Few things smell like pure democracy more than bowling alleys and libraries. Well, maybe "smell" is the wrong word. . . .
Consider the bowling alley. Before the first frame even begins, we've all donned someone else's shoes, ancient, ugly shoes obviously designed by blind monkeys working in deplorable conditions. And, while most of us can't bowl worth beans, we still find joy in hurling those well-worn balls down sleek, maple lanes. Plus, it's fun to dry your hands with that mini fan mounted on the return rack. You kind of can't believe someone ever thought up such a crazy thing. American ingenuity, indeed!
After each hurl, bowlers are rewarded with a well-deserved five or ten minutes of chit chat with our competitors, the topic typically being weekend plans or a new bawdy joke. And name one other sport that practically requires the consumption of burgers and beers.
Even the vernacular of bowling seems proletarian--spare as in "Brother, can you spare me a dime?," gutter as in "Get your mind out of the gutter," and strike, as in "Goodyear workers went on strike at midnight last night." Bowling even has turkeys, JUST LIKE THANKSGIVING! And, I suppose, with a divorce rate hovering around 50 percent, one could make an argument for the American roots of "split" as well.
Bowling alleys typically are rife with mostly talentless but contented Americans, some of whom play on teams with funny names like Bowl Movement, Split Happens or The Bowling Stones. In fact, I've found that the only sad people in a bowling alley are those who wear gloves, bring their own shiny balls and bowl alone. To me, they have a creepy, post-"Thriller" Michael-Jackson glow about them that gives me the heebie jeebies.
As for libraries, it's true that they, too, have their fair share of bad shoes and creepers, especially if, like me, you call Bennett Martin "home." But I would not trade one pair of worn-out Hush Puppies or one unshaven newspaper maven for all the library cards in the world.
Why? Because I believe there is no more powerful leavening agent in the world than a library, and the down-and-out patrons of the downtown branch are proof of that. Where else but in a public library can a person--any person--walk in with questions and leave with heaps of reliable answers, all for free? Where else but in a library can a person find free tax help, endless piles of construction paper and markers, videos and music, books and computers, all laid out for the taking?
Indeed, when it comes to libraries, the only impoverishment is in those who are not present there.
If I had my way, visual dictionaries would flash images of libraries when the words "democracy" or "access" or "equality" popped up. That is why I think Lincoln can nary afford to close its library doors even one minute longer. In fact, I could make a reasoned argument that, especially in tough times, public libraries should be opened longer and funded even better, so that they can be rife with opportunities and resources, both human and inanimate.
A true democracy would have 24-hour libraries and bowling alleys, two places where people could go to work and play with each other and not have to worry about what to wear.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
A Village, Indeed
To Those Who Have Shaped Him
A thousand things wash over me
I, who am sitting across that square table,
listening to words that tumble
from
his
mouth
He is a good writer,
who understands those letters.
Placing each expertly aside the other,
transforming them
into thoughts that have never entered my own
tired mind
Four adults, eyes and ears perched,
scribble on pads of paper,
making official his passage from teendom
to manhood
They nod, as do I,
though mine is hidden behind this mask,
tears pooling in my eyes
(why do I resist letting them tumble?)
And, just like that,
I have fallen in love with every one of them.
The English teacher with her long, streaked locks,
who has shared every lunch with my son
The artist, who nudged such magical
things from his head,
a head once filled only with letters and numbers.
The mathematician who
hardly seems focused on that most focused of subjects,
instead, speaking poetically about this
young man
The religion teacher, who gave and forgave,
over and
over
again
My husband, who must be struggling,
as I am, to contain his love
And my son.
My
son.
Who is so much more than the two of us.
This complex collection of
everyone
and everything
that has passed before him.
He is especially beautiful on this day, and my
heart is very, very full.
A thousand things wash over me
I, who am sitting across that square table,
listening to words that tumble
from
his
mouth
He is a good writer,
who understands those letters.
Placing each expertly aside the other,
transforming them
into thoughts that have never entered my own
tired mind
Four adults, eyes and ears perched,
scribble on pads of paper,
making official his passage from teendom
to manhood
They nod, as do I,
though mine is hidden behind this mask,
tears pooling in my eyes
(why do I resist letting them tumble?)
And, just like that,
I have fallen in love with every one of them.
The English teacher with her long, streaked locks,
who has shared every lunch with my son
The artist, who nudged such magical
things from his head,
a head once filled only with letters and numbers.
The mathematician who
hardly seems focused on that most focused of subjects,
instead, speaking poetically about this
young man
The religion teacher, who gave and forgave,
over and
over
again
My husband, who must be struggling,
as I am, to contain his love
And my son.
My
son.
Who is so much more than the two of us.
This complex collection of
everyone
and everything
that has passed before him.
He is especially beautiful on this day, and my
heart is very, very full.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Stay as Cute and Sweet as You Are
This morning, I had Cheerios for breakfast. Eight Cheerios, to be exact. And I pooped half as many times as that before heading out the door at 6:55 a.m.
Such are the medical dangers of being a yearbook adviser. Especially now, during peak "Yearbook Stomach" season.
And you thought it was all fame and fortune for me!
On most days of any given year, I'm a perfectly reasonable person. I know, for instance, that there is no such thing as the bogey man and that no harm will come to me simply because I drink straight from the milk jug.
But, come mid May, I am transformed into a paranoid, tic-riddled maniac. It's a quiet, Tums-tinged mania, albeit, but a mania just the same. During those few weeks, I wake in a cold sweat, imagining the junior-class pages drying together at the Walsworth plant down in Marceline, Missouri. By mid May, I startle at loud sounds, certain an angry mother has brought some Smith-and-Wesson justice my way, after misspelling her daughter MaKenZy's name on page 83.
After all the blood, sweat and tears that my students pour into this book--which is just homework bound in a hardback cover--I have to feign my excitement for the big day. While my students are anxiously counting down the days until we rip open all 63 boxes of books, I am beside myself to keep down my lunch.
Apparently, I'm more of a people pleaser than I'd care to admit. All I have to do is imagine an angry parent and my pulse picks up. And every year brings those unsatisfied customers that somehow forgot that the yearbook is the product of a class FILLED WITH TEENAGERS, for God's sake, and a teacher who thinks Chic jeans are fashionable!
Just last year, one particularly persnickety mother pummeled me with unpleasant emails because her daughter--a freshman!--wasn't listed in that section of the yearbook. The mom digitally bullied me to the point of asking if I'd ever heard of No Child Left Behind. . . Apparently, the yearbook she helped produce in 1986 was perfect.
Other moms have told me that they "want names," which is code for "I'm going to hunt down those students who intentionally omitted my son from the Teenage Mutant Turtles club pic AND THEY WILL PAY!!!"
In a yearbook, a misspelling isn't just a simple slip of the fingers on the keyboard. It's war. And God help you if you mix up the names underneath the mugshots.
I seldom tell my students about these incidents, beyond making a plan for how we can avoid ever talking to these parents again. I figure they busted their buns and I can fall on a grenade or two for them, especially since malice has never once been the reason behind our errors.
And so today, when Eric and Allison brought home their Lincoln High yearbooks? I could not help but laugh when Allison discovered that she was referred to as Allison Holf not once BUT TWICE on the same page!
Oh yeah. My friend Greg is going to hear about that! Specifically, at the bar, when I buy him his congratulatory beer for a job well done!
Such are the medical dangers of being a yearbook adviser. Especially now, during peak "Yearbook Stomach" season.
And you thought it was all fame and fortune for me!
On most days of any given year, I'm a perfectly reasonable person. I know, for instance, that there is no such thing as the bogey man and that no harm will come to me simply because I drink straight from the milk jug.
But, come mid May, I am transformed into a paranoid, tic-riddled maniac. It's a quiet, Tums-tinged mania, albeit, but a mania just the same. During those few weeks, I wake in a cold sweat, imagining the junior-class pages drying together at the Walsworth plant down in Marceline, Missouri. By mid May, I startle at loud sounds, certain an angry mother has brought some Smith-and-Wesson justice my way, after misspelling her daughter MaKenZy's name on page 83.
After all the blood, sweat and tears that my students pour into this book--which is just homework bound in a hardback cover--I have to feign my excitement for the big day. While my students are anxiously counting down the days until we rip open all 63 boxes of books, I am beside myself to keep down my lunch.
Apparently, I'm more of a people pleaser than I'd care to admit. All I have to do is imagine an angry parent and my pulse picks up. And every year brings those unsatisfied customers that somehow forgot that the yearbook is the product of a class FILLED WITH TEENAGERS, for God's sake, and a teacher who thinks Chic jeans are fashionable!
Just last year, one particularly persnickety mother pummeled me with unpleasant emails because her daughter--a freshman!--wasn't listed in that section of the yearbook. The mom digitally bullied me to the point of asking if I'd ever heard of No Child Left Behind. . . Apparently, the yearbook she helped produce in 1986 was perfect.
Other moms have told me that they "want names," which is code for "I'm going to hunt down those students who intentionally omitted my son from the Teenage Mutant Turtles club pic AND THEY WILL PAY!!!"
In a yearbook, a misspelling isn't just a simple slip of the fingers on the keyboard. It's war. And God help you if you mix up the names underneath the mugshots.
I seldom tell my students about these incidents, beyond making a plan for how we can avoid ever talking to these parents again. I figure they busted their buns and I can fall on a grenade or two for them, especially since malice has never once been the reason behind our errors.
And so today, when Eric and Allison brought home their Lincoln High yearbooks? I could not help but laugh when Allison discovered that she was referred to as Allison Holf not once BUT TWICE on the same page!
Oh yeah. My friend Greg is going to hear about that! Specifically, at the bar, when I buy him his congratulatory beer for a job well done!
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Playing's the Thing
Jackie is a two-time state golf champion. She is strong and beautiful and resilient. But when she rides a bike, she looks like a bowlful of Jello having a grand mal seizure. Not a pretty site. And yet, watching her whiz up and down my street the other night, I was lost in the joy that had filled her.
When she hopped off the Purple Hawaii, she stretched herself across my front lawn, resting her head on the stomach of her friend Liz, whose body was spattered across the cool grass. On the driveway, Ansur and Michael were completing their chalk masterpieces, and then skittering across the street to wash off in our neighbor’s sprinkler, while Sara was trying to beat her record of 20 consecutive bounces on the pogo stick. The rest of us? We were lounging about in the grass, giggling and throwing Silver Maple helicopters at each other.
It was a simple, unremarkable moment that left me feeling utterly grounded and happy.
That’s the magic of play, isn’t it? The chance to set aside whatever it is we are supposed to be and do and want and just lose ourselves in the moment. Most people aren’t very good at losing themselves in the moment anymore. But when we do—when we shut off our cell phones and quit watching TV with one eye and make our peace with just being—we are transformed into someone better.
Don’t believe me? Then maybe I should have filmed my journalism students as they played at my house the other night. They were silly and playful and blissful. When’s the last time you’ve seen a teenager in a blissful state? Or an adult, for that matter?
Yeah, for all our spunk and swagger, Americans make lousy playmates. We think that down time is frown time and that something’s wrong with an open date on the calendar.
Instead of reaching for the Rolodex, we should reach across to our friends from the anti-drug campaigns and swipe “Just Say No” for ourselves. And then we should utter that simple word over and over again until it results in one long, uninterrupted afternoon of laying in the grass, outlining imaginary animals in the clouds above us.
Sure, there are times when we need to be multitask masters, when we must be efficient and focused and productive. But if we don’t practice the art of play, all that hard work is for naught. What’s the point of bringing home all that bacon if we aren’t going to fry it up in our pans?
When she hopped off the Purple Hawaii, she stretched herself across my front lawn, resting her head on the stomach of her friend Liz, whose body was spattered across the cool grass. On the driveway, Ansur and Michael were completing their chalk masterpieces, and then skittering across the street to wash off in our neighbor’s sprinkler, while Sara was trying to beat her record of 20 consecutive bounces on the pogo stick. The rest of us? We were lounging about in the grass, giggling and throwing Silver Maple helicopters at each other.
It was a simple, unremarkable moment that left me feeling utterly grounded and happy.
That’s the magic of play, isn’t it? The chance to set aside whatever it is we are supposed to be and do and want and just lose ourselves in the moment. Most people aren’t very good at losing themselves in the moment anymore. But when we do—when we shut off our cell phones and quit watching TV with one eye and make our peace with just being—we are transformed into someone better.
Don’t believe me? Then maybe I should have filmed my journalism students as they played at my house the other night. They were silly and playful and blissful. When’s the last time you’ve seen a teenager in a blissful state? Or an adult, for that matter?
Yeah, for all our spunk and swagger, Americans make lousy playmates. We think that down time is frown time and that something’s wrong with an open date on the calendar.
Instead of reaching for the Rolodex, we should reach across to our friends from the anti-drug campaigns and swipe “Just Say No” for ourselves. And then we should utter that simple word over and over again until it results in one long, uninterrupted afternoon of laying in the grass, outlining imaginary animals in the clouds above us.
Sure, there are times when we need to be multitask masters, when we must be efficient and focused and productive. But if we don’t practice the art of play, all that hard work is for naught. What’s the point of bringing home all that bacon if we aren’t going to fry it up in our pans?
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Life's Bookends Meet in My Middle Age
Evelyn “Gigi” Carlson knows a secret. A really big one. But the rest of us will just have to wait to find out.
Gigi died last night. She was 97. Having lost all of my grandparents by the time I was in college, I was delighted when I married into her family. She made a mighty nice wedding gift. As did her husband, Harry, a gentle soul who died several years ago.
In her last week, Gigi, a petite woman, somehow managed to get even smaller, her frail body transforming into something both papery and otherworldly. When Mark and I visited her Friday night, her breathing was rapid and shallow, her skin loose and pallid. I held her soft hand and told her I hoped she’d get to go fishing and dancing soon.
For all we know, she’s been waltzing for 24 hours straight.
Oddly, I find comfort in the not knowing. I like that she got to answer one of the Big Questions while the rest of us will just have to wait around and see, thank you very much.
Gigi lived a small life, despite having seen and lived through world wars, automobiles, computers and “Jersey Shores.” Well, I don’t think she’d ever seen “Jersey Shores.”
Which is probably a good thing.
Today, I’ve been thinking about the sizes of our lives, wondering how Gigi’s could be so small, while others seem to stretch from one end of the world to the other. When she was hospitalized a few weeks back, Gigi was haunted by vivid, frightening dreams. More than once, she’d ask us if she was still in the United States. The thought of getting onto an airplane for distant places scared her almost to death.
Like I said, Gigi lived a surprisingly small life. I loved the heck out of her but a part of me always felt sad that so many things frightened her. Where others saw adventure and possibility, she only saw danger.
A small life is much different than a simple one.
And a long life can be lived in just a few, short years.
Take Emily, my friend Erin’s exceptional daughter. About nine years old on paper, when you meet Emily, you feel as though you are in the presence of a mystical village elder. Diagnosed with a disease so rare that only a handful of other U.S. children even have it, Emily is wise beyond her years.
She has lived neither a small nor a simple life.
On Friday morning, my friend Angie brought her newborn son Lukas to school. Cradling him in my arms, just before lunch, who would have guessed that I would have a bookend experience, just hours later, holding another innocent just a day before she gets in on the Big Secret.
I like the mysteries that pepper our lives, even when they break my heart. I like that I can touch new skin packaged in a fat, happy, tiny body, only to bury my nose, hours later, in the scent of a life diminishing.
It is at once both humbling and life-giving.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
(Ho Hum) Just Another Friday, Out Past Midnight. . .
First, there was Justin Bieber.
Now, enter Kevin Barnes and his band, Of Montreal. This slinky, transgendered hussy harangued last night's concertgoers with funky beats, lascivious lyrics and a light show that, had I ever eaten mushrooms before, would have conjured up a flashback or two.
Could someone please tell me when my "Mother of the Year" award will be arriving in the mail?! Honestly, I don't know what else a woman can do to win over her kids, beyond composing cheesy research papers for them. Or maybe only cooking foods that are yellow and brown.
But I'm not really being honest here. After all, I own two CDs by this band. I offered to take Eric and his friend, secretly knowing that I'd enjoy the show, as well. And I lured my friend Allison to join us, paying for her ticket, which pretty much translated itself into "at least someone will keep me away while I drive back to Lincoln after midnight."
Yeah, I pretty much did everything but write the lyrics and play the drums on stage.
Because I'm teetering on 50, though, I fretted about the road trip, Google mapping directions, although I'd been to the Slowdown before, and choosing a nice font (see previous blog) to apply to the map I printed out. I also fretted about staying up so late, which is why I jammed two pills into the little front pocket of my jeans. Two Excedrin Migraines, to be exact, because they contain caffeine, an active ingredient that would keep me equally active, especially considering that my normal bedtime is an hour before the first band even opened.
Plus, it's kind of cool to say I took some pills at a concert. . . .
Before we even left Lincoln, though, brother Steve, an Omahan, called to say that we were heading into the entertainment epicenter of Omaha last night, home to a Jeff Foxworthy performance, a Tony Bennett benefit and another concert at the Holland Center, all of which were taking place about 3 1/2 feet from the Slowdown. Parking, it seemed, would be something else for me to fret about.
Ah, but then, I saw the glorious white lights of that Jeep, backing out of the parking lot that abuts The Slowdown. And I knew it was going to be a most excellent night.
Even if I forgot to pack some earplugs. No worries, though. The Slowdown is a classy joint, complete with seemingly endless rolls of toilet paper, little wads of which can take the sting out of any live show.
Allison and I ordered some Diet Cokes (with LIME, baby! It's a concert, after all!) and waters (that's right,...we two-fisted it!), found ourselves some cushy seats not too close to the stage and enjoyed the night. And the crowd. The endless tattoos, the blue mowhawk, the piercings, the headbands, the young and the old coming together to watch a bizarre and entertaining show, complete with wrestlers and boobs (don't ask), strange masks and six-foot pigs.
It just might have topped last summer's Bieber experience. And, at $25 a pop, it certainly was nicer on the checkbook.
Plus, I got to spend the night with my 18-year-old son, who actually left the dance floor a time or two to stop by and acknowledge me, half hugging me at one point.
That's when I pulled out my lighter and hollered for an encore, even though there was still an hour left in the show.
Now, enter Kevin Barnes and his band, Of Montreal. This slinky, transgendered hussy harangued last night's concertgoers with funky beats, lascivious lyrics and a light show that, had I ever eaten mushrooms before, would have conjured up a flashback or two.
Could someone please tell me when my "Mother of the Year" award will be arriving in the mail?! Honestly, I don't know what else a woman can do to win over her kids, beyond composing cheesy research papers for them. Or maybe only cooking foods that are yellow and brown.
But I'm not really being honest here. After all, I own two CDs by this band. I offered to take Eric and his friend, secretly knowing that I'd enjoy the show, as well. And I lured my friend Allison to join us, paying for her ticket, which pretty much translated itself into "at least someone will keep me away while I drive back to Lincoln after midnight."
Yeah, I pretty much did everything but write the lyrics and play the drums on stage.
Because I'm teetering on 50, though, I fretted about the road trip, Google mapping directions, although I'd been to the Slowdown before, and choosing a nice font (see previous blog) to apply to the map I printed out. I also fretted about staying up so late, which is why I jammed two pills into the little front pocket of my jeans. Two Excedrin Migraines, to be exact, because they contain caffeine, an active ingredient that would keep me equally active, especially considering that my normal bedtime is an hour before the first band even opened.
Plus, it's kind of cool to say I took some pills at a concert. . . .
Before we even left Lincoln, though, brother Steve, an Omahan, called to say that we were heading into the entertainment epicenter of Omaha last night, home to a Jeff Foxworthy performance, a Tony Bennett benefit and another concert at the Holland Center, all of which were taking place about 3 1/2 feet from the Slowdown. Parking, it seemed, would be something else for me to fret about.
Ah, but then, I saw the glorious white lights of that Jeep, backing out of the parking lot that abuts The Slowdown. And I knew it was going to be a most excellent night.
Even if I forgot to pack some earplugs. No worries, though. The Slowdown is a classy joint, complete with seemingly endless rolls of toilet paper, little wads of which can take the sting out of any live show.
Allison and I ordered some Diet Cokes (with LIME, baby! It's a concert, after all!) and waters (that's right,...we two-fisted it!), found ourselves some cushy seats not too close to the stage and enjoyed the night. And the crowd. The endless tattoos, the blue mowhawk, the piercings, the headbands, the young and the old coming together to watch a bizarre and entertaining show, complete with wrestlers and boobs (don't ask), strange masks and six-foot pigs.
It just might have topped last summer's Bieber experience. And, at $25 a pop, it certainly was nicer on the checkbook.
Plus, I got to spend the night with my 18-year-old son, who actually left the dance floor a time or two to stop by and acknowledge me, half hugging me at one point.
That's when I pulled out my lighter and hollered for an encore, even though there was still an hour left in the show.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Font Flava Flave!!
It's 1:53 a.m. and I can't sleep. . . because I'm thinking about fonts.
Okay, I also have a bit of a migraine, but the part of my brain that isn't throbbing is focused on fonts.
My name's Jane and I'm a typoholic.
It all started in 1986 when I took Typography from George Tuck. A required class, it also was a bit of a bear. Who'da thunk that anyone could spend 15 weeks talking about type? And yet, there we were, sweating over serifs, kicking ourselves about kerning, loathing leading.
We had to keep a typography journal over the span of the semester, ultimately collecting samples of about a hundred fonts. By May, that little booklet became both my bane and my pawed-over pal. It also did a funny number on my brain.
Mark, who also took Typography, ended his semester equally infected.
Twenty six years later, we still can't attend a movie without breaking into font wars, both of us hungry to be the first to identify the type used in the opening credits.
"That's Garamond, for sure."
"Uh uh. Look at the way the 'p' can't quite close itself. You're looking at Palatino, mister!"
Tomorrow morning--well, actually this morning--I'm teaching layout and design to a group of Introductory Journalism students. Assuming I'm awake. And the really dweeby part of me feels like each of those kids is about to win the friggin' lottery and they don't even know it.
Hey, I've seen the same thing happen to my Newspaper and Yearbook students. Usually, by December each year, I'll notice a student or two break out in a tiny little lip sweat as their inner typoholics begin to emerge. Staring at their computer screens, fiddling with a layout, they'll look nervously from side to side, sure that they're about to get caught doing something bad.
Yeah, I recognize that bug. And, if I'm feeling just a bit bad myself, I might pull up a chair and really taunt them by showing them the utter awesomeness of extra leading between those luscious lines of type.
That's pretty much when their teenaged minds explode.
I feel bad for the rest of you, who are probably sleeping right now, having your Times New Roman, cookie-cutter dreams, maybe kicking it up a notch or two with the occasional New Century Schoolbook sideshow. You're like a human nose among dogs, missing out on about 98 percent of things because you just don't know any better.
I pity you font fools in your monochromatic worlds. Kind of like the way I pity the sick student who will miss tomorrow's lesson.
Yeah, it's going to be that good.
Okay, I also have a bit of a migraine, but the part of my brain that isn't throbbing is focused on fonts.
My name's Jane and I'm a typoholic.
It all started in 1986 when I took Typography from George Tuck. A required class, it also was a bit of a bear. Who'da thunk that anyone could spend 15 weeks talking about type? And yet, there we were, sweating over serifs, kicking ourselves about kerning, loathing leading.
We had to keep a typography journal over the span of the semester, ultimately collecting samples of about a hundred fonts. By May, that little booklet became both my bane and my pawed-over pal. It also did a funny number on my brain.
Mark, who also took Typography, ended his semester equally infected.
Twenty six years later, we still can't attend a movie without breaking into font wars, both of us hungry to be the first to identify the type used in the opening credits.
"That's Garamond, for sure."
"Uh uh. Look at the way the 'p' can't quite close itself. You're looking at Palatino, mister!"
Tomorrow morning--well, actually this morning--I'm teaching layout and design to a group of Introductory Journalism students. Assuming I'm awake. And the really dweeby part of me feels like each of those kids is about to win the friggin' lottery and they don't even know it.
Hey, I've seen the same thing happen to my Newspaper and Yearbook students. Usually, by December each year, I'll notice a student or two break out in a tiny little lip sweat as their inner typoholics begin to emerge. Staring at their computer screens, fiddling with a layout, they'll look nervously from side to side, sure that they're about to get caught doing something bad.
Yeah, I recognize that bug. And, if I'm feeling just a bit bad myself, I might pull up a chair and really taunt them by showing them the utter awesomeness of extra leading between those luscious lines of type.
That's pretty much when their teenaged minds explode.
I feel bad for the rest of you, who are probably sleeping right now, having your Times New Roman, cookie-cutter dreams, maybe kicking it up a notch or two with the occasional New Century Schoolbook sideshow. You're like a human nose among dogs, missing out on about 98 percent of things because you just don't know any better.
I pity you font fools in your monochromatic worlds. Kind of like the way I pity the sick student who will miss tomorrow's lesson.
Yeah, it's going to be that good.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Dis-appointment: One Appointment We Can't Skip
Seems I've developed a thing for failure. Not in a "Hitler-got-his!" schadenfreude kind of way, though. No. In fact, I think I could make a pretty good argument that my jonesing for failure has maternal roots to it.
Eric, who is smarter than the collective genetic makeup of Mark and me, bumped into some failure this spring and, while my heart ached for him, my brain had a different reaction altogether.
He'd spent two months preparing his application for the Johnny Carson Theatre Arts New Media program, a surprisingly exclusive club, despite its pop-culture name. Three letters of recommendation, two essays and a mediated collection of his creative works later, he found out that he wasn't accepted.
When I heard the news, I grew curious. Obviously, my heart ached for him. And yet. . . . While I already knew Eric was a standup kind of guy, I watched closely to see what disappointment would look like on him.
I made up a reason to stop by Ideal Grocery that afternoon, just so I could see Eric Holt in "disappointment" mode. I didn't mention a word about the rejection. It was his news, after all. And then, like the sun bursting through the endless gray of winter, Eric smiled and pulled me aside in aisle 3, among the pasta. And there, he told me that he didn't get into the program. Fessed up without water torture or not-so-subtle prompts from his mom. And he talked about trying again and making a new plan until then.
I could not have loved him more than I did at that very moment.
Ever since surprising myself by enjoying the Justin Bieber concert last summer, I've become a bit obsessed by the notion of being wrong. What happens to us when our expectations aren't met? What do we do after we fail or are found wrong? I feel so strongly about this idea, in fact, that I made it the journalism-class mantra this year. "Be wrong."
We spend far too much time in education convincing kids that failure is a bad thing. That being wrong is something to be punished. What a crock of poo. Turns out that I have learned far more from the speed bumps and disappointments in my life than I have from all the victories--all three or four of them. And I must have learned the lessons fairly well, for I don't really spend much time wallowing in it.
Somewhere along the line, I even found the strength to find good in utmost failure--a miscarriage. Almost 20 years ago, when the excitement of my first pregnancy was replaced by blood and loss, I somehow found hope. Turns out, hope is a constant companion of the youngest in a large family. A few days after miscarrying, I remembered how my own mom had lost a daughter--Elizabeth Louise--shortly after birth.
Had she lived, I doubt I (the youngest of five) ever would have gotten a shot at life. Can't imagine my folks would've had six kids.
So, maybe this obsession with failure started even before I started. Maybe it was infused within me, a single cell in a floppy, irregular embryo.
Wherever it started, I'm glad it's there. And I appreciate the lens it provides me, the one through which I can watch others as they figure out what it means to be imperfect humans, too.
Eric, who is smarter than the collective genetic makeup of Mark and me, bumped into some failure this spring and, while my heart ached for him, my brain had a different reaction altogether.
He'd spent two months preparing his application for the Johnny Carson Theatre Arts New Media program, a surprisingly exclusive club, despite its pop-culture name. Three letters of recommendation, two essays and a mediated collection of his creative works later, he found out that he wasn't accepted.
When I heard the news, I grew curious. Obviously, my heart ached for him. And yet. . . . While I already knew Eric was a standup kind of guy, I watched closely to see what disappointment would look like on him.
I made up a reason to stop by Ideal Grocery that afternoon, just so I could see Eric Holt in "disappointment" mode. I didn't mention a word about the rejection. It was his news, after all. And then, like the sun bursting through the endless gray of winter, Eric smiled and pulled me aside in aisle 3, among the pasta. And there, he told me that he didn't get into the program. Fessed up without water torture or not-so-subtle prompts from his mom. And he talked about trying again and making a new plan until then.
I could not have loved him more than I did at that very moment.
Ever since surprising myself by enjoying the Justin Bieber concert last summer, I've become a bit obsessed by the notion of being wrong. What happens to us when our expectations aren't met? What do we do after we fail or are found wrong? I feel so strongly about this idea, in fact, that I made it the journalism-class mantra this year. "Be wrong."
We spend far too much time in education convincing kids that failure is a bad thing. That being wrong is something to be punished. What a crock of poo. Turns out that I have learned far more from the speed bumps and disappointments in my life than I have from all the victories--all three or four of them. And I must have learned the lessons fairly well, for I don't really spend much time wallowing in it.
Somewhere along the line, I even found the strength to find good in utmost failure--a miscarriage. Almost 20 years ago, when the excitement of my first pregnancy was replaced by blood and loss, I somehow found hope. Turns out, hope is a constant companion of the youngest in a large family. A few days after miscarrying, I remembered how my own mom had lost a daughter--Elizabeth Louise--shortly after birth.
Had she lived, I doubt I (the youngest of five) ever would have gotten a shot at life. Can't imagine my folks would've had six kids.
So, maybe this obsession with failure started even before I started. Maybe it was infused within me, a single cell in a floppy, irregular embryo.
Wherever it started, I'm glad it's there. And I appreciate the lens it provides me, the one through which I can watch others as they figure out what it means to be imperfect humans, too.
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