lock in the doorknob keyed to open with faculty room keys kept randomly curious students out, it did not prevent faculty from walking in on each other and, not incidentally, exposing anyone in the restroom--full commode view--to randomly curious eyes, roaming the halls.
One day just before my post-lunch bunch of freshmen arrived for Theatre Arts, I went to the fine arts faculty restroom. Remembering to latch the little bolt, I took care of business, flushed the commode, and began washing my hands in the sink. At that point, if this event had been a movie, there would have been a soundtrack playing that low pitched, steady, tension-building music that lets you know malevolent evil, viscerally manifest is poised to spring from nowhere and gut the clueless innocent. The long, low sounding, bow drawn across upright bass strings would have oozed through the air as the backed up sewage carrying flecks of human feces oozed through the floor drain and slowly spread across the floor to lap at the edge of my left foot.
Focused on the mirror, I was combing my hair, smoothing the wild grey beard hairs into concert with the darker and more sedate ones, admiring my oatmeal colored Orvis travel coat and matching slacks in the mirror. The one-minute bell began ringing. I heard quickened steps outside the door, students sprinting to class, hoping to slip into their seats just before the tardy bell. I lifted my left hip and threw my left foot into the growing pool of effluent, launched my body weight into the pole vault as I turned from the mirror toward the door, and felt my left foot slip wildly away from where it needed to be. It felt like a rubber hose, non-existent, the feeling you get when you put your weight on a leg that's asleep, but without the intense tingle to remind you the leg exists.
Adrenalin kicked in, and as my brain got the alert I was in free fall, time began to crawl. From the drain, I saw the deepening brown pool oozing, chunks of feces and strings of toilet paper in suspension. I saw my left foot slowly shoot away from the rest of my body, scooping a slow motion spray of chunky wetness towards the door. I saw the pool grow incrementally in my line of sight as I realized I was headed for a belly flop right over the drain.
In one of those amazing adrenalin fueled moments, which seem to crawl a single frame at a time, my brain and body worked in concert to perform the only ballet I will ever dance, the mid-air contortions I perform in free fall in order to land with the least damage. My falling ballet feels like those slow motion films made of cats held by their feet and dropped. I twist as I inch toward the growing pool of effluent, spreading my arms, trying to position myself to catch myself with both hands and right knee. I miss the tripod catch, belly flopping the effluent up on the walls, but immediately push up and hang there, dripping brown wetness. The one-minute bell ends and I hear increased activity in the hall as students begin the literal last-minute scramble for class.
I try to stand using my usual strategy: pushing my butt in the air, placing my feet on the ground, ending with a forceful push-up that vaults me into an upright position. When I push off, my left foot slips away again and I do another flailing ballet, another belly flopping splash. The chunky effluent hits the walls, the door, the sink, my face, my open mouth. I squirm through the pool to the cripple bars on the wall around the commode. I pull myself upright, but still can't get my left foot to grip the floor enough to stand. I put it down, and it slides away each time I attempt to put weight on it. I suspend myself upright with my arms gripping the bars, the sink, the doorknob.
The tardy bell rings. The last runners sprint into the classrooms. The halls are silent. I consider staying in the locked restroom until evening just so I don't have to show myself to anyone, don't have to let anyone else see me, smell me. From down the hall I hear the noise level in my classroom increase, unsupervised students, freshmen after a sugar-filled lunch. I can't hide out.
With my cellphone, I call the assistant principals' office and ask the secretary to send one to my classroom, "There is no blood, no one is in danger of any harm--yet, but I need someone to cover my class now." I open the door and carefully walk down the hall toward my room, placing my left foot carefully with each step, trying to drag the wetness off the sole of my foot so I can get traction again. My usual limp becomes an exaggerated foot-drag, a smelly Quasimodo lurching down empty halls.
I'm twenty feet from my classroom when Mr. Barnes comes around the corner at the other end of the hall hurrying toward my classroom. He hesitates briefly when he sees my dripping brown wetness carefully moving down the hall, "What happened to you?"
I say, "Someday this is going to be a funny story." As we draw closer, about to meet at my classroom door, I see the moment he first smells me. He stops dead, he arches back and his head snaps up as if to escape the smell.
"Is that what it smells like?"
"Yes, the faculty restroom is backed up. I slipped and fell in it....twice. I'm going home to clean up. This class is yours."
I walked through my classroom, briefly told the students what had happened, got in my car, went home, straight to the washing machine in the garage, and stripped off everything directly into the wash. I steamed through a long hot shower, scrubbing every part of my body red. Out of the shower, I gargled with mouthwash and briefly considered pouring it into every orifice of my body. Instead, I got into my robe, fixed an adult beverage and sat in my den, considering whether I would go back to school.
Inspirational, huh, only in the sense of putting other bad days at school in perspective. My worst day at school up until then did not include belly flopping in fecal matter.
It's now the benchmark for a bad day.
My left foot does not have a full complement of muscles--it is, perhaps, the weakest appendage on my body. I am not possessed of the supernatural character, determination, grit, stubbornness, or whatever it takes to be an inspiration to the able-bodied, and this story is not about overcoming, but about being overcome.
So. My left foot does not have a full complement of muscles. Because of this, taking a step with this foot requires more friction between the sole of the shoe and the floor than is needed by a fully muscled appendage. Most don't realize it, but feet are dynamic. They grab the ground during even the simplest saunter. Toes grip and flex; weight constantly shifts from the heel of the foot, to the side of the foot, to the toes and back. You are walking down the hall, a friend calls from behind, you look over your right shoulder, stop, and turn to answer. You are oblivious, but your left foot has just made a series of complex adjustments carrying your weight, changing your momentum, and balancing it--all without your conscious attention.
My left foot doesn't do that. While I have some flex and control in my ankle and big toe, basically, I lift my foot an inch from the floor and throw it forward by raising and moving my hip. My left foot lands on the floor in the direction I am moving and, if it finds friction, stays where it landed. I push off with my right foot; my weight is carried over my left foot in a kind-of pole vault--like the stiff old days of pole vaulting without the flex and launch of the modern poles--until my right foot lands again and takes my body weight.
Where this now goes is into the fine arts faculty restroom. Down the hall from my classroom, is a small uni-sex restroom with a sink in one corner, mirror over the sink, commode in another corner, drain in the middle of the floor, fire alarm on the wall, and a lock on the doorknob. Added to the lock on the knob is a slide bolt on the door--you raise the little knob, slide the little bar across the door crack into a loop of metal on the facing, and the door is locked, even to someone with a key. This was added after the new fine arts wing was opened and we, through surprise and error. discovered that while a lock in the doorknob keyed to open with faculty room keys kept randomly curious students out, it did not prevent faculty from walking in on each other and, not incidentally, exposing anyone in the restroom--full commode view--to randomly curious eyes, roaming the halls.
One day just before my post-lunch bunch of freshmen arrived for Theatre Arts, I went to the fine arts faculty restroom. Remembering to latch the little bolt, I took care of business, flushed the commode, and began washing my hands in the sink. At that point, if this event had been a movie, there would have been a soundtrack playing that low pitched, steady, tension-building music that lets you know malevolent evil, viscerally manifest is poised to spring from nowhere and gut the clueless innocent. The long, low sounding, bow drawn across upright bass strings would have oozed through the air as the backed up sewage carrying flecks of human feces oozed through the floor drain and slowly spread across the floor to lap at the edge of my left foot.
Focused on the mirror, I was combing my hair, smoothing the wild grey beard hairs into concert with the darker and more sedate ones, admiring my oatmeal colored Orvis travel coat and matching slacks in the mirror. The one-minute bell began ringing. I heard quickened steps outside the door, students sprinting to class, hoping to slip into their seats just before the tardy bell. I lifted my left hip and threw my left foot into the growing pool of effluent, launched my body weight into the pole vault as I turned from the mirror toward the door, and felt my left foot slip wildly away from where it needed to be. It felt like a rubber hose, non-existent, the feeling you get when you put your weight on a leg that's asleep, but without the intense tingle to remind you the leg exists.
Adrenalin kicked in, and as my brain got the alert I was in free fall, time began to crawl. From the drain, I saw the deepening brown pool oozing, chunks of feces and strings of toilet paper in suspension. I saw my left foot slowly shoot away from the rest of my body, scooping a slow motion spray of chunky wetness towards the door. I saw the pool grow incrementally in my line of sight as I realized I was headed for a belly flop right over the drain.
In one of those amazing adrenalin fueled moments, which seem to crawl a single frame at a time, my brain and body worked in concert to perform the only ballet I will ever dance, the mid-air contortions I perform in free fall in order to land with the least damage. My falling ballet feels like those slow motion films made of cats held by their feet and dropped. I twist as I inch toward the growing pool of effluent, spreading my arms, trying to position myself to catch myself with both hands and right knee. I miss the tripod catch, belly flopping the effluent up on the walls, but immediately push up and hang there, dripping brown wetness. The one-minute bell ends and I hear increased activity in the hall as students begin the literal last-minute scramble for class.
I try to stand using my usual strategy: pushing my butt in the air, placing my feet on the ground, ending with a forceful push-up that vaults me into an upright position. When I push off, my left foot slips away again and I do another flailing ballet, another belly flopping splash. The chunky effluent hits the walls, the door, the sink, my face, my open mouth. I squirm through the pool to the cripple bars on the wall around the commode. I pull myself upright, but still can't get my left foot to grip the floor enough to stand. I put it down, and it slides away each time I attempt to put weight on it. I suspend myself upright with my arms gripping the bars, the sink, the doorknob.
The tardy bell rings. The last runners sprint into the classrooms. The halls are silent. I consider staying in the locked restroom until evening just so I don't have to show myself to anyone, don't have to let anyone else see me, smell me. From down the hall I hear the noise level in my classroom increase, unsupervised students, freshmen after a sugar-filled lunch. I can't hide out.
With my cellphone, I call the assistant principals' office and ask the secretary to send one to my classroom, "There is no blood, no one is in danger of any harm--yet, but I need someone to cover my class now." I open the door and carefully walk down the hall toward my room, placing my left foot carefully with each step, trying to drag the wetness off the sole of my foot so I can get traction again. My usual limp becomes an exaggerated foot-drag, a smelly Quasimodo lurching down empty halls.
I'm twenty feet from my classroom when Mr. Barnes comes around the corner at the other end of the hall hurrying toward my classroom. He hesitates briefly when he sees my dripping brown wetness carefully moving down the hall, "What happened to you?"
I say, "Someday this is going to be a funny story." As we draw closer, about to meet at my classroom door, I see the moment he first smells me. He stops dead, he arches back and his head snaps up as if to escape the smell.
"Is that what it smells like?"
"Yes, the faculty restroom is backed up. I slipped and fell in it....twice. I'm going home to clean up. This class is yours."
I walked through my classroom, briefly told the students what had happened, got in my car, went home, straight to the washing machine in the garage, and stripped off everything directly into the wash. I steamed through a long hot shower, scrubbing every part of my body red. Out of the shower, I gargled with mouthwash and briefly considered pouring it into every orifice of my body. Instead, I got into my robe, fixed an adult beverage and sat in my den, considering whether I would go back to school.
Inspirational, huh, only in the sense of putting other bad days at school in perspective. My worst day at school up until then did not include belly flopping in fecal matter.
It's now the benchmark for a bad day.
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