Crayons at Church

            From the back of the chapel I can see everyone—at least the backs of their heads.

            Middle-aged men sit with graying, nodding heads.  They are lulled by the sermon, warm in their suits and feeling strangled by their ties, half listening and half dozing.  Every once in a while one of them startles awake when a wife puts an elbow in his side.  Their wives sit very straight, looking intently at the speaker.  Their carefully coifed heads nod in agreement with the speaker, or shake in disbelief.  Some sit too still; they are planning Sunday dinner while they pretend to listen.

            A toddler leans backward over the pew, grinning and flirting with the old man behind him.  It’s not his grandpa, but any grandpa will do when you’re two and bored and tired of sitting still.  Little girls have curled hair tied back with bows bigger than their heads.  Their brothers wiggle and poke each other, teasing and playing until Mom glares at them, warning them with a look that they better stop it this instant.  New mothers stand in the back of the chapel, rocking fussy babies in the ancient mother-rhythm passed down through generations of mothers. 

            Old women sit along the edges of the chapel, frail hands folded and heads bowed in prayer.  They wear wrist gloves and veiled hats, as their own mothers taught them decades ago.  In the evening of their lives, they have learned what matters.  They find comfort and strength in faith and a relationship with God more than in the words of the sermon. 

            Young couples bend their heads together, whispering about the future, the sermon, and arguing about whose mother they’ll eat with this afternoon.  Negotiating a life together is a full time occupation for them.

            The pastor sits on the stand between his advisors, listening to the lay speaker with half-lidded eyes, sometimes taking notes, sometimes murmuring a word to an advisor.  His eyes travel over his congregation, noting who is here and who is absent, wondering who needs help to feed their families and who needs help to find God.

            I read the hymnal, only vaguely listening to the sermon.  I find comfort and strength in faith, but even I am easily distracted in a warm, crowded chapel.  Watching people keeps me awake.  Next week, I’ll bring a coloring book.  Maybe that’s why children never seem to doze in church.

Truth and Consequences

            One of my sons served in Iraq with the Army.  Another just joined the Army; he’ll leave for basic training in less than six weeks.  Sons are very protective of their mothers.  There is a lot my veteran did not tell me because he chose to let me stay a little sheltered in my safe American neighborhood.  I appreciate his consideration; I have heard some truths about war recently that I could have lived happily without.  In two of my classes, we have been discussing the consequences of war.  Specifically, we have been discussing the individual consequences to injured veterans. 

I heard one Iraqi veteran talk about the face of the war in Iraq.  What do you do when the enemy shooting at you is a child?  What decision do you make when a car is coming straight at the convoy with no signs of slowing?  What if the car carries a family with children in the back seat?  No wonder veterans come home with mental health disorders.  Not only does PTSD seem more real, it seems unlikely that any veteran would be untouched by the experience.  They all have a hard time readjusting to life out of a war zone.

Hyper-vigilance is a word I heard several times in these discussions.  It makes perfect sense to me.  After spending days looking for anything that might indicate an explosive device, trying to keep a team alive, it would be hard to adjust to seeing a kid pick up a bit of litter and throw it away without a second thought.  Knowing that cell phones can be used to trigger the next explosion that will injure one of the team, is must be distressing to come home and be surrounded by people texting their friends. 

Even a physical injury can lead to mental distress.  One vet told about staying in camp to heal from an injury.  While he was healing, his team was hit with an explosion that the less experienced bomb hunter did not catch.  Along with hurting physically, he felt guilty for being injured.  “If I had been tougher, I could have gone out and I would have caught that IED,” he said.  Being injured too badly to work did not release him from his own sense of duty and responsibility.

I watched a documentary about a veteran who was paralyzed by a bullet in Iraq.  He will spend the rest of his life paying the price of war.  Hundreds of other American soldiers paid the price of war with their lives, and more will be asked of our military.  Their families—their mothers and spouses and children—pay the price of war every holiday when they have the entire family gathered around the table except one, who is fighting on the other side of the world. 

We civilians do not understand what it means to be a soldier.  One soldier waited in line for hours to call his wife and be comforted after another difficult day.  She complained about the latest person to be kicked off of American Idol.  She, along with all of us, has a protected view of what matters, of what is worth being upset and angry about.  God willing, we will never know what it means to be at war.  

War is hell.  It is not pretty, never has been pretty, never will be pretty.  “Freedom is still expensive.  It still costs money.  It still costs blood.  It still calls for courage and endurance, not only in soldiers, but in every man and woman who is free and who is determined to remain free.” (Harry Truman)  Men and women in the military suffer consequences civilians may never dream of.

I should have been in class one more day to watch one more documentary about the consequences of war.  I did not go.  Instead, I talked to my son.  I am grateful he is home, he is safe, and he will be here for another holiday season.  Military moms are very, very proud of our sons.  We admire their honor and their bravery.  We are grateful for their selflessness.  I have talked with many veterans of many wars, and they all say some version of this: “Freedom is not only for Americans.  Iraqis, Afghani, Koreans, all people are entitled to freedom.  If we can bring that to them, we will gladly pay that price.”

It is up to the rest of us, who stay safely at home, to use our own freedom wisely.  It is up to us to vote, to send letters to congressmen, to work and fight for the causes we believe in every day.  What do you believe in strongly enough to risk the consequences?  What is wrong in the world that is worth the battle to make it right?  What do you go to war for?

Charming

            My youngest son is charming.  He has a unique power to attract a circle of admirers by the strength of his personality.  People are drawn to him like moths to a flame.  He was born with a talent for making friends among any group he is thrown into.

            Kev was born early enough to need some time in the intensive care unit before he came home.  He had no cartilage in his ears or lines in his palms.  He did not know how to suck and had to be fed with an IV in his head to keep his blood sugar up while he learned to eat.  His was an easy delivery for me, and I went home the day after he was born.  During those long days he stayed in the hospital, I drove back and forth between him and my children at home. 

            I walked into the ICU that first day and found his bed empty.  I went to the nurses’ desk and found him cuddling with a nurse on her lunch break, too charming to be left lying in his bassinette.  It seemed that I had to go find him every time I went to feed him.  He was in the nurses’ office causing a distraction while they tried to do paperwork.  He was in the parents’ room with a nurse who was taking a break to play with him.  Even the specialist pediatrician called him by his name while I was simply “Kev’s Mom.”  I should have known then how interesting life with Kev would be.

            Kev is the baby of the family, and he was spoiled and coddled a little too much.  I sent him to preschool when he was three so he could learn the whole earth does not belong to him.  Other children would disillusion him of that idea in a hurry.  He loved preschool; he loved his teacher, his classmates, the playground and everything.  When he had been there about a month, I arrived one afternoon and could not find him in his classroom.  His teacher told me he was in the director’s office.  I was puzzled; who sends a little kid to the principal?  I found him standing on the director’s desk, charming the office staff with a dance and song about a little blue man.  After that I was apt to find him anywhere: in the kitchen chatting up the lunch ladies; on the playground helping the toddlers put on a play; in the director’s office or the staff break room dispensing songs and stories to anyone with a spare moment. 

            Kev was nine when I married my husband and we moved into a new neighborhood.  Less than two weeks later, Kev had been invited to go to the drive-in with the family down the street—the family of four beautiful, blonde daughters all caught by his charm.  Today these same blonde girls and their family are among his closest friends—he has even charmed the family dog.

            Even very elderly women are not immune to his personality.  Kev met Sister Hood in the early stages of her Alzheimer’s decline.  She was immediately drawn to him, and he charmed her through a wedding reception, laughing and talking as if she were his own grandmother.  A year later, after she had forgotten his name, she saw him again and remembered his face, asking for a hug which he graciously gave.  He charmed Sister Bishop in the last year of her life, stopping to sit with her when she was too worn out to do anything else. 

            A friend called me recently to ask if I could help take care of her children one afternoon.  I was not available, but I had a suggestion.  “Call Kev.  He’s grounded from friends and might be glad to get out of the house for a couple hours.”  My friend was shocked. “Kev is grounded?  I didn’t know he ever got grounded!”  She, too, is caught in his charm. 

            Kev is in high school now.  He is taller, smarter, more well-read and well-rounded than he was before.  He will be leaving academia and joining adult society in a few years.  I am afraid there is no defense against his charm.  Good luck, world.

The Sneetches, by Dr. Seuss

             The Sneetches all live together on the beach, but they don’t all have the same social circles.  Some of the Sneetches have stars on their bellies, and all the Sneetches agree this makes them a higher class of Sneetch.  The starred Sneetches have private parties to which the other Sneetches are not invited. 

One day something changes; the Sneetches can pay to have stars added to or removed from their bellies.  Mr. McBean is here with his marvelous machines.  Those who used to have plain bellies now have stars, so the star-bellies have theirs removed.  And the new star-bellies have theirs removed.  And the new plain-bellies add them back.

            With the ability to choose belly adornment, the Sneetches rapidly devolve into conveyor belt lines.  Stars are removed and added and removed until no one has any idea who started out with belly décor.  It’s hard to know who to include and who to exclude without this clear distinction.   The Sneetches apparently didn’t know each others’ names or faces.  The only distinguishing feature was the star.  Admittedly, the Sneetches all look similar, but humans probably look similar to Sneetches, too.  Why did they never look past the stars and into faces and eyes?

            Mr. McBean is convinced that the Sneetches cannot learn another way of socializing.  He takes advantage of their gullibility, certain that the stereotype of unteachable Sneetches is true.  And it is true for a while.  Mr. McBean makes all the money there is on the Sneetch beach, and leaves with a chuckle, thinking the Sneetches will stay in their muddle.

            Luckily, the Sneetches rise above the stereotype and their own biases and exclusionary social system.  They learn that decorated bellies don’t really make a Sneetch cooler or smarter or better.  All the Sneetches are invited to beach parties, and games are open to all.  One hopes the Sneetches eventually learn to look into faces and eyes, to learn names and personalities, and see each other as individuals, regardless of stars.

First Blush

I met Kerry when I started working for a book store.  He is a teacher, and worked in retail for a little extra cash.  I am a retailer; I love it and I have a talent for it.  That first night on the job, I was singularly unimpressed with his work and decided he had the personality of a pair of socks.  Famous last words, I know.

One day I overheard two other supervisors talking about Kerry.  His wife had just moved out, and he was feeling stressed.  My interest was piqued.  I admit to blatant curiosity—I wanted to know whatever juicy details surrounded the end of a marriage.  I also felt compassion for someone I worked with going through a hard time; I was surprised to find that I wanted to help if I could.  Hubris has always been a personality flaw for me, and I was sure I could make it all better if only I knew what to fix.

Kerry understands comic books and superheroes, and appreciates the time and talent it takes to illustrate a comic book well.  I found we could talk about comic books, and my interest in his opinions began.  From comics it was a natural progression to books.  We both read science fiction and fantasy, and we share a love of children’s fantasy novels, particularly Harry Potter.  It  was fall of 2001, just before the first Harry Potter movie was released in theaters, and bookstores were filled with the novels and related merchandise. 

I discovered Kerry has a brain and knows how to wield it.  He can talk about literature with intelligence and passion.  I identify with Scout in that I have never thought about loving to read, it is just something I do, like breathing.  Kerry and I share an interest in great books and well-told stories.  Disagreeing about what was great and well-told added spice to the conversation.  I was happy to listen to his opinions even when he was plainly wrong, if only because he could support his opinions logically.

Two smart people can hardly talk about great literature without discussing the human condition.  Current events, politics and logical ideas quickly became part of the conversation.  We exchanged email addresses so we could talk after work, writing analytical essays and political commentary several times a week.  Online we were both willing to be more personal, too.  It is easier to be vulnerable without eye contact threatening embarrassment.  The human condition includes thoughts about love, family, and friends.  Our friendship grew closer and more intimate over the internet.

I remember the day I discovered Kerry is sexy as well as smart.  It was during a business rush, and lines were long.  I was standing next to him, working a cash register and making small talk with customers.  I noticed his cologne and turned to see who was wearing that scent.  He was wearing a green plaid flannel shirt with a Curious George tie.  He looked fashionable (not that he will ever admit that) and handsome while he smiled and chatted with people.  I was lost.  My heart beat faster, I could not draw a deep breath, my skin flushed and my body temperature rose about five degrees.  In my fascination with my friend who suddenly was this sexy man, I forgot to eat.  Somewhere in all the heat, I fainted (cliché, I know, but true).  Kerry caught me before I hit the floor, and I came to leaning against him.  I sat up, and kicked myself immediately.  I should have pretended to be out a little while longer and stayed cuddled in his arms.

That night I sent an email under an assumed identity: “Dear Kerry, You fascinate me.”  I was his boss, and clearly I could not openly profess attraction to a subordinate.  He had to make the first move.  I continued to send anonymous emails for two months, and he answered them all.  He also told me, as his friend, about his secret admirer.  I thought my head would explode waiting for him to figure out who this mystery woman was. 

After at least forever he finally caught on and admitted a mutual attraction.  Our long friendship and respect easily transitioned to passion, and the rest is history.  And that green plaid shirt?  I wear it to bed now.

Middle Child Syndrome, or How my Neglected Son is so Funny

Marcus is definitely a victim of middle child syndrome.  He is the most ignored and neglected of all my brood.  Last year I completely forgot his birthday, no presents, no cake, not even a birthday wish from his very own mother.  He’s remarkably independent for a teenager because he has to be.  As part of his defense against such neglect, he’s developed a wicked sense of humor.  Life with Marcus is never boring. 

            Remember the movie Chicago with Queen Latifa as Mama Morton?  Marcus, too young to like girls, saw Mama Morton in her gold lame dress and muttered under his breath, “Looks like Victoria will tell her secret.”  When he was very little he did something cool and I said, “Good job!  You win!” He responded, “Where’s my toaster oven?” In response to the house rule that kids under 17 don’t need cell phones, he designed a web page explaining exactly why he should be the exception to the rule, being so humorously persuasive that he got the cell phone at not quite 16.

            A couple years ago I was out of town and saw a Facebook post from Marcus—something about shaving a girl’s face with a box cutter.  I figured there was an explanation.  Here, in his own words and displaying his twisted humor and talent for storytelling, is the rest of the story.     

So here's the story as I like it to be told, both as an entertainer, and as the one trying to save my own patookus from whatever nonsense it is that you might be thinking I'm doing, slicing my friend's face off. It was a beautiful summer day, (only really it was raining the whole darnded day) and I was sitting at Westland Elementary School. I was sitting in the office with my good friends, Clint, Mathew, and Shanna. Now, Shanna and I, being the troublesome little hoodlums we are, were searching through Mike's desk, looking for candy, granola bars, fruit snacks, and other such things of interest. We came across a bottle of White Out brand error correcting liquid goop stuff. Curious was I, at this point, to learn how good of a nail polish this would act as. However, not wanting to paint my own nails, for I hope obvious reasons, I decided the best course of action would be to convince Shanna to become the consensual guinea pig. And, as persuasive as I am, she agreed. One nail. A thumb, on her right hand. But who's paying attention to detail, right? Well it probably would have looked better were I not so bad at painting nails, but somehow I think I can get over that. At this point, she decided it would be rather entertaining if I had a curly handlebar mustache. I agreed, and on it goes. I tried to get her to allow the same, but she declined, and instead I suggested a goatee. She accepted this idea, and on the goatee was painted. We took pictures, had a laugh, and it was time for removal of said goop stuff. I go to the sink, and scrub, to very little, if any, effect. Scrubbing a little harder, I realize it's going to take scratching, and a whole lot of it. Not wanting to do it all by hand, I went to the back room, opened a brand new, never before unsealed razor, which I removed from a box cutter, and returned to the mirror. Careful to not slice my face to pieces, I very masterfully maneuvered the razor in such a way that it was like shaving, only removing White Out instead of hair. As I finished, I looked back at Shanna, who was scratching her chin away, yielding very little results. So, being the gentleman you raised me as, I offered her the razor.
"I don't trust myself with razors" she tells me.
"Would you like some help? It's nothing more than a little razor burn, and so long as you hold still, I can do it without cutting you."
To this, she agrees, and I sit down beside her, and begin to scrape the White Out from her face as well. About three seconds in, she busts up laughing, and sits back in the chair. Which is when we told her that out of all of the times she could bust out laughing, and wiggling, it probably wasn't quite so wise to do so unexpectedly while someone was holding a very sharp razor to her face. To such comments, we all somewhat chuckle, she calms back down, and we finished removing the goop. No cuts, no incidents, just as I promised her.
Now you know the story.

Knowledge is Power, and Power is Everywhere

“And on the subject of burning books: I want to congratulate librarians, not famous for their physical strength or their powerful political connections or their great wealth, who, all over this country, have staunchly resisted anti-democratic bullies who have tried to remove certain books from their shelves, and have refused to reveal to thought police the names of persons who have checked out those titles.

So the America I loved still exists, if not in the White House or the Supreme Court or the Senate or the House of Representatives or the media. The America I love still exists at the front desks of our public libraries.”  Kurt Vonnegut

Freedom of speech, freedom of the press, and freedom of information belong on the same continuum.  If he can say what he wants, and she can write what she wants, then information should be readily available to everyone.  Books, encyclopedia, commentary and news are free for the asking at the local library.  The internet is a vast, complex resource for information of any sort, on any topic.  Cell phones give instant access to information from anywhere.

                Knowledge is power.  Arming oneself with information allays fears, bolsters opinions, changes erroneous thinking, and builds character.  When formal education is done, learning should continue throughout life.  Books contain all the knowledge in the world, neatly wrapped by subject between pretty covers.  Yes, a book can be judged by its cover; that’s what the flyleaf is for. 

                Since Gutenberg’s miraculous invention, books have been banned for all sorts of reasons.  Books have been banned for promoting witchcraft, encouraging promiscuity, promoting or decrying racism, and even just strong language.   If a government bans a book, it is an act of oppression.  Knowledge, thoughts, and beliefs are being silenced or forbidden, and that is wrong.  (This should not be confused with choosing what you will and won’t read.  That’s not being oppressive, that’s being selective.)

                Even novels carry knowledge and information.  Chaim Potok and Harry Kemmelman novels teach much about keeping a kosher home.  Biblical fiction fleshes out the Bible stories and gives cultural information and references not found in the Bible.  Even a serial romance novel can spark thoughts about what is desirable in a spouse and what is not acceptable.  Fantasy novels are ultimate allegories, with pure evil battling pure virtue, and that can be another essay in itself.

                Not everyone reads or likes the same genre.  Some people adore history, others only read it under extreme duress.  Some people read only romance novels, others shun any book with mushy parts.  Self help, medical reference, holy writing, political commentary, comic strips—there’s something out there for everyone.  Setting a dull book down is not a crime.  There are too many great books out there to waste time on the merely mediocre or the outright boring. 

                My book choices are pretty liberal, and I think all truth can be useful knowledge.  Praise goes to the librarians, who encourage learning and knowledge of all sorts.  Now go find something to read.