“Do you want to hear a dirty joke?” My grandpa asked me this. My dad was in the room. I was six-years-old.
My dad and his father-in-law had just interrupted their own conversation—one that I had been ignoring until now—for this event. As a six year old, I was aware of the following things:
My dad was in the room, so the joke couldn’t be too dirty.
Dirty jokes of any kind were not encouraged.
They were expecting a certain reaction from me.
When kids in 1st grade ask, “Do you want to hear a dirty joke?” the other kids in the vicinity have an instant attraction to the comedian. It’s not a moth-to-the-flame kind of attraction it’s more like super-electromagnet-to-little-metal-shavings attraction. It’s instant and unwavering. So, that’s what I figured was expected of me and I gave it to them. I spun away from the toy cars with which I was playing, scooted in a crab-crawling sort of way to the feet of my grandpa while exclaiming, “Yeah!”
“A pig fell in the mud,” Grandpa said.
I waited.
“Do you want to hear a clean joke?” Grandpa asked.
”OK.”
“He took a bath.”
They were chuckling. I felt embarrassed. I’m sure to the people in the room, I appeared to be merely disappointed, but that wasn’t it. In a six-year-old way, I felt like I had sold off some of my character, but there was no payoff. I had behaved in a way that I normally would not have only to fulfill what I thought was an expectation for my behavior. It turns out that what I thought was an expectation was really a little test.
I went back to my toys. I continued to be embarrassed and began to feel angry, but I don’t think anybody knew that. Dad and Grandpa went back to their conversation.
It is interesting to watch little kids. There is so much more going on in their heads than they let on. They are not simply playing and reacting. They are thinking, learning, assessing, and hypothesizing, too. Sometimes, I think we sell kids short on emotions, too. Lacking the vocabulary to define what they are feeling and thinking has no bearing on the internal reality.
The dirty joke incident was not in vain, though. I remember deciding that I would not do things just because other people wanted me to do them. I would do what I would do. Of course, I have failed that promise billions of times in the last couple decades, and never without consequence. I’m not a people-pleaser as much as I am attempted-people-pleaser. I want to make people happy and I want conflicts resolved, but that rarely happens. (In fact, if I try to make you happy and you don’t get happy in the next five seconds, I’ll probably do something to make you angrier out of pure frustration, but that’s another posting for another day.)
A couple weeks ago, Clara Grace—our two-year-old—was fooling around with her food. To her, it was a funny game. To me, it was a mess to clean up. I told her to stop it, but she didn’t. So I got close to her face, looked her in the eye, and told her “no” as firmly as I could, and I packed it with my irritation and exhaustion for extra measure. She cried, but it wasn’t the cry of a two-year-old that was forbidden to play or a cry of defiance or of frustration. It was embarrassment. She put one hand over her mouth and another on her forehead. When I looked at her, she slid the hand on her forehead over her eyes. I was so surprised; I didn’t realize two-year-olds could be embarrassed. Aren’t they the most uninhibited people in the world?
I picked her up out of the high chair and held her and told her how much I liked her. At the moment, it seemed to be an inadequate consolation.
It made me wonder how often I diagnose her emotions correctly and how often I will inflict an unnecessary embarrassment on her in the years to come.
Clara Grace has a little farm set now and it came with a pig that is permanently muddy. She carries it around saying, “Pig in the mud. Pig in the mud.” I wish she would stop telling dirty jokes.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
The Clothes Make the Man
I noticed a little while ago that I behave a little better if I am wearing nice clothes. If I am donning a button up shirt, slacks, and a tie, my patience and professionalism go up, my confidence is boosted, and I do believe my voice takes on a slightly lower, manlier tone. I even fell a mite taller. I drive a little slower and am more gracious to other drivers and pedestrians. And on the days I tie a Double-Windsor around my neck, well!—I could be positively civil to Aunt Sponge, Aunt Spiker, the Queen of Hearts, the Wicked Witch of the West, every fairytale stepmother and step sister, and Rachel Lynde.*
Do clothes make the man?
Conversely, if I wear those clothes to the auto parts store, I don’t feel quite as confident or adept as when I sport old jeans and a greasy t-shirt. And, my driving isn’t so polite. (“Out of my way, ye peasants, for 'tis I, Toad the Traffic-queller, Toad the Mighty, Toad the Scorcher!")**
In fact, Kenneth Grahame’s Toad is a perfect example of this. Whenever Toad takes up a new, eccentric, and expensive hobby, he must have the clothes to go with it. His friends Rat, Mole, and Badger know this, and when they take it upon themselves to cure Toad of his addiction to automobiles, the first thing they do is tell Toad to take his driving togs off. Here; read as Badger begins the process:
“Now then!” he said to the Toad, when the four of them stood together in the Hall, “first of all, take those ridiculous things off!”
`Shan't!” replied Toad, with great spirit. “What is the meaning of this gross outrage? I demand an instant explanation.”
“Take them off him, then, you two,” ordered the Badger briefly.
[Rat and Mole] had to lay Toad out on the floor, kicking and calling all sorts of names, before they could get to work properly. Then the Rat sat on him, and the Mole got his motor-clothes off him bit by bit, and they stood him up on his legs again. A good deal of his blustering spirit seemed to have evaporated with the removal of his fine panoply. Now that he was merely Toad, and no longer the Terror of the Highway, he giggled feebly and looked from one to the other appealingly, seeming quite to understand the situation.
See? I think Toad and I may be a bit of the same mettle. Toad does carry it a bit far, though—farther than me, I’m sure. I mean, his personality being affected by his clothing is so strong it nearly prevents him from escaping jail. The jailor’s daughter has a plan that will benefit toad and her poor aunt.
“Toad,” she said presently, “just listen, please. I have an aunt who is a washerwoman.”
“There, there,” said Toad, graciously and affably, “never mind; think no more about it. I have several aunts who ought to be washerwomen.”
“Do be quiet a minute, Toad,” said the girl. “You talk too much, that's your chief fault, and I'm trying to think, and you hurt my head. As I said, I have an aunt who is a washerwoman…I think if she were properly approached…you could come to some arrangement by which she would let you have her dress and bonnet and so on, and you could escape from the castle as the official washerwoman. You're very alike in many respects--particularly about the figure.”
“We're not,” said the Toad in a huff. “I have a very elegant figure--for what I am.”
“So has my aunt,” replied the girl, “for what she is. But have it your own way. You horrid, proud, ungrateful animal, when I'm sorry for you, and trying to help you!”
“Yes, yes, that's all right; thank you very much indeed,” said the Toad hurriedly. “But look here! You wouldn't surely have Mr. Toad of Toad Hall, going about the country disguised as a washerwoman!”
And then Toad, dressed as a washerwoman, realizes he has no money to board a train. But, with his new clothes, his new role is no trouble at all.
“O, sir!” said Toad, crying afresh, “I am a poor unhappy washerwoman, and I've lost all my money, and can't pay for a ticket, and I must get home to-night somehow, and whatever I am to do I don't know. O dear, O dear!”
“That's a bad business, indeed,” said the engine-driver reflectively. “Lost your money--and can't get home--and got some kids, too, waiting for you, I dare say?”
“Any amount of 'em,” sobbed Toad. “And they'll be hungry--and playing with matches--and upsetting lamps, the little innocents!--and quarrelling, and going on generally. O dear, O dear!”
Well, anyway, how is it that clothing can hold such sway over some of us? I suppose the first step in solving such a problem is admitting it, but it may also mean that I’ll have to stop selecting clothes on the basis of price alone. Generally I’ll ignore size if it’s somewhat close and color if it’s not too offensive and cut or style if it means saving $30. But, I might be selling my character short here; I may be putting myself in moral danger!
I have been aware of this, I think, for quite some time in some sort of semi-conscious way, but then I discovered how L. M. Montgomery articulated it so well through her character, Anne of Green Gables. She said, “It is so much easier being good when one is wearing fashionable clothing.”
Well. What else can I say? Nothing, except that it appears we can give people fine clothing to wear. I don’t mean clothing of threads and buttons, but character clothing—a clothing of expectation. Margery Sharp’s Miss Bianca said it so well when she mused that “People told they are generous and open-minded often discover that they really are, so that flattery of the right kind…does nothing but good.”
* I noticed immediately that my haphazard list of children’s books’ antagonists were all women. That wasn’t intentional; they were just the ones that came to mind. Who are the really evil male antagonists of children’s literature? Surely there are some.
** Read The Wind in the Willows online!
Do clothes make the man?
Conversely, if I wear those clothes to the auto parts store, I don’t feel quite as confident or adept as when I sport old jeans and a greasy t-shirt. And, my driving isn’t so polite. (“Out of my way, ye peasants, for 'tis I, Toad the Traffic-queller, Toad the Mighty, Toad the Scorcher!")**
In fact, Kenneth Grahame’s Toad is a perfect example of this. Whenever Toad takes up a new, eccentric, and expensive hobby, he must have the clothes to go with it. His friends Rat, Mole, and Badger know this, and when they take it upon themselves to cure Toad of his addiction to automobiles, the first thing they do is tell Toad to take his driving togs off. Here; read as Badger begins the process:
“Now then!” he said to the Toad, when the four of them stood together in the Hall, “first of all, take those ridiculous things off!”
`Shan't!” replied Toad, with great spirit. “What is the meaning of this gross outrage? I demand an instant explanation.”
“Take them off him, then, you two,” ordered the Badger briefly.
[Rat and Mole] had to lay Toad out on the floor, kicking and calling all sorts of names, before they could get to work properly. Then the Rat sat on him, and the Mole got his motor-clothes off him bit by bit, and they stood him up on his legs again. A good deal of his blustering spirit seemed to have evaporated with the removal of his fine panoply. Now that he was merely Toad, and no longer the Terror of the Highway, he giggled feebly and looked from one to the other appealingly, seeming quite to understand the situation.
See? I think Toad and I may be a bit of the same mettle. Toad does carry it a bit far, though—farther than me, I’m sure. I mean, his personality being affected by his clothing is so strong it nearly prevents him from escaping jail. The jailor’s daughter has a plan that will benefit toad and her poor aunt.
“Toad,” she said presently, “just listen, please. I have an aunt who is a washerwoman.”
“There, there,” said Toad, graciously and affably, “never mind; think no more about it. I have several aunts who ought to be washerwomen.”
“Do be quiet a minute, Toad,” said the girl. “You talk too much, that's your chief fault, and I'm trying to think, and you hurt my head. As I said, I have an aunt who is a washerwoman…I think if she were properly approached…you could come to some arrangement by which she would let you have her dress and bonnet and so on, and you could escape from the castle as the official washerwoman. You're very alike in many respects--particularly about the figure.”
“We're not,” said the Toad in a huff. “I have a very elegant figure--for what I am.”
“So has my aunt,” replied the girl, “for what she is. But have it your own way. You horrid, proud, ungrateful animal, when I'm sorry for you, and trying to help you!”
“Yes, yes, that's all right; thank you very much indeed,” said the Toad hurriedly. “But look here! You wouldn't surely have Mr. Toad of Toad Hall, going about the country disguised as a washerwoman!”
And then Toad, dressed as a washerwoman, realizes he has no money to board a train. But, with his new clothes, his new role is no trouble at all.
“O, sir!” said Toad, crying afresh, “I am a poor unhappy washerwoman, and I've lost all my money, and can't pay for a ticket, and I must get home to-night somehow, and whatever I am to do I don't know. O dear, O dear!”
“That's a bad business, indeed,” said the engine-driver reflectively. “Lost your money--and can't get home--and got some kids, too, waiting for you, I dare say?”
“Any amount of 'em,” sobbed Toad. “And they'll be hungry--and playing with matches--and upsetting lamps, the little innocents!--and quarrelling, and going on generally. O dear, O dear!”
Well, anyway, how is it that clothing can hold such sway over some of us? I suppose the first step in solving such a problem is admitting it, but it may also mean that I’ll have to stop selecting clothes on the basis of price alone. Generally I’ll ignore size if it’s somewhat close and color if it’s not too offensive and cut or style if it means saving $30. But, I might be selling my character short here; I may be putting myself in moral danger!
I have been aware of this, I think, for quite some time in some sort of semi-conscious way, but then I discovered how L. M. Montgomery articulated it so well through her character, Anne of Green Gables. She said, “It is so much easier being good when one is wearing fashionable clothing.”
Well. What else can I say? Nothing, except that it appears we can give people fine clothing to wear. I don’t mean clothing of threads and buttons, but character clothing—a clothing of expectation. Margery Sharp’s Miss Bianca said it so well when she mused that “People told they are generous and open-minded often discover that they really are, so that flattery of the right kind…does nothing but good.”
* I noticed immediately that my haphazard list of children’s books’ antagonists were all women. That wasn’t intentional; they were just the ones that came to mind. Who are the really evil male antagonists of children’s literature? Surely there are some.
** Read The Wind in the Willows online!
Friday, December 15, 2006
Vicarious Pleasures
Clara Grace barely plays with her toys. Well, she plays with them about 5 percent of the time. The rest of the time she is playing with boxes of Macaroni-and-Cheese from the kitchen shelf, pots and pans, digital cameras that she extracts from camera bags, chargers, phones, doors, CDs, and toilet paper (thank goodness not the toilet.) She even slides chairs up to a light switch and will spend several minutes turning the light on or off. “Light on!” she announces, and then, “Light off!” Over and over again.
But when kids come over, she inevitably follows the guests into the nursery. The visitors start playing with her toys, usually with vigor. She will stand there and watch, suddenly desirous of this toy that has been in her nursery for six months or more. Sometimes I think, “Why don’t you go play with the light switch? That’s what you really want to do.” As soon as the guest moves on to a new toy, Clara Grace rediscovers the recently abandoned one. As she plays with it, I watch to see if she wonders why she hasn’t been enjoying this thing everyday. It seems to be her new favorite pastime.
There is something, isn’t there, to watching a person thoroughly enjoy something? When a person is completely passionate about an object or a hobby that I had previously ignored, I see it in a new light. It’s the reason why I ever tried to pick up the game of golf. Another example: in Peter Shaffer’s Amadeus, the fictionalized Antonio Salieri lusts after Mozart’s seemingly divine skill in composing. Shaffer—through Salieri—describes Mozart’s music in the most enticing terms. It’s not just that the musical portraiture is poetic--it’s authentic. Suddenly I hear Mozart like I never did before and wonder why I have not been listening to Mozart everyday.
But anyway, one reason Clara Grace watches these children play with her nearly-forgotten toys is that we have worked diligently with her in teaching her to share. She’s not perfect at it, but she does pretty well. When she begins to get antsy about wanting something—say a stuffed horse—that someone else is using, she’ll chant, “Share. Share the horse. Share. Share the horse.”
Jut before Halloween, we decided to teach Clara Grace how to trick-or-treat. She still doesn’t quite have the concept down, but she’s farther along then the last two years. On her first try, she knocked on the door and said “Trick-or-Treat” when we opened it, as instructed. We dropped candy in her bucket to activate Pavlovian learning. Then, keeping in mind our manners lessons, we said, “What do you say?”
“More candy,” she replied.
“No,” we laughed, “what do you say?”
“More candy…please,” she tried.
“Say, ‘thank you’”, we prompted.
“Morecandymorecandymorecandy!” The volume was rising.
“Say, ‘thank you’”, we urged.
Then she remembered her reasoning skills. ”Share! Share the candy,” she said.
She ate the candy and she thoroughly enjoyed it. I watched her suck on
this cheap treat, saturated with drool and pleasure. She reveled in it so much, it made me want to try it. I like salty snacks, not sweets--and especially not cheap sweets. But, maybe I had missed some sublte joy.
It's like "Three Dog Night." It's childish, unrefined, and simple, but I like it. Whenever I listen to "Never Been to Spain", I feel a little silly, like I am relishing cheap candy. So, I tried the cheap candy again. Apparently, not all similes can be extended in reality. And, I guess that's why I don't golf anymore, either.
But when kids come over, she inevitably follows the guests into the nursery. The visitors start playing with her toys, usually with vigor. She will stand there and watch, suddenly desirous of this toy that has been in her nursery for six months or more. Sometimes I think, “Why don’t you go play with the light switch? That’s what you really want to do.” As soon as the guest moves on to a new toy, Clara Grace rediscovers the recently abandoned one. As she plays with it, I watch to see if she wonders why she hasn’t been enjoying this thing everyday. It seems to be her new favorite pastime.
There is something, isn’t there, to watching a person thoroughly enjoy something? When a person is completely passionate about an object or a hobby that I had previously ignored, I see it in a new light. It’s the reason why I ever tried to pick up the game of golf. Another example: in Peter Shaffer’s Amadeus, the fictionalized Antonio Salieri lusts after Mozart’s seemingly divine skill in composing. Shaffer—through Salieri—describes Mozart’s music in the most enticing terms. It’s not just that the musical portraiture is poetic--it’s authentic. Suddenly I hear Mozart like I never did before and wonder why I have not been listening to Mozart everyday.
But anyway, one reason Clara Grace watches these children play with her nearly-forgotten toys is that we have worked diligently with her in teaching her to share. She’s not perfect at it, but she does pretty well. When she begins to get antsy about wanting something—say a stuffed horse—that someone else is using, she’ll chant, “Share. Share the horse. Share. Share the horse.”
Jut before Halloween, we decided to teach Clara Grace how to trick-or-treat. She still doesn’t quite have the concept down, but she’s farther along then the last two years. On her first try, she knocked on the door and said “Trick-or-Treat” when we opened it, as instructed. We dropped candy in her bucket to activate Pavlovian learning. Then, keeping in mind our manners lessons, we said, “What do you say?”
“More candy,” she replied.
“No,” we laughed, “what do you say?”
“More candy…please,” she tried.
“Say, ‘thank you’”, we prompted.
“Morecandymorecandymorecandy!” The volume was rising.
“Say, ‘thank you’”, we urged.
Then she remembered her reasoning skills. ”Share! Share the candy,” she said.
She ate the candy and she thoroughly enjoyed it. I watched her suck on
this cheap treat, saturated with drool and pleasure. She reveled in it so much, it made me want to try it. I like salty snacks, not sweets--and especially not cheap sweets. But, maybe I had missed some sublte joy.It's like "Three Dog Night." It's childish, unrefined, and simple, but I like it. Whenever I listen to "Never Been to Spain", I feel a little silly, like I am relishing cheap candy. So, I tried the cheap candy again. Apparently, not all similes can be extended in reality. And, I guess that's why I don't golf anymore, either.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Embarrassment
My greatest embarrassment this year happened on Thursday, and it started when I gave my class hot chocolate. It was a cold, blustery day, and I was feeling the holiday spirits drifting in. We were preparing for that night’s Holiday Sing in which all the third and fourth graders would perform with voice, kazoo, and percussive instruments for a multitude of parents and one senator. The kids had practiced since October and they really sounded good.
Last week, a parent had a brilliant idea for the Holiday Sing. She asked each kid to bring in a holiday picture of him or herself. Her intention was to scan all the pictures in and make a huge digital slideshow to display while the children sang. The only problem was, she didn’t follow through. The pictures came in, but she did not collect them and assemble the slideshow. I guilted myself into not only collecting the pictures and creating a slideshow, but also into purchasing material to build large symmetric screens on either side of the stage. And considering the performance was only a few hours away, I was beginning to feel panicky. This is my flimsy excuse for what happened next.
I wanted to get the screens raised. Fifteen minutes was all I needed, and I asked the class to work in their Reading Workbook. It was intelligent work that we were ready to do anyway, and it was review. I thought, “Why not give the kids hot chocolate while they work?” I cracked the windows open to let some of the winter in and broke out the hot chocolate.
In hindsight, I guess their reaction was predictable. I asked them to be calm, to be mature, to work quietly in their seats for fifteen minutes. But it wasn't happening.
“What if we have to go to the bathroom?” one student asked.
“Wait,” I replied. “Wait fifteen minutes. Don’t leave your seats for any reason; I’ll be right back.” And as extra precaution, I detailed my expectations for how the class should look and sound and what they should be doing.
They were antsy and squirrelly. It took ten minutes before I felt they were calm and focused. Then I went to work on the screens.
I came back sooner than expected. Mrs. Ferguson, the teacher next door, told me what happened. The kids had all come running and screaming into the hall while some teachers were administering assessments in the hallway. Apparently, after I’d left, some kids started talking and laughing, and other kids took it upon themselves to be the quiet police and wrote messages on the blackboard such as “Be quite pepole!” Then one boy ran up to the blackboard to add his two cents, but he spilled his hot chocolate everywhere. He had taken his lid off. The spilled hot chocolate triggered the mass hysteria.
Mrs. Ferguson came in and tried to quell the tide of children flowing in the swell of noise and bedlam. Then Parker knocked his drink over.
I was angry that the children had behaved this way, and embarrassed that other teachers knew about it and became involved. To have a teacher tell me all the gruesome details of my class’s behavior was humiliating.
I went into the classroom. The kids seemed oblivious to their own behavior. So, I took ten minutes to tell the children how frustrated, embarrassed, and disappointed I was. They knew what I expected of them, and they completely missed the mark. During my very stern lecture, one boy kept raising his hand. I kept telling him to put it down. Eventually, I asked, “Do you have a comment?”
“No,” he said.
“Do you have something to say in your defense?”
“No,” he said. “I have a question.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Can we have extra recess?”
I couldn’t believe it. “Did you hear anything I just said?”
He looked confused. “Yeah,” he said, as if to ask who could not have heard what I just said. It was more like he was saying, “Yes, but you are completely irrelevant.”
“No,” I said. “No, you will not have extra recess. You will lose five minutes of your recess for asking that question.”
He looked like a contestant in a game that had just broken a secret rule that no one could know about, and he was trying to figure it out.
I spent the rest of the day being angry.
And then I found a toy on the floor. Toys are not allowed at school, so this made me just a little more upset. I picked it up. It was a spin-off of the classic nun toy boxing puppet, except it was a clown. When I held it and squeezed the triggers, it’s puny arms flailed out comically. It looked ridiculous. When I let it punch the palm of my hand, it felt weak and ineffective. It was exactly how I felt--ridiculous and impotent.
Later, in the middle of the night, it occurred to me that I am often on the other side of this scene. God has given me explicit expectations concerning my behavior and I often choose not to fulfill them. Then, an accuser comes to Him pointing his finger at me and tells God everything I am doing wrong, as if God didn’t know. “Look!” he says, “Look at him! He claims to be a follower of You, yet he commits the same offences over and over again! He is taking the breath You gave him and uses it to speak unkind words and to do evil things.” And the accuser does not have to make anything up because he has enough material to work with. How humiliating that must be for God!
And in that position, what do I crave? I desperately need grace and mercy. My life depends on it, really.
And what does God do? He gives me a job I love, a great family, a big backyard, and a car that hasn’t broken down for over three years.
Friday, the kids came into class quietly. They knew I was probably still frustrated about the previous day’s behavior, and I was. But I had also decided something. I wrote the morning directions on the blackboard and added at the bottom, “You will learn the most important lesson of the year today.”
After the morning had progressed a little, I asked the kids if they knew what the words "grace" or "mercy" meant. After a few guesses, the class realized they did not know the meanings of these two words—words they had heard and used themselves. I used the definitions I learned when I was a child. Grace is getting something you don’t deserve. Mercy is not getting what you do deserve. As an example of mercy, I told a story from my own class. Someone had stolen something of mine and I had caught her. She deserved a suspension, according to school policy. Yet, I did not suspend her. That was mercy.
I asked for an example of grace.
“If Meghan dumped out my desk and I didn’t tell on her,” a girl asked, "that would be grace?"
“If you didn’t tell on her,” I replied, “that would be mercy. If you cleaned it up and then tidied up Meghan’s desk, that would be grace.” I could see the idea was shocking. The kids looked around with their mouths open.
“But,” a boy said, “that wouldn’t be fair!”
“Grace is never fair,” I said. “That's the point. It’s about treating people better than they deserve to be treated. It’s something you need to practice because sometimes you are going to mess up and want someone to treat you better than you deserve.”
Bethany figured it out. “So if you gave us hot chocolate today, that would be grace.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, it would. And what if I gave you hot chocolate and candy bars?” I pulled out the hot chocolate packets and the candy bars. “Do you deserve these?”
The kids did not answer. They didn’t want to jeopardize any chances they had left.
“I am giving these to you today as a picture of grace,” I said. “Can you treat each other like this? If someone is mean to you, can you still be kind to him?”
“I don’t deserve hot chocolate,” said the boy who had spilled his cup while running in the room.
“No, you don’t,” I agreed, “but you’re getting some anyway.”
Last week, a parent had a brilliant idea for the Holiday Sing. She asked each kid to bring in a holiday picture of him or herself. Her intention was to scan all the pictures in and make a huge digital slideshow to display while the children sang. The only problem was, she didn’t follow through. The pictures came in, but she did not collect them and assemble the slideshow. I guilted myself into not only collecting the pictures and creating a slideshow, but also into purchasing material to build large symmetric screens on either side of the stage. And considering the performance was only a few hours away, I was beginning to feel panicky. This is my flimsy excuse for what happened next.
I wanted to get the screens raised. Fifteen minutes was all I needed, and I asked the class to work in their Reading Workbook. It was intelligent work that we were ready to do anyway, and it was review. I thought, “Why not give the kids hot chocolate while they work?” I cracked the windows open to let some of the winter in and broke out the hot chocolate.
In hindsight, I guess their reaction was predictable. I asked them to be calm, to be mature, to work quietly in their seats for fifteen minutes. But it wasn't happening.
“What if we have to go to the bathroom?” one student asked.
“Wait,” I replied. “Wait fifteen minutes. Don’t leave your seats for any reason; I’ll be right back.” And as extra precaution, I detailed my expectations for how the class should look and sound and what they should be doing.
They were antsy and squirrelly. It took ten minutes before I felt they were calm and focused. Then I went to work on the screens.
I came back sooner than expected. Mrs. Ferguson, the teacher next door, told me what happened. The kids had all come running and screaming into the hall while some teachers were administering assessments in the hallway. Apparently, after I’d left, some kids started talking and laughing, and other kids took it upon themselves to be the quiet police and wrote messages on the blackboard such as “Be quite pepole!” Then one boy ran up to the blackboard to add his two cents, but he spilled his hot chocolate everywhere. He had taken his lid off. The spilled hot chocolate triggered the mass hysteria.
Mrs. Ferguson came in and tried to quell the tide of children flowing in the swell of noise and bedlam. Then Parker knocked his drink over.
I was angry that the children had behaved this way, and embarrassed that other teachers knew about it and became involved. To have a teacher tell me all the gruesome details of my class’s behavior was humiliating.
I went into the classroom. The kids seemed oblivious to their own behavior. So, I took ten minutes to tell the children how frustrated, embarrassed, and disappointed I was. They knew what I expected of them, and they completely missed the mark. During my very stern lecture, one boy kept raising his hand. I kept telling him to put it down. Eventually, I asked, “Do you have a comment?”
“No,” he said.
“Do you have something to say in your defense?”
“No,” he said. “I have a question.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Can we have extra recess?”
I couldn’t believe it. “Did you hear anything I just said?”He looked confused. “Yeah,” he said, as if to ask who could not have heard what I just said. It was more like he was saying, “Yes, but you are completely irrelevant.”
“No,” I said. “No, you will not have extra recess. You will lose five minutes of your recess for asking that question.”
He looked like a contestant in a game that had just broken a secret rule that no one could know about, and he was trying to figure it out.
I spent the rest of the day being angry.
And then I found a toy on the floor. Toys are not allowed at school, so this made me just a little more upset. I picked it up. It was a spin-off of the classic nun toy boxing puppet, except it was a clown. When I held it and squeezed the triggers, it’s puny arms flailed out comically. It looked ridiculous. When I let it punch the palm of my hand, it felt weak and ineffective. It was exactly how I felt--ridiculous and impotent.
Later, in the middle of the night, it occurred to me that I am often on the other side of this scene. God has given me explicit expectations concerning my behavior and I often choose not to fulfill them. Then, an accuser comes to Him pointing his finger at me and tells God everything I am doing wrong, as if God didn’t know. “Look!” he says, “Look at him! He claims to be a follower of You, yet he commits the same offences over and over again! He is taking the breath You gave him and uses it to speak unkind words and to do evil things.” And the accuser does not have to make anything up because he has enough material to work with. How humiliating that must be for God!
And in that position, what do I crave? I desperately need grace and mercy. My life depends on it, really.
And what does God do? He gives me a job I love, a great family, a big backyard, and a car that hasn’t broken down for over three years.
Friday, the kids came into class quietly. They knew I was probably still frustrated about the previous day’s behavior, and I was. But I had also decided something. I wrote the morning directions on the blackboard and added at the bottom, “You will learn the most important lesson of the year today.”
After the morning had progressed a little, I asked the kids if they knew what the words "grace" or "mercy" meant. After a few guesses, the class realized they did not know the meanings of these two words—words they had heard and used themselves. I used the definitions I learned when I was a child. Grace is getting something you don’t deserve. Mercy is not getting what you do deserve. As an example of mercy, I told a story from my own class. Someone had stolen something of mine and I had caught her. She deserved a suspension, according to school policy. Yet, I did not suspend her. That was mercy.
I asked for an example of grace.
“If Meghan dumped out my desk and I didn’t tell on her,” a girl asked, "that would be grace?"
“If you didn’t tell on her,” I replied, “that would be mercy. If you cleaned it up and then tidied up Meghan’s desk, that would be grace.” I could see the idea was shocking. The kids looked around with their mouths open.
“But,” a boy said, “that wouldn’t be fair!”
“Grace is never fair,” I said. “That's the point. It’s about treating people better than they deserve to be treated. It’s something you need to practice because sometimes you are going to mess up and want someone to treat you better than you deserve.”
Bethany figured it out. “So if you gave us hot chocolate today, that would be grace.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, it would. And what if I gave you hot chocolate and candy bars?” I pulled out the hot chocolate packets and the candy bars. “Do you deserve these?”
The kids did not answer. They didn’t want to jeopardize any chances they had left.
“I am giving these to you today as a picture of grace,” I said. “Can you treat each other like this? If someone is mean to you, can you still be kind to him?”
“I don’t deserve hot chocolate,” said the boy who had spilled his cup while running in the room.
“No, you don’t,” I agreed, “but you’re getting some anyway.”
Friday, November 24, 2006
Black Friday
“Honey, you’ve never done this before, have you?”
This was more of a statement than a question, and it was uttered the day before Thanksgiving by a Wal-Mart greeter in response to my wife’s questions about shopping strategies for the big sales on Friday morning. We have never shopped on the Friday after Thanksgiving before, and I suppose I have always felt a little bit of pride about that.
We were researching. Marcy had found some Black Friday ads, and we were checking out the stores, looking at the products, and noting their locations inside the acres of textiles. From the way the Wal-Mart greeter told it, customers would arrive during the night and patrol the store like unblinking sharks waiting for 5:00am to roll around. If we waited until 5:00 to show up, there would be nothing but desolation left.
Friday morning, I got up at 4:00. Neither my wife nor I were wildly revved up about this, but we had seen some good deals. If we scored, it would be nice. If not, we would be no worse for the wear. At least we hoped. While Marcy stayed home with the sleeping children, I ventured to the stores. Feeling fairly certain I would not be able to get my hands on anything from our list, I decided my primary objective would be to observe the people and a situation that was entirely new to me.
We had planned our strategy together: Best Buy first at 5:00, followed by Wal-Mart immediately after, Target at 6:00, and Wal-Greens on the way home. I pulled into Best Buy at 4:20, cup of coffee in hand. The line was about 5 people wide and extended from Best Buy’s front door past Clumpies, past Petsmart, past the several other shops along the sidewalk, and on around the corner. I sauntered up to the line sipping my coffee and ready to observe American culture in action. I was hoping not to see the stereotype drawn by the Wal-Mart greeter. Certainly there would be good and decent people in line. It wouldn’t be pure animal behavior, would it? After all, I was here, right?
I was by turns pleasantly surprised and undeniably disgusted throughout the morning. At the front of the line a scaled-down high-school football team of five strapping boys sat in nylon camp chairs watching portable DVD players, eating snacks, and quaffing hot drinks. As I approached, two mini-vans pulled up with sliding doors opening; mom’s poured out refilling drinks and snacks, taking chairs and electronics as the boys prepared for the impending consumerism. Someone arriving behind me laughed and asked when the boys had arrived. 11:00 last night, they said. It was clearly an adventure, maybe even a tradition. The latecomers trekked on towards the end of the line with well-wishes from the frontlines. After estimating that there were easily over 1,000 people standing in line, I decided to abandon the initial strategy and head to Wal-Mart first.
Two things struck me immediately as the automatic doors whooshed open. First was the absolute silence. Second was the absence of all carts. During the night, Wal-Mart employees had wheeled out pallets of goods; the pallets were pre-wrapped in brown paper. Customers had torn little holes in the paper in order to see what was where before they staked their claim. According to Wednesday’s greeter, Wal-Mart employees would rip off the paper at 5:00. The aisles were jam-packed with empty carts and silent customers. There was no room to move. One of the employees asked his manager, “How are we going to get in there and pull the paper off?”
“You’ll just have to work your way in,” the manager shrugged.
“You really think that’ll work?” the employee returned.
It turned out to be a moot point. At precisely 4:54 I heard the sound of ripping paper. An employee began waving his arms and trying to weave through the carts. “Step away from the pallets!” he yelled. Customers were digging in. The middle-aged women looked up from their prey like lions over a zebra to assess the potential threat. Did he have a gun? Could he even get to them? A furtive glance was all the assurance they needed before they returned to their task. It was as if someone shouted, “GO!” Paper went flying in shreds. Managers could barely be heard on the PA system yelling for customers step away from the pallets. It was havoc; it was spectacle; it was animal. It reminded me of a soda that had been shook and then opened by an unsuspecting victim.
There were collisions. There were tears. There were different strategies in play. One pair of women had obviously arrived early in the morning and camped near pallets. One grabbed two TVs while at the opposite end her partner grabbed two DVD players. They passed for a minute, congratulating each other on the attainments before continuing the feeding frenzy. A minute later, I saw the woman with the DVD players yelling at her partner. Apparently, she had left her cart for a second and someone else snatched the TVs. Although I had scored a cart just before the paper shredding, I felt comfortable leaving it here and there as I was not out for big purchases. The coolest thing I was shopping for today was a toaster oven. Not exactly a hot item it seems.
By 5:11 I was checking out and by 5:19 I was back at Best Buy. Best Buy was calmer. Everyone waited outside. Every time eight customers left the store, they let eight more in. The conversation was amicable and light-hearted in line. Everyone seemed convinced they would not get what they were shopping for. The elderly couple behind me kept saying, “Well, it’s nothing we need. Just toys for grandparents.” They must have concluded two-dozen paragraphs with that preemptive consolation. “I wonder where in the store we’ll find the DVD players? I wonder if there are any left. Oh well, it’s nothing we need. Just toys for grandparents.”
“Why do they call it Black Friday?” someone asked. I had been wondering the same thing. Was it an oblique and symbolic acknowledgment of our own excessive culture? Was it because everyone had been up well before the crack of dawn?
“It’s when businesses go back in the black,” a woman answered. “Didn’t you know that?” Well, we're all just here doing our civic duty then.
Best Buy employees began walking down the line at 5:47. “What are you shopping for?" they’d ask. The answer was almost always laptops, computers, or LCD TVs. When they came to me I replied, “A TV.” Ours has no picture, and it has been that way for months. Literally no picture. It projects a black screen with an intensely bright white line crossing its midsection. And the sound is going, too.
"What kind of TV?” asked the employee.
“20-inch Insignia for $54,” I quoted the ad.
“You can go in,” the employee said. Apparently not a hot item either.
The couple in front of me congratulated me on my access. “Thank you,” I said. “See you soon,” I added. We had already exchanged Thanksgiving stories and brief family histories. I felt like I knew them.
The last 40 yards to the doors held more surprises. On the sidewalk lay abandoned sleeping bags, discarded playing card decks, a scattered UNO game, banana peels, bananas, hundreds of coffee cups, some spilled coffee, hand-warmer packs, pop-tarts, oatmeal packets, a thermos, plastic spoons, Styrofoam bowls, batteries (I assumed dead), a broken CD, and local news reporters.
As I walked into the store, I made room for a team of employees aiding a happy customer with his purchases: a box measuring approximately six feet long, four feet high, and about a foot deep containing a wall-mount plasma television. The successful bargain hunter and the workers wrestled his massive kill into the back of his $60,000 pick-up truck with other big purchases: a desktop computer, monitor, scanner-printer, a desk for it all, and big speakers. With his trophies strapped down, the urban hunter headed off into the predawn morning.
Before I walked in, I glanced down at Target. Another huge crowd waited for the doors that would be open in 13 minutes.
This was more of a statement than a question, and it was uttered the day before Thanksgiving by a Wal-Mart greeter in response to my wife’s questions about shopping strategies for the big sales on Friday morning. We have never shopped on the Friday after Thanksgiving before, and I suppose I have always felt a little bit of pride about that.
We were researching. Marcy had found some Black Friday ads, and we were checking out the stores, looking at the products, and noting their locations inside the acres of textiles. From the way the Wal-Mart greeter told it, customers would arrive during the night and patrol the store like unblinking sharks waiting for 5:00am to roll around. If we waited until 5:00 to show up, there would be nothing but desolation left.
Friday morning, I got up at 4:00. Neither my wife nor I were wildly revved up about this, but we had seen some good deals. If we scored, it would be nice. If not, we would be no worse for the wear. At least we hoped. While Marcy stayed home with the sleeping children, I ventured to the stores. Feeling fairly certain I would not be able to get my hands on anything from our list, I decided my primary objective would be to observe the people and a situation that was entirely new to me.
We had planned our strategy together: Best Buy first at 5:00, followed by Wal-Mart immediately after, Target at 6:00, and Wal-Greens on the way home. I pulled into Best Buy at 4:20, cup of coffee in hand. The line was about 5 people wide and extended from Best Buy’s front door past Clumpies, past Petsmart, past the several other shops along the sidewalk, and on around the corner. I sauntered up to the line sipping my coffee and ready to observe American culture in action. I was hoping not to see the stereotype drawn by the Wal-Mart greeter. Certainly there would be good and decent people in line. It wouldn’t be pure animal behavior, would it? After all, I was here, right?
I was by turns pleasantly surprised and undeniably disgusted throughout the morning. At the front of the line a scaled-down high-school football team of five strapping boys sat in nylon camp chairs watching portable DVD players, eating snacks, and quaffing hot drinks. As I approached, two mini-vans pulled up with sliding doors opening; mom’s poured out refilling drinks and snacks, taking chairs and electronics as the boys prepared for the impending consumerism. Someone arriving behind me laughed and asked when the boys had arrived. 11:00 last night, they said. It was clearly an adventure, maybe even a tradition. The latecomers trekked on towards the end of the line with well-wishes from the frontlines. After estimating that there were easily over 1,000 people standing in line, I decided to abandon the initial strategy and head to Wal-Mart first.
Two things struck me immediately as the automatic doors whooshed open. First was the absolute silence. Second was the absence of all carts. During the night, Wal-Mart employees had wheeled out pallets of goods; the pallets were pre-wrapped in brown paper. Customers had torn little holes in the paper in order to see what was where before they staked their claim. According to Wednesday’s greeter, Wal-Mart employees would rip off the paper at 5:00. The aisles were jam-packed with empty carts and silent customers. There was no room to move. One of the employees asked his manager, “How are we going to get in there and pull the paper off?”
“You’ll just have to work your way in,” the manager shrugged.
“You really think that’ll work?” the employee returned.
It turned out to be a moot point. At precisely 4:54 I heard the sound of ripping paper. An employee began waving his arms and trying to weave through the carts. “Step away from the pallets!” he yelled. Customers were digging in. The middle-aged women looked up from their prey like lions over a zebra to assess the potential threat. Did he have a gun? Could he even get to them? A furtive glance was all the assurance they needed before they returned to their task. It was as if someone shouted, “GO!” Paper went flying in shreds. Managers could barely be heard on the PA system yelling for customers step away from the pallets. It was havoc; it was spectacle; it was animal. It reminded me of a soda that had been shook and then opened by an unsuspecting victim.
There were collisions. There were tears. There were different strategies in play. One pair of women had obviously arrived early in the morning and camped near pallets. One grabbed two TVs while at the opposite end her partner grabbed two DVD players. They passed for a minute, congratulating each other on the attainments before continuing the feeding frenzy. A minute later, I saw the woman with the DVD players yelling at her partner. Apparently, she had left her cart for a second and someone else snatched the TVs. Although I had scored a cart just before the paper shredding, I felt comfortable leaving it here and there as I was not out for big purchases. The coolest thing I was shopping for today was a toaster oven. Not exactly a hot item it seems.
By 5:11 I was checking out and by 5:19 I was back at Best Buy. Best Buy was calmer. Everyone waited outside. Every time eight customers left the store, they let eight more in. The conversation was amicable and light-hearted in line. Everyone seemed convinced they would not get what they were shopping for. The elderly couple behind me kept saying, “Well, it’s nothing we need. Just toys for grandparents.” They must have concluded two-dozen paragraphs with that preemptive consolation. “I wonder where in the store we’ll find the DVD players? I wonder if there are any left. Oh well, it’s nothing we need. Just toys for grandparents.”
“Why do they call it Black Friday?” someone asked. I had been wondering the same thing. Was it an oblique and symbolic acknowledgment of our own excessive culture? Was it because everyone had been up well before the crack of dawn?
“It’s when businesses go back in the black,” a woman answered. “Didn’t you know that?” Well, we're all just here doing our civic duty then.
Best Buy employees began walking down the line at 5:47. “What are you shopping for?" they’d ask. The answer was almost always laptops, computers, or LCD TVs. When they came to me I replied, “A TV.” Ours has no picture, and it has been that way for months. Literally no picture. It projects a black screen with an intensely bright white line crossing its midsection. And the sound is going, too.
"What kind of TV?” asked the employee.
“20-inch Insignia for $54,” I quoted the ad.
“You can go in,” the employee said. Apparently not a hot item either.
The couple in front of me congratulated me on my access. “Thank you,” I said. “See you soon,” I added. We had already exchanged Thanksgiving stories and brief family histories. I felt like I knew them.
The last 40 yards to the doors held more surprises. On the sidewalk lay abandoned sleeping bags, discarded playing card decks, a scattered UNO game, banana peels, bananas, hundreds of coffee cups, some spilled coffee, hand-warmer packs, pop-tarts, oatmeal packets, a thermos, plastic spoons, Styrofoam bowls, batteries (I assumed dead), a broken CD, and local news reporters.
As I walked into the store, I made room for a team of employees aiding a happy customer with his purchases: a box measuring approximately six feet long, four feet high, and about a foot deep containing a wall-mount plasma television. The successful bargain hunter and the workers wrestled his massive kill into the back of his $60,000 pick-up truck with other big purchases: a desktop computer, monitor, scanner-printer, a desk for it all, and big speakers. With his trophies strapped down, the urban hunter headed off into the predawn morning.
Before I walked in, I glanced down at Target. Another huge crowd waited for the doors that would be open in 13 minutes.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
What? No Warranty?
When each of our children were born, the hospital gave us a booklet titled, “Caring for Your Newborn”. It was about the same size, shape, and weight as our car manual. The chapters were similar, too. The car manual has a section on fluids and amounts, so does the baby manual. The car manual has a section on its sound system; the baby manual details what infants should be able to hear at different developmental levels and how they should be responding to noises. They both have a maintenance schedule included.
It reminds me of a congratulations card I received from one of my students. On the front it says, “Congratulations on your baby boy!” and on the inside it reads, “What are you going to do with it?” When I read that to my dad, he wryly replied, “Good question.” That, of course, reminded me of the Sunday School series we attended a while ago about raising boys to have an identity in Christ, to be masculine, to treat women well, and to be holy.
The baby manual didn’t address any of that.
One thing I try to teach my third graders is to have a healthy others-esteem. I started this several years ago after learning that the strongest self-esteems in history belonged to Hitler, Stalin, and the like. When you think about it, it makes sense. I stress to my students the importance of valuing and respecting other people. So I have two class rules. The first is “Respect”. The second is “Remember Rule Number 1.” Of course we spend hours throughout the year talking about what respect looks like, feels like, and sounds like. We parse the littlest situations with respect lenses.
When I taught at a Christian school, I had two rules posted. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind. The second is like it: love your neighbor as yourself.”
I like this version better. It is easy for us to love God with our heart and soul, but I think we sometimes forget to love God with our mind. Also, loving your neighbor as yourself implies that you have a healthy (if not overly strong) self-respect.
It all boils down to humility and grace, really. If your definitions on those two are a little rusty, let me offer you these. Grace is basically treating other people better than they deserve. Think about exercising grace in the grocery store or on the freeway. Humility is not thinking poorly of yourself. It’s not being falsely bashful when given compliments. Humility is simply not thinking of yourself, but thinking of others first.
Some people think being gracious with humility means being a doormat. That’s not true. It’s a way of treating people and a way of behaving. It’s an imitation of Christ. It’s easier to do if you know Christ personally and then know who you are in Christ.
So, my wife and I will do our best to change the baby every 3 hours, log the developmental benchmarks, make the appropriate doctor visits, teach literacy skills, feed them healthy food, and give them the right kind of milk. But, I hope to teach through daily example how to live with grace and humility and respect.
Jer. 9:23-24
This is what the LORD says:
"Let not the wise man boast of his wisdom
or the strong man boast of his strength
or the rich man boast of his riches,
but let him who boasts boast about this:
that he understands and knows me,
that I am the LORD, who exercises kindness,
justice and righteousness on earth,
for in these I delight,"
declares the LORD.
It reminds me of a congratulations card I received from one of my students. On the front it says, “Congratulations on your baby boy!” and on the inside it reads, “What are you going to do with it?” When I read that to my dad, he wryly replied, “Good question.” That, of course, reminded me of the Sunday School series we attended a while ago about raising boys to have an identity in Christ, to be masculine, to treat women well, and to be holy.
The baby manual didn’t address any of that.
One thing I try to teach my third graders is to have a healthy others-esteem. I started this several years ago after learning that the strongest self-esteems in history belonged to Hitler, Stalin, and the like. When you think about it, it makes sense. I stress to my students the importance of valuing and respecting other people. So I have two class rules. The first is “Respect”. The second is “Remember Rule Number 1.” Of course we spend hours throughout the year talking about what respect looks like, feels like, and sounds like. We parse the littlest situations with respect lenses.
When I taught at a Christian school, I had two rules posted. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind. The second is like it: love your neighbor as yourself.”
I like this version better. It is easy for us to love God with our heart and soul, but I think we sometimes forget to love God with our mind. Also, loving your neighbor as yourself implies that you have a healthy (if not overly strong) self-respect.
It all boils down to humility and grace, really. If your definitions on those two are a little rusty, let me offer you these. Grace is basically treating other people better than they deserve. Think about exercising grace in the grocery store or on the freeway. Humility is not thinking poorly of yourself. It’s not being falsely bashful when given compliments. Humility is simply not thinking of yourself, but thinking of others first.
Some people think being gracious with humility means being a doormat. That’s not true. It’s a way of treating people and a way of behaving. It’s an imitation of Christ. It’s easier to do if you know Christ personally and then know who you are in Christ.
So, my wife and I will do our best to change the baby every 3 hours, log the developmental benchmarks, make the appropriate doctor visits, teach literacy skills, feed them healthy food, and give them the right kind of milk. But, I hope to teach through daily example how to live with grace and humility and respect.
Jer. 9:23-24
This is what the LORD says:
"Let not the wise man boast of his wisdom
or the strong man boast of his strength
or the rich man boast of his riches,
but let him who boasts boast about this:
that he understands and knows me,
that I am the LORD, who exercises kindness,
justice and righteousness on earth,
for in these I delight,"
declares the LORD.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Catapulted
The pilot seemed to enjoy himself on takeoff. There was a little more thrust involved than I remember from this past summer’s flights. I feel like I am being catapulted from Chattanooga to Cincinnati in a giant arc. I suppose it’s not much different from being catapulted, except that someone is steering the load.
Sometimes when I leave my work—located on the beautiful Signal Mountain—and drive down to my house nestled in its shadow, I have a similar feeling. With the car in third and fourth, I can navigate the entire descent without touching the brake or gas pedals. It feels like I am riding down the mountain on a glorified roller skate. It’s not a giant leap of imagination. First, you get a giant roller skate. Sit in the heel and add a seat belt, airbag, and a steering wheel. If you want to upgrade just a little, put in some leather seats with built-in heaters and a sound system that rivals the one in your house. Then, scooch up to the edge a mountain and push off. If you happen to have a brake, you might want to keep it handy until after the first corner. That’s where the rightfully zealous Signal Mountain Police check to see if you are traveling 41 miles per hour instead of 40. (Seriously.)
As the small jet leaps into the air, the city spreads out before me, ever diminishing, an inverse pointillist drawing of lights in blackness. The first thing that stands out is the wide, curving, dark swath of the Tennessee River cutting through the clustery mass of city lights and the tangled sinuous streets. The second thing is the very definite border of the city, defined by the base of Walden’s Ridge, of which Signal Mountain is a part. Then I see a bridge crossing the river and deduce that it is the one on Highway 153. “If that’s true,” I think, “then there should be another bridge just down river.” Oriented, I begin to label the town. Hixson, very bright. Downtown—a grid and a stadium.
I begin to look for my house. I know I won’t be able to see my porch light, but I wonder how close I’ll be able to pinpoint its location. Between Hixson and downtown I look for something familiar. I look for the streetlights on Dayton Boulevard. They are new, but they look old, and they are very bright. They caused some controversy for a while; someone told us they made Dayton Boulevard look like a runway. “Well, I should be able to find it, then,” I think.
But I don’t see anything like a runway. Highway 27 becomes apparent to me—a double ribbon unlit save for the fluid drops of cars flowing in opposing directions. From there I find Mountain Creek road, running along the base of the mountain, Morrison Springs Road intersecting it at the bright lights of the high school athletic fields, connecting to Dayton Boulevard at our new, well-lit Bi-Lo. And there are the streetlights; not a virtual runway, but brighter than the other streets. The lights begin at Morrison Springs Road and my eyes travel one mile south, connecting the dots, to the very last bright spot. That last light, as I well know, is on the corner of my street; one inch to the right is my house.
I really wish I were there.
It’s 7:00. Dinner is over, but it’s not quite bath time. Nothing good is on TV. They are reading board books, doing dishes, or getting a Flintstone vitamin.
I am flying to St. Louis to meet with people from the U. S. Department of Education, a research group, and a select number of other teachers that also present professional development sessions during the summer. I will sleep in a huge and comfortable bed, eat $50 steaks with a glass of merlot, and get a week’s pay to do it.
I am amazed at how quickly we are over Walden’s Ridge—barely a stumbling block—and passing the Sequatchie Valley. Probably less than a minute. I bet the pilot can already see the lights of Cincinnati from up here.
I’m sure my wife cannot understand my mixed feelings for going to St. Louis this weekend. She would give anything, I bet, to experience the weekend I just described. And I am going to enjoy it, but the pleasure is rolled in some guilt at leaving her with two young children and a sadness at not being with her. The trips last summer were the same way: the presenting was thrilling; eating dinner with DoE personnel while discussing everything from educational issues to family pets was surreal; the hotels are so luxurious—more than I could afford on a family trip. But the travel is so unpleasant, the time away from my family so distasteful. I felt like I was flung from one end of the summer to the other, and the landing was a little harsh. At least it was only three trips, I mused. That was manageable. Then, at the end of last summer, all of us teachers were asked to create at least one more presentation, which would mean more speaking opportunities. Plus, we were asked to come to this weekend meeting in early November. It’s like a tar baby, but at least it tastes like caramel.
Well, the landing in Cincinnati was just as graceless as the takeoff, although seemingly more unintentional. A new pilot is taking us to St. Louis now, and now I’m more certain that the first pilot used excessive thrust in takeoff. I hope he enjoyed himself.
Sometimes—and this usually happens in fall—I feel like my life is on a train that is ever-increasing its speed and heading towards a car stalled on the tracks. The first few chug-chugs 30 years ago were slow as it crept out of the station. When I was eight, I remember thinking that I wouldn’t have my driver’s license for another whole lifetime. When I was twelve, it seemed a little different. I could remember four years before; I tried to imagine that distance in time ahead of me. It no longer seemed an eternity, but it was still too far to see. It wasn’t until I was seventeen with no real plans for the future, two classmates dead, and my friends’ parents getting divorces that I felt a bit unprepared for the speed life was taking. Earlier this year I mentioned a book that I read 15 years ago. 15 years ago, I was reading books like To Kill a Mockingbird. I almost hadn't realized I'd been alive that long.
Most of the year, I’m OK with the swift current of life—I feel like I have my priorities right and I am enjoying every moment with my wife and my children. But in fall, life feels like sand slipping through my fingers. It’s a bad time of year to fly to St. Louis inbetween work weeks.
It’s amazing how far you can see up here. The curve of the earth is distinct in the daytime, but even at night, the electric lights of civilization belie it. It’s also amazing how many lights there are, even outside of the cities. There are enough lights that the Tennessee, Ohio, and Mississippi rivers are very defined by the absence of light. In some ways that is impressive and sad.
I can tell we’ve passed the top of the arc between Cincinnati and St. Louis; we’re in a slight descent now. In a matter of minutes, the pilot will tell us to turn off the electric devices.
Back home, the kids have been in bed for two hours now. I will be in one in about 90 minutes, at which point Marcy will be getting up to change a diaper.
I will call her then.
Sometimes when I leave my work—located on the beautiful Signal Mountain—and drive down to my house nestled in its shadow, I have a similar feeling. With the car in third and fourth, I can navigate the entire descent without touching the brake or gas pedals. It feels like I am riding down the mountain on a glorified roller skate. It’s not a giant leap of imagination. First, you get a giant roller skate. Sit in the heel and add a seat belt, airbag, and a steering wheel. If you want to upgrade just a little, put in some leather seats with built-in heaters and a sound system that rivals the one in your house. Then, scooch up to the edge a mountain and push off. If you happen to have a brake, you might want to keep it handy until after the first corner. That’s where the rightfully zealous Signal Mountain Police check to see if you are traveling 41 miles per hour instead of 40. (Seriously.)
As the small jet leaps into the air, the city spreads out before me, ever diminishing, an inverse pointillist drawing of lights in blackness. The first thing that stands out is the wide, curving, dark swath of the Tennessee River cutting through the clustery mass of city lights and the tangled sinuous streets. The second thing is the very definite border of the city, defined by the base of Walden’s Ridge, of which Signal Mountain is a part. Then I see a bridge crossing the river and deduce that it is the one on Highway 153. “If that’s true,” I think, “then there should be another bridge just down river.” Oriented, I begin to label the town. Hixson, very bright. Downtown—a grid and a stadium.
I begin to look for my house. I know I won’t be able to see my porch light, but I wonder how close I’ll be able to pinpoint its location. Between Hixson and downtown I look for something familiar. I look for the streetlights on Dayton Boulevard. They are new, but they look old, and they are very bright. They caused some controversy for a while; someone told us they made Dayton Boulevard look like a runway. “Well, I should be able to find it, then,” I think.
But I don’t see anything like a runway. Highway 27 becomes apparent to me—a double ribbon unlit save for the fluid drops of cars flowing in opposing directions. From there I find Mountain Creek road, running along the base of the mountain, Morrison Springs Road intersecting it at the bright lights of the high school athletic fields, connecting to Dayton Boulevard at our new, well-lit Bi-Lo. And there are the streetlights; not a virtual runway, but brighter than the other streets. The lights begin at Morrison Springs Road and my eyes travel one mile south, connecting the dots, to the very last bright spot. That last light, as I well know, is on the corner of my street; one inch to the right is my house.
I really wish I were there.
It’s 7:00. Dinner is over, but it’s not quite bath time. Nothing good is on TV. They are reading board books, doing dishes, or getting a Flintstone vitamin.
I am flying to St. Louis to meet with people from the U. S. Department of Education, a research group, and a select number of other teachers that also present professional development sessions during the summer. I will sleep in a huge and comfortable bed, eat $50 steaks with a glass of merlot, and get a week’s pay to do it.
I am amazed at how quickly we are over Walden’s Ridge—barely a stumbling block—and passing the Sequatchie Valley. Probably less than a minute. I bet the pilot can already see the lights of Cincinnati from up here.
I’m sure my wife cannot understand my mixed feelings for going to St. Louis this weekend. She would give anything, I bet, to experience the weekend I just described. And I am going to enjoy it, but the pleasure is rolled in some guilt at leaving her with two young children and a sadness at not being with her. The trips last summer were the same way: the presenting was thrilling; eating dinner with DoE personnel while discussing everything from educational issues to family pets was surreal; the hotels are so luxurious—more than I could afford on a family trip. But the travel is so unpleasant, the time away from my family so distasteful. I felt like I was flung from one end of the summer to the other, and the landing was a little harsh. At least it was only three trips, I mused. That was manageable. Then, at the end of last summer, all of us teachers were asked to create at least one more presentation, which would mean more speaking opportunities. Plus, we were asked to come to this weekend meeting in early November. It’s like a tar baby, but at least it tastes like caramel.
Well, the landing in Cincinnati was just as graceless as the takeoff, although seemingly more unintentional. A new pilot is taking us to St. Louis now, and now I’m more certain that the first pilot used excessive thrust in takeoff. I hope he enjoyed himself.
Sometimes—and this usually happens in fall—I feel like my life is on a train that is ever-increasing its speed and heading towards a car stalled on the tracks. The first few chug-chugs 30 years ago were slow as it crept out of the station. When I was eight, I remember thinking that I wouldn’t have my driver’s license for another whole lifetime. When I was twelve, it seemed a little different. I could remember four years before; I tried to imagine that distance in time ahead of me. It no longer seemed an eternity, but it was still too far to see. It wasn’t until I was seventeen with no real plans for the future, two classmates dead, and my friends’ parents getting divorces that I felt a bit unprepared for the speed life was taking. Earlier this year I mentioned a book that I read 15 years ago. 15 years ago, I was reading books like To Kill a Mockingbird. I almost hadn't realized I'd been alive that long.
Most of the year, I’m OK with the swift current of life—I feel like I have my priorities right and I am enjoying every moment with my wife and my children. But in fall, life feels like sand slipping through my fingers. It’s a bad time of year to fly to St. Louis inbetween work weeks.
It’s amazing how far you can see up here. The curve of the earth is distinct in the daytime, but even at night, the electric lights of civilization belie it. It’s also amazing how many lights there are, even outside of the cities. There are enough lights that the Tennessee, Ohio, and Mississippi rivers are very defined by the absence of light. In some ways that is impressive and sad.
I can tell we’ve passed the top of the arc between Cincinnati and St. Louis; we’re in a slight descent now. In a matter of minutes, the pilot will tell us to turn off the electric devices.
Back home, the kids have been in bed for two hours now. I will be in one in about 90 minutes, at which point Marcy will be getting up to change a diaper.
I will call her then.
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