Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Lemonade
I have lived a life of character building experiences. One that inspires thick skin from all the scrapes and bruises. One that makes for a strong heart and an open mind. I have learned to make lemonade time and time again. I have even come to see that recipe as my gift. But, Lord, I'm running out of sugar.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Alone on this Roller Coaster
Yesterday I went to Kennywood with my children. It was a family reunion, really. All of my cousins, aunts, and uncles were there. It brought back all kinds of memories of my childhood and going to that park every year with my family. One memory in particular, stood out. When I was about six, my father took me on my very first "adult" roller coaster. As far as I can remember, he must have promised me that I'd get to ride one that day. Then the day came and went with no roller coaster. So, at around 10pm, as the park was closing, my dad kept his promise and took me on a roller coaster. It was a big deal because it wasn't just a roller coaster. It was the Laser Loop. Way back then, it was the first upside down roller coaster Kennywood had ever seen. My dad was taking me into the big leagues.
So yesterday I was at Kennywood with my kids. For most of the day, my son was with my mother and the other grandmothers, riding rides in Kiddie Land with his young cousins. But I promised myself I'd take him on his first "adult" coaster at some point during the day. He's six now. I thought it would be fitting. Of course the Laser Loop is long gone, so we rode the Racers. He acted brave, but I knew he was scared as soon as we hit the first hill. He looked up at me in shock and grabbed my arm. By the time the ride ended, though, he was hooked. He loved it.
The fact that he rode a roller coaster isn't so much a big deal. The fact that I got to ride with him isn't either. The thing that hit me as that moment came and went, is that I was around 6 or 7 when that moment in my life happened. My father would have been gone shortly after that moment, because he died when I was 7. What hit me in that realization, is that I'm running out of memories. I have given a lot of thought, over the past year, to all of the moments my father and I shared. The things he said to me. The things we did. There are so many things that I have done with my son as a way to honor, or perhaps mimic, my father. But my son is reaching the age I was when I lost my father. He will be seven in a month. There really aren't many more memories for me to recreate. I have no memories of me at age 8 or 9 and my father doing such and such. He wasn't there when I was 8 or 9. As was my fear when I wrote the book, I will soon be flying blind.
I used to believe that I wouldn't live long enough for any of this to matter. I used to believe that I was destined to die young like my father. I now know that not to be true. My destiny is what I make it. I intend to be here to help my son through his mid life crisis. But that thought brings me to the reality that troubles me. I'll have to go through mine alone. From here on out, I'm on my own for all of it.
So yesterday I was at Kennywood with my kids. For most of the day, my son was with my mother and the other grandmothers, riding rides in Kiddie Land with his young cousins. But I promised myself I'd take him on his first "adult" coaster at some point during the day. He's six now. I thought it would be fitting. Of course the Laser Loop is long gone, so we rode the Racers. He acted brave, but I knew he was scared as soon as we hit the first hill. He looked up at me in shock and grabbed my arm. By the time the ride ended, though, he was hooked. He loved it.
The fact that he rode a roller coaster isn't so much a big deal. The fact that I got to ride with him isn't either. The thing that hit me as that moment came and went, is that I was around 6 or 7 when that moment in my life happened. My father would have been gone shortly after that moment, because he died when I was 7. What hit me in that realization, is that I'm running out of memories. I have given a lot of thought, over the past year, to all of the moments my father and I shared. The things he said to me. The things we did. There are so many things that I have done with my son as a way to honor, or perhaps mimic, my father. But my son is reaching the age I was when I lost my father. He will be seven in a month. There really aren't many more memories for me to recreate. I have no memories of me at age 8 or 9 and my father doing such and such. He wasn't there when I was 8 or 9. As was my fear when I wrote the book, I will soon be flying blind.
I used to believe that I wouldn't live long enough for any of this to matter. I used to believe that I was destined to die young like my father. I now know that not to be true. My destiny is what I make it. I intend to be here to help my son through his mid life crisis. But that thought brings me to the reality that troubles me. I'll have to go through mine alone. From here on out, I'm on my own for all of it.
Monday, July 18, 2011
The truth, as I see it
One of my professors told us in class once about some philosopher who came up with this phrase: The map is not the territory. It means that your map (or blueprint, or understanding) of a thing or situation isn't actually the thing or situation itself. Its simply a representation of that thing or situation in your own head. As such, it is only as accurate as our understanding of that thing. The problem is, people's understanding of most things is surprisingly inaccurate.
Imagine having a map of a new city. You look at the map. You are lost. You go to the guy on the street and say, "Where am I?" He says, "The corner of Chestnut and Main." So, with that knowledge, you go to your map and you follow it to where you wanted to go. You go right where the map said go right. You go left where the map said go left. But then, when you arrive at what should have been Locust ave, you find yourself on LeMoyne. So you show someone on Lemoyne your map and you show them what you did. They ask you what was around you when you started. "Did you see the old theater? Did you see Shorty's Hot Dogs? No? Well there's your problem. Everything you did makes perfect sense, if you start at Chestnut and Main. The problem is, you weren't on the corner of Chestnut and Main. You were on Hallam ave."
Self help guys might call that a paradigm shift. In psychology and education, they might call it insight or cognitive restructuring. The sudden realization that your current knowledge is inaccurate or incomplete is a powerful and disturbing thing. But, its also the key to real understanding. Just because a thing appears to be true does not make it true. Your view of the truth is just that. We see the world through our lens and from our own particular viewpoint. The key to true understanding is knowing that our lens is never 100% accurate. That knowledge leads one to seek out other viewpoints from which to see any and every situation in an attempt to gain more of the picture. Its sort of like those 3D cameras they use in football. They attempt to capture the game from every possible angle so that they can render a 360 degree picture of any moment in time that might be in question. If people could, by some miracle, stop time and see their lives from the view point of the guy standing directly across from them, they would undoubtedly act differently in just about every situation.
I say all that to say this. When you see someone acting in a way that doesn't make sense to you, realize that it likely makes perfect sense to HIM. Understanding why it makes sense to him would give you far more insight than attempting to tell or show him what would make sense to you. More than likely, the TRUTH is somewhere in between. If you try hard enough, you might just find it.
Imagine having a map of a new city. You look at the map. You are lost. You go to the guy on the street and say, "Where am I?" He says, "The corner of Chestnut and Main." So, with that knowledge, you go to your map and you follow it to where you wanted to go. You go right where the map said go right. You go left where the map said go left. But then, when you arrive at what should have been Locust ave, you find yourself on LeMoyne. So you show someone on Lemoyne your map and you show them what you did. They ask you what was around you when you started. "Did you see the old theater? Did you see Shorty's Hot Dogs? No? Well there's your problem. Everything you did makes perfect sense, if you start at Chestnut and Main. The problem is, you weren't on the corner of Chestnut and Main. You were on Hallam ave."
Self help guys might call that a paradigm shift. In psychology and education, they might call it insight or cognitive restructuring. The sudden realization that your current knowledge is inaccurate or incomplete is a powerful and disturbing thing. But, its also the key to real understanding. Just because a thing appears to be true does not make it true. Your view of the truth is just that. We see the world through our lens and from our own particular viewpoint. The key to true understanding is knowing that our lens is never 100% accurate. That knowledge leads one to seek out other viewpoints from which to see any and every situation in an attempt to gain more of the picture. Its sort of like those 3D cameras they use in football. They attempt to capture the game from every possible angle so that they can render a 360 degree picture of any moment in time that might be in question. If people could, by some miracle, stop time and see their lives from the view point of the guy standing directly across from them, they would undoubtedly act differently in just about every situation.
I say all that to say this. When you see someone acting in a way that doesn't make sense to you, realize that it likely makes perfect sense to HIM. Understanding why it makes sense to him would give you far more insight than attempting to tell or show him what would make sense to you. More than likely, the TRUTH is somewhere in between. If you try hard enough, you might just find it.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Beautiful Imperfections
As I begin the editing process of my latest work, a book of artistic nudes, I feel the need and desire to share some highlights with the world. So here, set to the tune of "Forbidden Fruit" is highlights from my book, Beautiful Imperfections.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
The Trouble with Father's Day
Today is Father's Day. Anyone who knows me knows that I have a thing about fatherhood. Father's Day, in particular, is tough for me because it brings about a conflict of interest. I have attempted to live my life focusing on what I have gained rather than what I have lost. Father's Day is a day to think about and celebrate one's father. So, I have always been confused as to how I would handle Father's Day. When I was young, I used to ignore it. Father's Day would come and go at my house without pomp and circumstance. As I got older and became a father myself, Father's Day became a day for my children to celebrate me. I learned to see this as a day to simply be with my children and enjoy the one day of the year when I could ask them to go fishing or sit and listen to jazz records without actually having to tie them down. For a time, the conflict was resolved within me.
This year, though, I feel the conflict re-emerging. Perhaps because of the book and having all of my father's stories fresh in my head, I feel a renewed sense of obligation to think about my own father on this special day. And I know all of the rhetoric. Think about the good times. Think about the gifts he left you. My love for music. My sense of commitment to my community. My entrepreneurial spirit. Those all came, no doubt, from my father. But that's not what I think of on Father's Day.
My son is turning seven this summer. That's how old I was when my father passed. When I think about everything he'd miss out on if I left now, it blows my mind. I can't wait for the day when I get to tell him about girls. I can't wait to see him graduate from high school. I bought him his first baseball glove when he was two out of fear of missing out on the experience of playing catch with my son. Seeing him off to college, sitting front row at his wedding, seeing him become a father, having adult conversations about life and love and manhood...these are all things that I can't imagine missing. So, when I think of my father, I can't help but remember that he missed every one of them.
I was practicing a little baseball in the yard with the boy the other day, and he began to complain. As children often do, he had lost patience and interest and wanted to just go play. I found myself nearly in tears thinking about what I would give to be able to throw the ball just once with my dad. My son does it a few times a week. I never did it once. I even attempted to explain this to my son in hopes of inspiring him to appreciate what he had. His response to the fact that I never got to play ball with my dad and that he should therefore cherish these moments: "Since you never got to play with your dad, why don't you play baseball, and I'll watch you!"
Believe it or not, he meant well. Still, it made me realize that it will be a great many years before he ever really "gets it." The only thing that gives me comfort is the knowledge that, God willing, I will actually be there when he does.
This year, though, I feel the conflict re-emerging. Perhaps because of the book and having all of my father's stories fresh in my head, I feel a renewed sense of obligation to think about my own father on this special day. And I know all of the rhetoric. Think about the good times. Think about the gifts he left you. My love for music. My sense of commitment to my community. My entrepreneurial spirit. Those all came, no doubt, from my father. But that's not what I think of on Father's Day.
My son is turning seven this summer. That's how old I was when my father passed. When I think about everything he'd miss out on if I left now, it blows my mind. I can't wait for the day when I get to tell him about girls. I can't wait to see him graduate from high school. I bought him his first baseball glove when he was two out of fear of missing out on the experience of playing catch with my son. Seeing him off to college, sitting front row at his wedding, seeing him become a father, having adult conversations about life and love and manhood...these are all things that I can't imagine missing. So, when I think of my father, I can't help but remember that he missed every one of them.
I was practicing a little baseball in the yard with the boy the other day, and he began to complain. As children often do, he had lost patience and interest and wanted to just go play. I found myself nearly in tears thinking about what I would give to be able to throw the ball just once with my dad. My son does it a few times a week. I never did it once. I even attempted to explain this to my son in hopes of inspiring him to appreciate what he had. His response to the fact that I never got to play ball with my dad and that he should therefore cherish these moments: "Since you never got to play with your dad, why don't you play baseball, and I'll watch you!"
Believe it or not, he meant well. Still, it made me realize that it will be a great many years before he ever really "gets it." The only thing that gives me comfort is the knowledge that, God willing, I will actually be there when he does.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Papa Bear and the Budding Actress
Last night I had an interesting experience. My daughter had been chosen to be an extra in a movie. So, she spent the day off in movie land doing her thing. She was dropped off in the afternoon, so I knew she would be home late in the evening. I had even warned her mother to please not act too much like a mom when she dropped her off. My connection that had helped to get her a part in the project had informed me that her mother hadn't embarrassed her upon arrival to the set, so I was content and proud of my little girl for taking her first steps toward her dream of a life in the acting world.
All was well. Then about 10pm rolled around. I hadn't heard from my daughter at all. I knew she was working, so I didn't complain. I resisted my urge to text or call her. I figured that if I didn't allow her mother to act like a mom, I certainly couldn't then turn into papa bear when the street lights came on and my kid wasn't home. So, I played it cool. Then midnight came. I mean, two months ago her curfew was 11:30. When she turned 18 I increased it to midnight. But on this night, midnight came and went without a phone call. I could feel the transformation from proud father to papa bear start to begin. I fought it as best I could. Kind of like David Banner fighting the change into the Hulk. He doesn't wanna change. He doesn't wanna do any damage. But he's getting angry.
In my attempt to fight the change, I had a moment of clarity. I flashed back to my days in Philadelphia. I was a young musician roaming the streets of Philly in search of jazz experience. I remembered sitting in on jam sessions at Ortlieb's Jazz House and strolling into my apartment at whatever o'clock in the morning. I remembered going to New York City with my brother and staying out until the sun came up. It was the life of a young jazz musician, and I loved every minute of it. I also remembered how my mother would call and yell at me for being out all night and not checking in. I used to laugh. I used to say, "If I die, I'll call you. If you don't hear from me, that means I'm fine."
So here I am sitting up worrying about my baby girl. I know exactly where she is. I even know that a trusted friend is there to look out for her. But when your baby girl is out all night for the first time, none of those facts seem to matter. So, when she sent me a text a 4:40am that read, "We're done. Come get me..." what I really wanted to do was go into full blow papa bear. I wanted to yell. I wanted to go down there and break stuff and demand answers from the fool who kept my baby out all night. I resisted. I responded to her message with, "Call me." That phone call went exactly like my phone calls with my mother used to go. She said, "I'm fine. Why are you bothering me?" That was about it. I felt my claws coming out.
I thought it best to have our friend drive her home so as to insure that papa bear didn't make an appearance on set. When she finally got in at 5am, I had been up all night waiting for her. I had been snapping at my fiance for no reason. I had been dreaming up every catastrophe I could imagine. She strolled in, tired and happy. "How was it," I asked. "Fine," she answered, and went to bed. No details. No stories. No explanations. I went to my room and attempt to change back from papa bear into regular old dad.
My baby girl just finished high school a few days ago. She's got months before she even goes off to acting school, and she's already giving me fits. Last night made me realize what my mother went through with my brother and I out roaming the streets as jazz musicians. It gave me a glimpse of what the next few years might look like for me.
I see a lot of ripped jeans in my future.
All was well. Then about 10pm rolled around. I hadn't heard from my daughter at all. I knew she was working, so I didn't complain. I resisted my urge to text or call her. I figured that if I didn't allow her mother to act like a mom, I certainly couldn't then turn into papa bear when the street lights came on and my kid wasn't home. So, I played it cool. Then midnight came. I mean, two months ago her curfew was 11:30. When she turned 18 I increased it to midnight. But on this night, midnight came and went without a phone call. I could feel the transformation from proud father to papa bear start to begin. I fought it as best I could. Kind of like David Banner fighting the change into the Hulk. He doesn't wanna change. He doesn't wanna do any damage. But he's getting angry.
In my attempt to fight the change, I had a moment of clarity. I flashed back to my days in Philadelphia. I was a young musician roaming the streets of Philly in search of jazz experience. I remembered sitting in on jam sessions at Ortlieb's Jazz House and strolling into my apartment at whatever o'clock in the morning. I remembered going to New York City with my brother and staying out until the sun came up. It was the life of a young jazz musician, and I loved every minute of it. I also remembered how my mother would call and yell at me for being out all night and not checking in. I used to laugh. I used to say, "If I die, I'll call you. If you don't hear from me, that means I'm fine."
So here I am sitting up worrying about my baby girl. I know exactly where she is. I even know that a trusted friend is there to look out for her. But when your baby girl is out all night for the first time, none of those facts seem to matter. So, when she sent me a text a 4:40am that read, "We're done. Come get me..." what I really wanted to do was go into full blow papa bear. I wanted to yell. I wanted to go down there and break stuff and demand answers from the fool who kept my baby out all night. I resisted. I responded to her message with, "Call me." That phone call went exactly like my phone calls with my mother used to go. She said, "I'm fine. Why are you bothering me?" That was about it. I felt my claws coming out.
I thought it best to have our friend drive her home so as to insure that papa bear didn't make an appearance on set. When she finally got in at 5am, I had been up all night waiting for her. I had been snapping at my fiance for no reason. I had been dreaming up every catastrophe I could imagine. She strolled in, tired and happy. "How was it," I asked. "Fine," she answered, and went to bed. No details. No stories. No explanations. I went to my room and attempt to change back from papa bear into regular old dad.
My baby girl just finished high school a few days ago. She's got months before she even goes off to acting school, and she's already giving me fits. Last night made me realize what my mother went through with my brother and I out roaming the streets as jazz musicians. It gave me a glimpse of what the next few years might look like for me.
I see a lot of ripped jeans in my future.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
In Her Eyes
A few years ago, my daughter's high school band director started making requests that I sit in with the jazz band at the school during a concert. He had heard about my playing and wanted to have me in as a guest artist. It has always been my policy to refuse these kinds of requests. I've never wanted to be one of those old guys that relives his glory days by comparing himself to a bunch of kids or attempting to look good by being the big fish in a really really small pond. So, for the last few years, he has asked, and I have said no. At some point in that time frame, my daughter asked me if I'd ever grant the director's request. I made her a deal. She's a pretty good singer. She gets solos from time to time. So, I told my daughter that if she were singing in the concert and they asked me to, I'd play. Silly me. I figured that as the years went by, she'd forget about that promise. Until about three weeks ago when I got a phone call from the band director, that is.
It's my daughter's senior year. It would be her very last concert as a high school student. I made my baby girl a promise. I had to keep it. Which meant I had to actually get my chops back in shape to play a few tunes with the high school band. I had to get up at the crack of dawn to rehearse with a bunch of teenagers. For a busy doctoral student, that's neither easy nor fun. But, I figured it was really only a couple of solos on a couple tunes. Not much prep time required for that. Then, at the last minute, things got switched around. A student couldn't make the concert. At the final hour, my participation in this concert went from a couple solos to playing the whole show with the band AND soloing on half a dozen tunes. Anyone who has played a wind instrument (and then taken years off of performing and practicing) will tell you that there is a big difference between the energy and stamina required to play a few solos and that of playing a whole show.
Thankfully, my training didn't totally fail me. I fumbled through the concert and managed to sound as though I knew how to play a horn. I FELT more like an old man attempting to play a game of full contact football, but I'm confident that the audience didn't get that impression. When I got off stage, my mother leaned over to me and said, "Wow Rueben. You still have it!" I thought to myself, "Um...No. I actually don't."
The highlight of that night, though, wasn't any bit of music I played. It wasn't being recognized as a guest artist. It wasn't the applause from the crowd. I missed all of that stuff from my younger days, but on that night, none of it mattered. The greatest moment of the night was back stage during the transition from the portion of the show I was in to the portion my daughter was in. She ran up to me with a huge smile on her face and half a tear in her eye. She wrapped her arms around me and said, "Daddy!" She said it with that voice that suggested that I had been holding out on her all this time. Like I'd been keeping a secret. Confused, I asked why she was so shocked. She said, "Daddy, I never heard you play before." Of course, that's not true. Its just that she hadn't seen me perform when she was old enough for it to matter. She clarified. "I've heard you practice. And I've seen you perform, but that was when I was young. I didn't know you could do that!"
That's when it hit me. I remembered why I made that promise to her. In my attempt to just be dad, I had totally neglected to show my kids what my former life was like. And my hope was always that I'd get a chance to give them a glimpse of what dad used to do before he was dad.
I had to get up early to go to those rehearsals. I had to play a lot more than I expected. I had to fumble through that show, to be sure. But every bit of the hassle of it was worth it just to see that smile on my baby girl's face. In my daughter's eyes, at that moment, I was a superstar. And that's all I could ever ask for.
It's my daughter's senior year. It would be her very last concert as a high school student. I made my baby girl a promise. I had to keep it. Which meant I had to actually get my chops back in shape to play a few tunes with the high school band. I had to get up at the crack of dawn to rehearse with a bunch of teenagers. For a busy doctoral student, that's neither easy nor fun. But, I figured it was really only a couple of solos on a couple tunes. Not much prep time required for that. Then, at the last minute, things got switched around. A student couldn't make the concert. At the final hour, my participation in this concert went from a couple solos to playing the whole show with the band AND soloing on half a dozen tunes. Anyone who has played a wind instrument (and then taken years off of performing and practicing) will tell you that there is a big difference between the energy and stamina required to play a few solos and that of playing a whole show.
Thankfully, my training didn't totally fail me. I fumbled through the concert and managed to sound as though I knew how to play a horn. I FELT more like an old man attempting to play a game of full contact football, but I'm confident that the audience didn't get that impression. When I got off stage, my mother leaned over to me and said, "Wow Rueben. You still have it!" I thought to myself, "Um...No. I actually don't."
The highlight of that night, though, wasn't any bit of music I played. It wasn't being recognized as a guest artist. It wasn't the applause from the crowd. I missed all of that stuff from my younger days, but on that night, none of it mattered. The greatest moment of the night was back stage during the transition from the portion of the show I was in to the portion my daughter was in. She ran up to me with a huge smile on her face and half a tear in her eye. She wrapped her arms around me and said, "Daddy!" She said it with that voice that suggested that I had been holding out on her all this time. Like I'd been keeping a secret. Confused, I asked why she was so shocked. She said, "Daddy, I never heard you play before." Of course, that's not true. Its just that she hadn't seen me perform when she was old enough for it to matter. She clarified. "I've heard you practice. And I've seen you perform, but that was when I was young. I didn't know you could do that!"
That's when it hit me. I remembered why I made that promise to her. In my attempt to just be dad, I had totally neglected to show my kids what my former life was like. And my hope was always that I'd get a chance to give them a glimpse of what dad used to do before he was dad.
I had to get up early to go to those rehearsals. I had to play a lot more than I expected. I had to fumble through that show, to be sure. But every bit of the hassle of it was worth it just to see that smile on my baby girl's face. In my daughter's eyes, at that moment, I was a superstar. And that's all I could ever ask for.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Either Or
As is often the case at the beginning of summer, I have been feeling a bit scattered lately. Summer, for me represents the period of time when the demands of school start to fade and the desire to create art starts to swell. And swell it has. I can't say that's a bad thing. I have some of my most productive moments in early summer. In my attempts to take a break from being a psychologist, I retreat to being an artist, and often times good things happen. Last summer I wrote a book. I worked on a movie. I wrote some music. Not too bad for a summer break. This summer I have been working pretty hard on finishing my photography book. I've also been playing my trumpet again, which is odd. But like I said, early summer does strange things to me.
All this creative activity has brought me back to the age old question that I have asked myself for several years now. Its the question that created this blog. The question is, what would I do if I could choose? When school is over, what will I focus my time and energy on? In every break I get from the world of academics and science, I dive head first into being an artist. But, because it is more of an outlet than an occupation at the moment, I never spend enough time on any project for it to become a financial factor in my life. So when school is over and I have the freedom to do whatever it is that I want to do, what will that thing be?
Sometimes I think I know the answer to that question. Lately I have tended to believe that I was meant to be in the helping profession. My life journey seems to be perfectly suited for helping other people through the struggles that I so clearly needed to go through in order to understand folks the way I do. But then there's this part of me that remembers that nothing makes me feel more alive than being creative. That's when I start to wonder if making plan B into plan A really ever made any sense at all.
Having just finished the first half of my doctoral training, I have come to realize that my current path toward becoming a psychologist is either the greatest accidental discovery of my life or an extremely long and time consuming distraction from my first and only true love.
All this creative activity has brought me back to the age old question that I have asked myself for several years now. Its the question that created this blog. The question is, what would I do if I could choose? When school is over, what will I focus my time and energy on? In every break I get from the world of academics and science, I dive head first into being an artist. But, because it is more of an outlet than an occupation at the moment, I never spend enough time on any project for it to become a financial factor in my life. So when school is over and I have the freedom to do whatever it is that I want to do, what will that thing be?
Sometimes I think I know the answer to that question. Lately I have tended to believe that I was meant to be in the helping profession. My life journey seems to be perfectly suited for helping other people through the struggles that I so clearly needed to go through in order to understand folks the way I do. But then there's this part of me that remembers that nothing makes me feel more alive than being creative. That's when I start to wonder if making plan B into plan A really ever made any sense at all.
Having just finished the first half of my doctoral training, I have come to realize that my current path toward becoming a psychologist is either the greatest accidental discovery of my life or an extremely long and time consuming distraction from my first and only true love.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Cease Fire
My daughter asked me a question, this morning, that blew my mind. We were in the midst of one of our usual teenager vs parent epic battles. I felt sufficiently comfortable with my position in the battle. She stormed off angry. I called her mother to report on the battle front. Tensions have been high lately. She's heading off to college and quite obviously feeling anxious. I'm watching my little girl grow up (or not grow up, depending on the day) and feeling equally anxious. So the monthly battles have turned to weekly or daily battles as of late. We have both taken our hits. Both tired from the fight. But this morning, we both mustered the energy for one more battle.
But then, amidst the bombs and sirens, a white flag went up. In response to my most recent angry message, my daughter sent me a text that basically said, "I'm going off to college soon. Instead of fighting, we should cherish our time together." And, as if that wasn't enough, she went on to ask, "Do you remember the day I was born? I do." She ended her message with her usual, "Love you Paww."
As the dust from the bombs settled and the gunshots stopped ringing in my ears, I reflected on her question. The day she was born. To be honest, I wasn't there the day she was born. I was 17. Its not as if the terms of her birth were joyous and exciting. I was in the midst of another kind of chaos in that moment. But, what I do remember was the day we met. It was a few days after her birth. I went to her grandmother's house. I took this newborn child in my arms and walked her out onto the balcony. I wanted a private moment with my baby girl. I whispered words into her ear that, to this day, no one but me and God could attest to. I made that little girl a promise. I made God a promise. I was going to give that little girl the world. No hurt or harm would come to her while I stood watch.
My assumption was always that she didn't know about that day. After that day, I actually didn't see much her her for a while. Like I said, it was a different kind of chaos back then. But, when we met again, I knew that I had come to keep my promise. I assumed that she couldn't possibly know that we'd met before. And the relationship that we formed was one built on choice, not obligation. I rather liked it that way.
My baby girl's question today made me think. That white flag she raised on the battle field today made me wonder. Its as if she said, "Do you remember the treaty we signed years ago? We agreed to be allies. So why are we fighting?" She was days old when we made that pact. I can't reasonably believe she REMEMBERS it. Still, I remember it. That's not to say I think I did anything wrong today. She is, after all, a teenage girl. They tend to do things that make their dad's want to scream. But what she said to me today reminded me of something very important. Even when she makes me wanna scream, she doesn't really mean to make me angry. She loves me just as much as I love her.
I'm sure this cease fire will be temporary. Maybe she is just buying time while she stocks up on ammo. Regardless, I'm glad she said what she said. It reminded me that, no matter which way the bullets fly, in the end, we're on the same side in this one.
But then, amidst the bombs and sirens, a white flag went up. In response to my most recent angry message, my daughter sent me a text that basically said, "I'm going off to college soon. Instead of fighting, we should cherish our time together." And, as if that wasn't enough, she went on to ask, "Do you remember the day I was born? I do." She ended her message with her usual, "Love you Paww."
As the dust from the bombs settled and the gunshots stopped ringing in my ears, I reflected on her question. The day she was born. To be honest, I wasn't there the day she was born. I was 17. Its not as if the terms of her birth were joyous and exciting. I was in the midst of another kind of chaos in that moment. But, what I do remember was the day we met. It was a few days after her birth. I went to her grandmother's house. I took this newborn child in my arms and walked her out onto the balcony. I wanted a private moment with my baby girl. I whispered words into her ear that, to this day, no one but me and God could attest to. I made that little girl a promise. I made God a promise. I was going to give that little girl the world. No hurt or harm would come to her while I stood watch.
My assumption was always that she didn't know about that day. After that day, I actually didn't see much her her for a while. Like I said, it was a different kind of chaos back then. But, when we met again, I knew that I had come to keep my promise. I assumed that she couldn't possibly know that we'd met before. And the relationship that we formed was one built on choice, not obligation. I rather liked it that way.
My baby girl's question today made me think. That white flag she raised on the battle field today made me wonder. Its as if she said, "Do you remember the treaty we signed years ago? We agreed to be allies. So why are we fighting?" She was days old when we made that pact. I can't reasonably believe she REMEMBERS it. Still, I remember it. That's not to say I think I did anything wrong today. She is, after all, a teenage girl. They tend to do things that make their dad's want to scream. But what she said to me today reminded me of something very important. Even when she makes me wanna scream, she doesn't really mean to make me angry. She loves me just as much as I love her.
I'm sure this cease fire will be temporary. Maybe she is just buying time while she stocks up on ammo. Regardless, I'm glad she said what she said. It reminded me that, no matter which way the bullets fly, in the end, we're on the same side in this one.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Make a List
It's official! I'm a best selling author. I went onto amazon.com today just to see how I'm doing. I do that from time to time, when I'm wishful thinking. But today I saw something I've never seen before. I made a list! Amazon makes these lists. In every category imaginable, they make a list. It might be "Best Selling Books by Black Authors of Children's Books of Non-Fiction," or "Best Selling Fiction Books Written for the Elderly." Mine is "Top Rated Motivational Self-Help Books in the Kindle Store." Its sort of like saying "customer favorite book written by authors living on Duncan Avenue and sold at Jakes Newsstand." It's a bit specific. Still, I've never been on a list before. It felt pretty good to see.
I have always dreamed of the day when I'd make a record that gets onto the Billboard charts. I really wouldn't care which chart. Billboard top 12,000 jazz records. Billboard top 4 trillion pop tunes. If they printed my name, that would be good enough for me. When I started writing the book, that dream changed a little. I started dreaming of the New York Times. Even if its just for one week, I wanna see my name on that best seller list. Of course Amazon.com has a best seller list too. Its updated hourly. Every book is on it. That's why I always check the site. You can tell that someone bought my book if my number changes. When you sell a very very small number of books, one or two sales drastically changes your place on the list. You go from #1,342,291 to #71,908, or something like that. The really fun part is if a few people buy in the same day. I think I reached #16,000 at some point. But I still dream. I dream of the day when I reach the real list. Those top 100 books are considered "Best Sellers." One day....
So today I made a list. It might very well be the "My gramma's favorite books written by one of her grand children" list, but it's a list none the less. I've gotta say, it feels just like I thought it would.
I have always dreamed of the day when I'd make a record that gets onto the Billboard charts. I really wouldn't care which chart. Billboard top 12,000 jazz records. Billboard top 4 trillion pop tunes. If they printed my name, that would be good enough for me. When I started writing the book, that dream changed a little. I started dreaming of the New York Times. Even if its just for one week, I wanna see my name on that best seller list. Of course Amazon.com has a best seller list too. Its updated hourly. Every book is on it. That's why I always check the site. You can tell that someone bought my book if my number changes. When you sell a very very small number of books, one or two sales drastically changes your place on the list. You go from #1,342,291 to #71,908, or something like that. The really fun part is if a few people buy in the same day. I think I reached #16,000 at some point. But I still dream. I dream of the day when I reach the real list. Those top 100 books are considered "Best Sellers." One day....
So today I made a list. It might very well be the "My gramma's favorite books written by one of her grand children" list, but it's a list none the less. I've gotta say, it feels just like I thought it would.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Square Peg, Square Hole
I'm doing it again. I'm getting married. I found a woman who loves me, in all my craziness, and I asked her to never leave. By the grace of God, she actually agreed to those terms. And so, I am getting married....again. I point out that it's the second go 'round not to make a comparison. I say it because someone mentioned to me yesterday that they were surprised I was willing to try again. Because they knew me during my first marriage, I suppose it's a fair enough question to ask. Why try again?
My first marriage left much to be desired. I can't say that was a surprise to me. It was one of those strange situations where all of the love in the world never seemed to make the thing make any more sense. But, because we had all of that love, we kept trying to make it make sense. Its a bit like attempting to fit a square peg in a round hole simply because the peg and the hole really like each other. You try hard and all you get are sore hands and chipped edges. You keep trying and eventually the peg or the hole will break. Well, in my case, the peg and the hole both started to break.
Flip to a few years later. Here I am. Maybe a little rougher around the edges but no worse for the wear. In fact, I'd say I'm all the wiser. So much so that when I spotted that hole that seemed to fit my peg just right (pardon the pun), I decided to give it a go. Am I afraid of repeating the past? Sure. I suppose that thought has crept into my head a time or two. But should that stop me from trying? I should hope not.
I spend my days helping people learn to live again. People who have been traumatized by life. They come to me with their stories of pain and sadness. Stories that have crippled them emotionally. They are afraid to live, for fear of being hurt again. And every time, I say the same thing. The stuff that happened in the past is just stuff that happened in the past. It's not predictive of the future. Yesterday is only as influential in your tomorrow as you let it be. A friend of mine put it this way: Your past is like baggage. The key is remembering that, at any time in your travels, you can put your baggage down.
So here I am. Doing it again. Luckily for me, I think I found the square hole this time.
My first marriage left much to be desired. I can't say that was a surprise to me. It was one of those strange situations where all of the love in the world never seemed to make the thing make any more sense. But, because we had all of that love, we kept trying to make it make sense. Its a bit like attempting to fit a square peg in a round hole simply because the peg and the hole really like each other. You try hard and all you get are sore hands and chipped edges. You keep trying and eventually the peg or the hole will break. Well, in my case, the peg and the hole both started to break.
Flip to a few years later. Here I am. Maybe a little rougher around the edges but no worse for the wear. In fact, I'd say I'm all the wiser. So much so that when I spotted that hole that seemed to fit my peg just right (pardon the pun), I decided to give it a go. Am I afraid of repeating the past? Sure. I suppose that thought has crept into my head a time or two. But should that stop me from trying? I should hope not.
I spend my days helping people learn to live again. People who have been traumatized by life. They come to me with their stories of pain and sadness. Stories that have crippled them emotionally. They are afraid to live, for fear of being hurt again. And every time, I say the same thing. The stuff that happened in the past is just stuff that happened in the past. It's not predictive of the future. Yesterday is only as influential in your tomorrow as you let it be. A friend of mine put it this way: Your past is like baggage. The key is remembering that, at any time in your travels, you can put your baggage down.
So here I am. Doing it again. Luckily for me, I think I found the square hole this time.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Groundhog Day
Someone close to me asked, recently, why I don't acknowledge the reality of the fact that I am poor. It made my heart hurt. Not because it finally sunk in that I am totally flat broke. That reality is old news. What hurt my spirit was the realization that this person who I loved dearly was so defined by poverty that they had trouble seeing me define myself in any other terms. Make no mistake. I've got very little money right now. But the key phrase there is right now. I chose this state of temporary financial hardship in order to build a future for my children that I could not otherwise have built. I have never, nor will I ever define myself as truly poor. Doing so would not only be an insult to the people for whom poverty is not a choice, but it would be an insult to my father who built the financial ground upon which I stand, my mother who maintains it, and myself in whom the empire will most certainly grow.
There is a concept in economics, called the cycle of poverty. Its the idea that certain behaviors and circumstances, once begun, act as a self sustaining mechanism for poverty. It goes like this. A family is poor. They lack the resources to build for tomorrow. Therefore they work only to survive today. Tomorrow comes, and they are, once again poor. Because today is so tough, they lack the luxury of worrying about tomorrow. In doing so, though, they ensure that tomorrow looks exactly like today. Kinda like that movie Groundhog Day. For some, perhaps, there is little choice to this cycle. For many, though, this cycle is more mental than it is economic.
In today's America, we have many folks living out their lives on the line between poverty and comfort. They live pay check to pay check. They make just enough money to live on. If you were to ask them, they'd say they have no idea where their money goes. They use phrases like "maintaining" and "getting by" to describe their very existence. Life, for them, is consumed by the daily struggle to survive financially. Mind you, they have nice enough cars. They have new clothes. They have plasma TVs. But they probably don't own the home they live in and they can't pay their gas bill. When crisis hits, (and by crisis I mean the car dies, the plasma TV breaks, or they spend more money than they meant to at the casino), they look to find some temporary fix. Maybe its the government. Maybe its a community program for hardship assistance. Maybe its the quick cash loan joint on the corner. But what happens is that they fix today's problem today. Tomorrow is not yet an issue in their minds. And so, everyday looks like the day before it. The idea that one could change that fact is foreign to them. Unheard of. Silly even.
For fear of sounding like a republican, I will end my rant there. I can just hear my republican pal with his arguments about why all government programs to help the poor are a waste of money. I certainly don't agree. I have taken many a hand out and hope to go on to create many more for folks that come after me. In my quest to become a doctor, I could not have eaten without assistance. But there's the key. Quest. The quest to make tomorrow better than today is what makes all the difference.
I say all that only to say this. Be careful how you define yourself. The definition you give yourself tends to stick.
There is a concept in economics, called the cycle of poverty. Its the idea that certain behaviors and circumstances, once begun, act as a self sustaining mechanism for poverty. It goes like this. A family is poor. They lack the resources to build for tomorrow. Therefore they work only to survive today. Tomorrow comes, and they are, once again poor. Because today is so tough, they lack the luxury of worrying about tomorrow. In doing so, though, they ensure that tomorrow looks exactly like today. Kinda like that movie Groundhog Day. For some, perhaps, there is little choice to this cycle. For many, though, this cycle is more mental than it is economic.
In today's America, we have many folks living out their lives on the line between poverty and comfort. They live pay check to pay check. They make just enough money to live on. If you were to ask them, they'd say they have no idea where their money goes. They use phrases like "maintaining" and "getting by" to describe their very existence. Life, for them, is consumed by the daily struggle to survive financially. Mind you, they have nice enough cars. They have new clothes. They have plasma TVs. But they probably don't own the home they live in and they can't pay their gas bill. When crisis hits, (and by crisis I mean the car dies, the plasma TV breaks, or they spend more money than they meant to at the casino), they look to find some temporary fix. Maybe its the government. Maybe its a community program for hardship assistance. Maybe its the quick cash loan joint on the corner. But what happens is that they fix today's problem today. Tomorrow is not yet an issue in their minds. And so, everyday looks like the day before it. The idea that one could change that fact is foreign to them. Unheard of. Silly even.
For fear of sounding like a republican, I will end my rant there. I can just hear my republican pal with his arguments about why all government programs to help the poor are a waste of money. I certainly don't agree. I have taken many a hand out and hope to go on to create many more for folks that come after me. In my quest to become a doctor, I could not have eaten without assistance. But there's the key. Quest. The quest to make tomorrow better than today is what makes all the difference.
I say all that only to say this. Be careful how you define yourself. The definition you give yourself tends to stick.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Sad Five
It is a true rarity that you will hear me talking about sports. My lack of interest and knowledge on the subject leads me to steer clear for the very most part. But after hearing about the statements made by Jalen Rose and other members of the Fab five basketball team during and after the premier of a documentary about their run at college basketball greatness, I felt compelled to put my hat in the ring. The following is a response to Chris Webber's blog entry defending the categorization of Black players at Duke as "Uncle Toms":
It saddens me to see grown, respected, and successful Black men suggesting that there is anything at all negative about coming from an affluent background. Not only is it hypocritical, considering that their children will inevitably have the same affluent start to life that they begrudge others for having, but more importantly, the idea that we should pit inner city Blacks against suburban Blacks perpetuates the very social pressures that have divided us as a people for hundreds of years. Suggesting that Black families that stay intact, value a great education, and find success are sellouts is shameful. Clearly these statements are born of envy and perhaps even jealousy. Still, that does not make such irresponsible statements excusable by any stretch. There are young Black kids in inner-cities and suburbs all across America that will watch this "documentary" and read all the articles and see these successful, affluent, and famous Black men associating negativity with the likes of Grant Hill. Those young kids, who already idolize ball players in the first place, will hear the message that the way to get to where Chris Webber and Jalen Rose are is to have a lot of attitude and play a good game. They will hear that valuing education is not necessary. That, Chris, is the real tragedy.
Please don't allow me to suggest that I am an expert in the world of sports. I have neither the interest or the expertise to speak knowledgeably on the accomplishments of the Fab Five, Dukes recruiting practices, or on basketball in general. What I am is a psychologist. There is a saying in my field that goes "Correlation is not causation." It means that the relation of one thing to another does not necessarily speak to the cause of either. And so, I take issue with your suggestion that Duke only recruited Black players from two parent homes with the resources to send their children to private schools. It is my understanding that Duke has a relatively demanding academic program. The sports programs are, then, required to recruit students who can not only excel in a sport but also excel in a classroom. Students who have done well in school, truly value education, and aspire to graduate from college are far more likely to come from two parent homes with affluent backgrounds. That is not a judgment of character. Its a statistical fact. Its a fact that educators and social psychologists have been attempting to understand for centuries. Duke recruits students that can handle life at Duke. Those students tend to have similar backgrounds. (That same background you had, Chris.) Knocking Duke for NOT recruiting inner-city kids negates the true reason for their recruiting practices. Its narrow minded and divisive. It suggests that there is somehow something wrong with students that want to be doctors as much as they want to be ball players. It tells every little boy who dreams of being an engineer and wants to use his basketball skills to get him there that he will somehow be a sellout if he focuses on his education.
For every Chris Webber out there that goes to college with the sole intention of making it in pro sports, leaves college early, and becomes wildly successful, there are thousands of 40 year old men who are working for minimum wage (or on a corner), looking back on that golden opportunity they were given when they got that sports scholarship, and wishing they had thought about it differently when they had the chance. That is not to suggest that focusing on your dream of pro sports is wrong. Still, that dream has led many a young Black man astray. I dare you to find me a single person for whom the aspiration to excel academically caused anything but achievement. Programs like Duke understand this. They understand that discipline, hard work, education, and dedication are a recipe for success on and off the court. We, as a people, would do well to adopt that recipe in every facet of our lives. If every NCAA program adopted this policy, we would not only have far fewer financially and emotionally bankrupt former athletes who have no options after sports, but we'd also have more Black doctors, lawyers, engineers, and teachers.
Chris, you may very well know your field. You know the stats and history of your sport. But I know mine too. I dare you to look at the stats on how far behind we are in academic achievement, career success, science, mathematics, etc. Then go re-read your statements about Duke's policies. When you're done, we can talk about who is doing more damage to our race.
(The following links will bring you up to speed if, like me, you are clueless about sports.)
http://www.sportsgrid.com/ncaa-basketball/fab-five-member-jimmy-king-talks-duke-definintion-of-an-uncle-tom-a-sellout/
http://chriswebber.com/profiles/blogs/my-fathers-brother-thomas
http://thequad.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/03/16/grant-hills-response-to-jalen-rose/
http://msn.foxsports.com/collegebasketball/story/ESPN-The-Fab-Five-documentary-Jalen-Rose-Chris-Webber-Juwan-Howard-Jimmy-King-Ray-Jackson-031511
It saddens me to see grown, respected, and successful Black men suggesting that there is anything at all negative about coming from an affluent background. Not only is it hypocritical, considering that their children will inevitably have the same affluent start to life that they begrudge others for having, but more importantly, the idea that we should pit inner city Blacks against suburban Blacks perpetuates the very social pressures that have divided us as a people for hundreds of years. Suggesting that Black families that stay intact, value a great education, and find success are sellouts is shameful. Clearly these statements are born of envy and perhaps even jealousy. Still, that does not make such irresponsible statements excusable by any stretch. There are young Black kids in inner-cities and suburbs all across America that will watch this "documentary" and read all the articles and see these successful, affluent, and famous Black men associating negativity with the likes of Grant Hill. Those young kids, who already idolize ball players in the first place, will hear the message that the way to get to where Chris Webber and Jalen Rose are is to have a lot of attitude and play a good game. They will hear that valuing education is not necessary. That, Chris, is the real tragedy.
Please don't allow me to suggest that I am an expert in the world of sports. I have neither the interest or the expertise to speak knowledgeably on the accomplishments of the Fab Five, Dukes recruiting practices, or on basketball in general. What I am is a psychologist. There is a saying in my field that goes "Correlation is not causation." It means that the relation of one thing to another does not necessarily speak to the cause of either. And so, I take issue with your suggestion that Duke only recruited Black players from two parent homes with the resources to send their children to private schools. It is my understanding that Duke has a relatively demanding academic program. The sports programs are, then, required to recruit students who can not only excel in a sport but also excel in a classroom. Students who have done well in school, truly value education, and aspire to graduate from college are far more likely to come from two parent homes with affluent backgrounds. That is not a judgment of character. Its a statistical fact. Its a fact that educators and social psychologists have been attempting to understand for centuries. Duke recruits students that can handle life at Duke. Those students tend to have similar backgrounds. (That same background you had, Chris.) Knocking Duke for NOT recruiting inner-city kids negates the true reason for their recruiting practices. Its narrow minded and divisive. It suggests that there is somehow something wrong with students that want to be doctors as much as they want to be ball players. It tells every little boy who dreams of being an engineer and wants to use his basketball skills to get him there that he will somehow be a sellout if he focuses on his education.
For every Chris Webber out there that goes to college with the sole intention of making it in pro sports, leaves college early, and becomes wildly successful, there are thousands of 40 year old men who are working for minimum wage (or on a corner), looking back on that golden opportunity they were given when they got that sports scholarship, and wishing they had thought about it differently when they had the chance. That is not to suggest that focusing on your dream of pro sports is wrong. Still, that dream has led many a young Black man astray. I dare you to find me a single person for whom the aspiration to excel academically caused anything but achievement. Programs like Duke understand this. They understand that discipline, hard work, education, and dedication are a recipe for success on and off the court. We, as a people, would do well to adopt that recipe in every facet of our lives. If every NCAA program adopted this policy, we would not only have far fewer financially and emotionally bankrupt former athletes who have no options after sports, but we'd also have more Black doctors, lawyers, engineers, and teachers.
Chris, you may very well know your field. You know the stats and history of your sport. But I know mine too. I dare you to look at the stats on how far behind we are in academic achievement, career success, science, mathematics, etc. Then go re-read your statements about Duke's policies. When you're done, we can talk about who is doing more damage to our race.
(The following links will bring you up to speed if, like me, you are clueless about sports.)
http://www.sportsgrid.com/ncaa-basketball/fab-five-member-jimmy-king-talks-duke-definintion-of-an-uncle-tom-a-sellout/
http://chriswebber.com/profiles/blogs/my-fathers-brother-thomas
http://thequad.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/03/16/grant-hills-response-to-jalen-rose/
http://msn.foxsports.com/collegebasketball/story/ESPN-The-Fab-Five-documentary-Jalen-Rose-Chris-Webber-Juwan-Howard-Jimmy-King-Ray-Jackson-031511
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Jay Z and the Food Fighters
Jay Z said, "A wise man told me don't argue with fools, cause people from a distance can't tell who is who." I don't know who his source was, but that man was wise indeed. If you shout and scream with a fool long enough, no matter how intelligent you are, you will eventually look just as foolish as your opponent. Why? Well, it has something to the rules. The wise man and the fool use different rules.
Two wise men can argue at great length and, assuming those two men have enough respect for themselves, never resort to disrespecting their opposition in the argument. Many a world problem has been solved through a spirited argument. Consider the Socratic debate, for example. Two scholars, with opposing hypotheses, argue the contradictions in their ideas until what remains is a mutually agreed upon and more fundamentally sound hypothesis about the truth of a matter. The assumption in this method, though, is that both scholars will be wise enough to concede the truths that are illuminated by the opposing scholar. It takes a truly wise man to hear the truth from someone else. And thus, the Socratic method is rarely employed. Most folks can only hear the truth as told by......themselves.
Still, the idea of disagreement through debate or argument is always the same. One side has a truth that they hope to help the other side see. The passion with which one sees his truth sparks an argument. Nothing wrong with that, as long as both sides play by one rule: logic. In any argument there must be a set of parameters. These parameters set the boundaries with which one can make an argument. Mutual use of logic is why the Socratic method works with extremely intelligent people. (Ex. If we both agree that proposition A is true, then we surely must agree that B would also be true under conditions thus and so.....Oh good point, my wise friend. I had not thought of that. But, should B be true under said conditions, then would not C also be true under these....Why yes, sir. Well said....)
Here's the problem. A fool doesn't use logic. Fundamental truth goes out the window when you talk to a fool. That's why they call him a fool. This being the case, the fool can make arguments not based on the same parameters that most of us use to restrain our thoughts. (Ex. I think you were wrong just then....Why...Because the sky is blue and trees have leaves on them and so clearly you were wrong.) And in order to counter an argument not bound by logic in any way, one must usually resort to.....well, foolishness. Its kinda like being in a food fight. You either throw food or duck and hope for the best. There is no real way to win. And that's what Jay Z' pal was trying to tell him. You can't win. If you look in on a food fight, can you see who started it? Can you tell who is using the veggies and who throws junk food? Nope. Its a food fight. If you're in it, you just look bad.
One of my favorite books says, "Do not answer a fool according to his folly, or you will be like him yourself." In other words, when the fool throws food, don't throw it back or you're a fool too. I know this to be true. I really do. But I get hit with enough jello, and that pile of mashed potatoes starts to look an awful lot like ammunition. Does that make me the wise man or the fool? I suppose that's debatable.
Two wise men can argue at great length and, assuming those two men have enough respect for themselves, never resort to disrespecting their opposition in the argument. Many a world problem has been solved through a spirited argument. Consider the Socratic debate, for example. Two scholars, with opposing hypotheses, argue the contradictions in their ideas until what remains is a mutually agreed upon and more fundamentally sound hypothesis about the truth of a matter. The assumption in this method, though, is that both scholars will be wise enough to concede the truths that are illuminated by the opposing scholar. It takes a truly wise man to hear the truth from someone else. And thus, the Socratic method is rarely employed. Most folks can only hear the truth as told by......themselves.
Still, the idea of disagreement through debate or argument is always the same. One side has a truth that they hope to help the other side see. The passion with which one sees his truth sparks an argument. Nothing wrong with that, as long as both sides play by one rule: logic. In any argument there must be a set of parameters. These parameters set the boundaries with which one can make an argument. Mutual use of logic is why the Socratic method works with extremely intelligent people. (Ex. If we both agree that proposition A is true, then we surely must agree that B would also be true under conditions thus and so.....Oh good point, my wise friend. I had not thought of that. But, should B be true under said conditions, then would not C also be true under these....Why yes, sir. Well said....)
Here's the problem. A fool doesn't use logic. Fundamental truth goes out the window when you talk to a fool. That's why they call him a fool. This being the case, the fool can make arguments not based on the same parameters that most of us use to restrain our thoughts. (Ex. I think you were wrong just then....Why...Because the sky is blue and trees have leaves on them and so clearly you were wrong.) And in order to counter an argument not bound by logic in any way, one must usually resort to.....well, foolishness. Its kinda like being in a food fight. You either throw food or duck and hope for the best. There is no real way to win. And that's what Jay Z' pal was trying to tell him. You can't win. If you look in on a food fight, can you see who started it? Can you tell who is using the veggies and who throws junk food? Nope. Its a food fight. If you're in it, you just look bad.
One of my favorite books says, "Do not answer a fool according to his folly, or you will be like him yourself." In other words, when the fool throws food, don't throw it back or you're a fool too. I know this to be true. I really do. But I get hit with enough jello, and that pile of mashed potatoes starts to look an awful lot like ammunition. Does that make me the wise man or the fool? I suppose that's debatable.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
I've Grown Accustomed to her Face
I've grown accustomed to her face.
She almost makes the day begin.
I've grown accustomed to the tune
That she whistles night and noon.
Her smiles, her frowns,
Her ups, her downs
Are second nature to me now,
Like breathing out and breathing in.
I was serenely independent
And content before we met.
Surely I could always be that way again - and yet,
I've grown accustomed to her looks,
Accustomed to her voice,
Accustomed to her face.
I've always liked this song. I have a version of Nat King Cole singing it. It always makes me laugh a little, when I think about the sentiment. The idea that we fool ourselves into thinking we'd be just fine without them. That's totally me. I had been saying that for a while now. See, I met a girl. I should say, I fell for a girl. I fell hard and fast. But all the while, I said to myself that I could walk away if need be. Not that I'd ever want to. But if I needed to....
The thing is, I'm not all that good at trusting people. Never have been. I blame my childhood. I experienced way to many heartaches and deaths to ever believe that anyone could really be trusted all the way. It made relationships a bit of a challenge, to say the least. I remember a girl telling me once, just after we broke up, that one day I'd experience the ability to trust someone completely. To be able to be completely myself. To be totally and completely honest and know the other person is doing the same. In that moment, she said, I'd know what true love was. At the time I thought she was just a dumb ex-girlfriend. Now I know she couldn't have been more right.
So anyway, I fell for a girl. And for whatever reason, I decided to trust her. And God knows why, but she decided to trust me. And that was that. I've come to realize that everything I've ever called a relationship before this was just a prelude. I've come to realize that true love is like a conversation that goes something like this. "Here. Hold this. Its my heart. My hands are full holding yours, so I'm gonna need you to hold mine for me while we walk through this life thing." I'd never had that conversation before now.
Funny thing about that conversation is, if you're having it for the very first time, it can be scarier than you realize. At least that's the case for me. See, my girl has a job that keeps her pretty busy sometimes. In my attempt to be supportive and out of the way, we've had a few days of minimal contact. That's all well and good, I suppose. I tell myself I need the free time. I tell myself its no big deal. Until the day she DOESN'T make a fuss about how much she misses me. Then the scared little kid in me comes jumping out. Of course, there was nothing to worry about. She came to the rescue. Still, it was a scare I hardly expected.
I say all that to say this. I gave my heart to a girl. When I did it, I didn't realize how much of a risk I had taken. I'm sure glad she did.
I've grown accustomed to her face.
She almost makes the day begin.
I'm very grateful she's a woman,
And so easy to forget, rather like a habit
One can always break - and yet,
I've grown accustomed to her looks,
Accustomed to her voice,
Accustomed to her face.
She almost makes the day begin.
I've grown accustomed to the tune
That she whistles night and noon.
Her smiles, her frowns,
Her ups, her downs
Are second nature to me now,
Like breathing out and breathing in.
I was serenely independent
And content before we met.
Surely I could always be that way again - and yet,
I've grown accustomed to her looks,
Accustomed to her voice,
Accustomed to her face.
I've always liked this song. I have a version of Nat King Cole singing it. It always makes me laugh a little, when I think about the sentiment. The idea that we fool ourselves into thinking we'd be just fine without them. That's totally me. I had been saying that for a while now. See, I met a girl. I should say, I fell for a girl. I fell hard and fast. But all the while, I said to myself that I could walk away if need be. Not that I'd ever want to. But if I needed to....
The thing is, I'm not all that good at trusting people. Never have been. I blame my childhood. I experienced way to many heartaches and deaths to ever believe that anyone could really be trusted all the way. It made relationships a bit of a challenge, to say the least. I remember a girl telling me once, just after we broke up, that one day I'd experience the ability to trust someone completely. To be able to be completely myself. To be totally and completely honest and know the other person is doing the same. In that moment, she said, I'd know what true love was. At the time I thought she was just a dumb ex-girlfriend. Now I know she couldn't have been more right.
So anyway, I fell for a girl. And for whatever reason, I decided to trust her. And God knows why, but she decided to trust me. And that was that. I've come to realize that everything I've ever called a relationship before this was just a prelude. I've come to realize that true love is like a conversation that goes something like this. "Here. Hold this. Its my heart. My hands are full holding yours, so I'm gonna need you to hold mine for me while we walk through this life thing." I'd never had that conversation before now.
Funny thing about that conversation is, if you're having it for the very first time, it can be scarier than you realize. At least that's the case for me. See, my girl has a job that keeps her pretty busy sometimes. In my attempt to be supportive and out of the way, we've had a few days of minimal contact. That's all well and good, I suppose. I tell myself I need the free time. I tell myself its no big deal. Until the day she DOESN'T make a fuss about how much she misses me. Then the scared little kid in me comes jumping out. Of course, there was nothing to worry about. She came to the rescue. Still, it was a scare I hardly expected.
I say all that to say this. I gave my heart to a girl. When I did it, I didn't realize how much of a risk I had taken. I'm sure glad she did.
I've grown accustomed to her face.
She almost makes the day begin.
I'm very grateful she's a woman,
And so easy to forget, rather like a habit
One can always break - and yet,
I've grown accustomed to her looks,
Accustomed to her voice,
Accustomed to her face.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The Word on the Streets
I continue to be touched, and truly humbled, by the abundance of emails, facebook posts, text messages, and phone calls I have received from people who have enjoyed and identified with my book. I used to believe that my story was so very isolating. I felt alone. This process has taught me that every experience is part of the "human experience" and that struggle, like triumph, is universal.
I thought I'd share some of what people have said about the book. Some of this is actual reviews of the book. Much of this came in the form of messages to me. Many had to be edited because of the personal nature of the messages, as people poured their hearts out to me. Many messages were honestly too personal to share. But all were heart felt, to be sure. At any rate, here is what the streets are saying about my book.
I enjoyed reading, “A Young Man’s Wisdom.” This book will give hope to many people who have grown up thinking they’ve missed something. I definitely could relate to much of it. My favorite quote from the book: “Life will break you if you let it. Don’t let it.” This book took courage, creativity and insight. You really connect with the reader. Congratulations!
- Dawn, PA
It is truly inspiring how you have risen up from your troubles and become such a talented and successful role model that every man can look up to and respect …… I do believe things happen in our lives for a reason. Your reason has truly been revealed and will inspire all who read it. Thank you for sharing.
- Becky, PA
I just wanted to say what a blessing your book was. I laughed, cried, and remembered my own childhood…….Good luck my brother, although, I suspect you won't need it.
- Kristi, Washington, D.C.
It's really wonderfully written and in such a way that everyone can connect to it. Young, old, boy, girl, White, or Black, anyone can identify. It was so simply told. It was as if I was sitting in front of you having a conversation about your life. You were so open and honest even matter-of-factly at times. You never made the reader feel uncomfortable. I was completely drawn in.
- Kena, CA
I can't put it down!!! You're ripping my heart out and yet the gold you've gained, gleaned from [your] short 35 yrs on this earth is remarkable. It's quite evident that God has you purposed for much.
- Charisse, PA
I read it as soon as I opened it. I could not put it down until I finished it. I truly enjoyed reading it…Your son and other young men will be wiser for the reading. Thank you for sharing your story.
- Jeff, PA
This great little book is packed with powerful lessons about the human experience… It's a fantastic quick read! I definitely recommend it.
- Missy, MI
This should be a staple in every young man's (and young woman's) reading list. Thank you - for writing it, for so generously sharing yourself (and your book!) and for being who you are.
- Dorothy, PA
[A Young Man’s Wisdom] was easy to follow and equally as inspirational for women as it is for men.
- Darra, PA
A Young Man's Wisdom is a poignant and touching memoir that incites self-reflection in the reader, despite gender or race.
- Missy, PA
Seriously, I don't know what to say. I just finished reading your book. Maybe I'm taking it a little too personal, but as I read your lessons and things you’re trying to teach your son, tears fill my eyes, because I realized that those are things I'm trying to teach my son as a woman……. The book is great. It really touched me. I hope [my son’s father] will read it and it [will] have the same effect on him!!!
- Alexis, Pa
It must have taken an extraordinary amount of bravery for the author to be so candid in sharing his life’s journey. I think the book will inspire others who have faced similar struggles.
- John, OH
Halfway done with your book. Literally on the metro teary eyed. I don't know if "good" explains my thoughts... You have a story worth sharing and I'm glad you did.
- Samantha, Washington, D.C.
I thought I'd share some of what people have said about the book. Some of this is actual reviews of the book. Much of this came in the form of messages to me. Many had to be edited because of the personal nature of the messages, as people poured their hearts out to me. Many messages were honestly too personal to share. But all were heart felt, to be sure. At any rate, here is what the streets are saying about my book.
I enjoyed reading, “A Young Man’s Wisdom.” This book will give hope to many people who have grown up thinking they’ve missed something. I definitely could relate to much of it. My favorite quote from the book: “Life will break you if you let it. Don’t let it.” This book took courage, creativity and insight. You really connect with the reader. Congratulations!
- Dawn, PA
It is truly inspiring how you have risen up from your troubles and become such a talented and successful role model that every man can look up to and respect …… I do believe things happen in our lives for a reason. Your reason has truly been revealed and will inspire all who read it. Thank you for sharing.
- Becky, PA
I just wanted to say what a blessing your book was. I laughed, cried, and remembered my own childhood…….Good luck my brother, although, I suspect you won't need it.
- Kristi, Washington, D.C.
It's really wonderfully written and in such a way that everyone can connect to it. Young, old, boy, girl, White, or Black, anyone can identify. It was so simply told. It was as if I was sitting in front of you having a conversation about your life. You were so open and honest even matter-of-factly at times. You never made the reader feel uncomfortable. I was completely drawn in.
- Kena, CA
I can't put it down!!! You're ripping my heart out and yet the gold you've gained, gleaned from [your] short 35 yrs on this earth is remarkable. It's quite evident that God has you purposed for much.
- Charisse, PA
I read it as soon as I opened it. I could not put it down until I finished it. I truly enjoyed reading it…Your son and other young men will be wiser for the reading. Thank you for sharing your story.
- Jeff, PA
This great little book is packed with powerful lessons about the human experience… It's a fantastic quick read! I definitely recommend it.
- Missy, MI
This should be a staple in every young man's (and young woman's) reading list. Thank you - for writing it, for so generously sharing yourself (and your book!) and for being who you are.
- Dorothy, PA
[A Young Man’s Wisdom] was easy to follow and equally as inspirational for women as it is for men.
- Darra, PA
A Young Man's Wisdom is a poignant and touching memoir that incites self-reflection in the reader, despite gender or race.
- Missy, PA
Seriously, I don't know what to say. I just finished reading your book. Maybe I'm taking it a little too personal, but as I read your lessons and things you’re trying to teach your son, tears fill my eyes, because I realized that those are things I'm trying to teach my son as a woman……. The book is great. It really touched me. I hope [my son’s father] will read it and it [will] have the same effect on him!!!
- Alexis, Pa
It must have taken an extraordinary amount of bravery for the author to be so candid in sharing his life’s journey. I think the book will inspire others who have faced similar struggles.
- John, OH
Halfway done with your book. Literally on the metro teary eyed. I don't know if "good" explains my thoughts... You have a story worth sharing and I'm glad you did.
- Samantha, Washington, D.C.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Losing the Forest for the Trees
In the past month and a half, I have had an amazing amount of feedback on the book. It has been really rewarding for me to hear how much the book has touched people. But, I must say, there is one piece of feedback that is interesting to me. I haven't heard it much. But I've heard it a few times from people close enough to me to know my life. People have wondered how I told my story without mentioning my marriage in any significant way. I suppose I understand the question, but I must admit I don't understand the purpose of the question. Still, in an attempt to quiet my own inner demons, I will answer it.
The short answer is, the book wasn't about my relationship with my wife. In all fairness, that relationship spanned far more of my life than the 4 years I was married. In fact, much of what I talked about in the book happened while I was with her. Then again, there isn't much of my life that DIDN'T happen while I was either with her or about to be back with her or recovering from the latest break up. But, the book I wrote wasn't about that part of my life. It wasn't my memoir, so to speak. It was a book about my internal struggles with manhood, fatherhood, and missing my father. That's the short answer.
The long answer is not so simple. See, my relationship with my ex used to be one of the things that defined me. I judged myself, in large part, based on the state of that relationship. That relationship wasn't always healthy. It wasn't always productive. And defining my identity based on another person proved to be extremely problematic. Whether that person was my father, my high school sweetheart, or anyone else, defining myself in external terms left me powerless to create my own happiness and strength. When I realized that, my life changed. One of those changes was that my marriage had to end. I wasn't the man I wanted to be while I was in it. I couldn't be. So, as painful as it was, ending that relationship allowed me to be who I am today.
When I first decided to write a book, it was going to be my life story. It was full of stories about meeting her in the 7th grade, falling in love, and all that good stuff. But, at some point in that writing process, I came to realize that the story I was telling had no purpose. It had no message. It was just a story of pain and suffering. I knew my life had purpose. I knew my life wasn't only about the pain. But the book felt sad. So, I thought about what mattered most to me. I thought about what I hoped to do with it. And I realized that the only thing I could speak clearly on, at this point, was fatherhood. So, I removed the rest. My love affair with music....gone. My new found career in psychology....gone. My marriage.....all but erased from the pages. Why? Because I didn't want my purpose to be lost in the details. And there are just so many details. Sometimes in painting a picture of a forest, one can get caught up in the details of every single tree. What happens is that the forest stops looking like a forest. It starts looking like a mess of tree like objects. But when you gloss over some of the trees and focus on the beauty and color and feel of the forest, that painting conveys the sentiment of that forest. That's what I wanted to do. I wanted to paint a forest. Accurately painting the tree that was my marriage would have stopped me from getting the rest of the forest onto the canvas.
Perhaps one day, when I am far enough removed from that tree, I will paint another picture, one that gives a bit more detail. For now, I am happy to have given myself permission to not be tied to that or any other tree ever again.
The short answer is, the book wasn't about my relationship with my wife. In all fairness, that relationship spanned far more of my life than the 4 years I was married. In fact, much of what I talked about in the book happened while I was with her. Then again, there isn't much of my life that DIDN'T happen while I was either with her or about to be back with her or recovering from the latest break up. But, the book I wrote wasn't about that part of my life. It wasn't my memoir, so to speak. It was a book about my internal struggles with manhood, fatherhood, and missing my father. That's the short answer.
The long answer is not so simple. See, my relationship with my ex used to be one of the things that defined me. I judged myself, in large part, based on the state of that relationship. That relationship wasn't always healthy. It wasn't always productive. And defining my identity based on another person proved to be extremely problematic. Whether that person was my father, my high school sweetheart, or anyone else, defining myself in external terms left me powerless to create my own happiness and strength. When I realized that, my life changed. One of those changes was that my marriage had to end. I wasn't the man I wanted to be while I was in it. I couldn't be. So, as painful as it was, ending that relationship allowed me to be who I am today.
When I first decided to write a book, it was going to be my life story. It was full of stories about meeting her in the 7th grade, falling in love, and all that good stuff. But, at some point in that writing process, I came to realize that the story I was telling had no purpose. It had no message. It was just a story of pain and suffering. I knew my life had purpose. I knew my life wasn't only about the pain. But the book felt sad. So, I thought about what mattered most to me. I thought about what I hoped to do with it. And I realized that the only thing I could speak clearly on, at this point, was fatherhood. So, I removed the rest. My love affair with music....gone. My new found career in psychology....gone. My marriage.....all but erased from the pages. Why? Because I didn't want my purpose to be lost in the details. And there are just so many details. Sometimes in painting a picture of a forest, one can get caught up in the details of every single tree. What happens is that the forest stops looking like a forest. It starts looking like a mess of tree like objects. But when you gloss over some of the trees and focus on the beauty and color and feel of the forest, that painting conveys the sentiment of that forest. That's what I wanted to do. I wanted to paint a forest. Accurately painting the tree that was my marriage would have stopped me from getting the rest of the forest onto the canvas.
Perhaps one day, when I am far enough removed from that tree, I will paint another picture, one that gives a bit more detail. For now, I am happy to have given myself permission to not be tied to that or any other tree ever again.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Definition of Man
Made this video about the process of researching and writing about manhood. Enjoy!
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
My Philosophy
I remember when I first read Self-Reliance. I was about 25. I read it because I had seen a quote from it and wanted to know what Emerson meant by the quote. So I dove in. I remember that it took longer than usual to read it, because I kept re-reading sections. I remember feeling like he was talking TO me. It was unlike any reading experience I had ever had. He was speaking to my life in such a profound way that it felt like he had written the book just for me. It blew my mind. The same thing happened when I read Man's Search for Meaning. Souls of Black Folk was the same way. These books transformed me. They opened me up to a different level of thinking. I thought differently about myself, and about life in general, because of these books. After I read them, I felt like I needed to give this new found knowledge to everyone I knew. I would tell anyone who would listen that they needed these books. To this day, if anyone asks, I hand them my copy of Souls of Black Folk. I have encouraged more than a few clients and friends to read Man's Search for Meaning. There are gifts within these texts that I can't imagine giving any other way.
The other day, one of my colleagues asked me if I would be okay with her suggesting my book to some of her clients. I was, of course, honored. Still, I didn't give it much thought. Today I saw a young man quote me in his facebook status. He's not someone I know well enough to think he would put the quote up in order to flatter me or help promote the book. As best as I can tell, he was simply moved by my words and felt the need to share them. At that moment, it hit me. On some small level, I had been for him what Emerson was for me.
Make no mistake. I don't fancy myself a philosopher in that classic sense. I'm not an eloquent writer. I'm no Emerson. No Frankl. No Dubois. But then, that doesn't matter, does it? Truth comes from wherever one is willing to find it. Because I wrote my story in such a simple and matter of fact way, there are truths I received from all of those philosophers that I am able to pass along to a demographic of people that would never dream of reading the books I read. So, I am able to translate. Perhaps it is that translation that is the greatest gift of what I've written. My story is not all that unique. The lessons I learned are not new. But the simplistic way in which I see my world allowed me to pull something very positive out of what seems, to most, like a very negative period of time. That is as close to a philosophy as I suppose I'll ever get. I'm glad it worked for someone.
The other day, one of my colleagues asked me if I would be okay with her suggesting my book to some of her clients. I was, of course, honored. Still, I didn't give it much thought. Today I saw a young man quote me in his facebook status. He's not someone I know well enough to think he would put the quote up in order to flatter me or help promote the book. As best as I can tell, he was simply moved by my words and felt the need to share them. At that moment, it hit me. On some small level, I had been for him what Emerson was for me.
Make no mistake. I don't fancy myself a philosopher in that classic sense. I'm not an eloquent writer. I'm no Emerson. No Frankl. No Dubois. But then, that doesn't matter, does it? Truth comes from wherever one is willing to find it. Because I wrote my story in such a simple and matter of fact way, there are truths I received from all of those philosophers that I am able to pass along to a demographic of people that would never dream of reading the books I read. So, I am able to translate. Perhaps it is that translation that is the greatest gift of what I've written. My story is not all that unique. The lessons I learned are not new. But the simplistic way in which I see my world allowed me to pull something very positive out of what seems, to most, like a very negative period of time. That is as close to a philosophy as I suppose I'll ever get. I'm glad it worked for someone.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Eyes on the Prize
The past few weeks have been nutty. I published the book, had a book signing, and have been working tirelessly to get it out into the world. Because I self-published the book, I instantly went from author to publicist/salesman/everything else over night. In the shuffle of it all, it became easy to forget the purpose of what I wrote. In my attempt to make sure the book is a "success" financially, I almost forgot what it is I set out to do.
Almost.
In the past 3 weeks I have received countless messages from people who read the book. People who shared how my story touched them. People told me that they laughed with me. They cried with me. They relived their own struggles while reading about mine. My story gave them hope. My strength gave them strength. And that was the point, wasn't it? I used to think to myself, my story needed to be told. I knew that my life had been crazy for a reason. It couldn't have been happenstance. The whirlwind that was my early years wasn't just a ball of confusion. It was the perfect storm. It was meant to bring me out on the other side stronger, wiser, and battle tested. When the dust settled, I became aware that my story could probably give hope to folks who have been through enough to make them need a little hope.
Like I said, in my hustle to make my book a financial success, I almost forgot that there was a reason I didn't wait on the big publishers to help me tell my story. There is a reason I did it myself. I wanted to tell my story. I wanted to share myself with the world. I wanted to open up in a way that I rarely have, in hopes of touching other people. I've gotten texts. I've gotten emails. I get messages on FB daily. The messages are clear. Whether I sell 12 books or 12 million, the book is a success.
Almost.
In the past 3 weeks I have received countless messages from people who read the book. People who shared how my story touched them. People told me that they laughed with me. They cried with me. They relived their own struggles while reading about mine. My story gave them hope. My strength gave them strength. And that was the point, wasn't it? I used to think to myself, my story needed to be told. I knew that my life had been crazy for a reason. It couldn't have been happenstance. The whirlwind that was my early years wasn't just a ball of confusion. It was the perfect storm. It was meant to bring me out on the other side stronger, wiser, and battle tested. When the dust settled, I became aware that my story could probably give hope to folks who have been through enough to make them need a little hope.
Like I said, in my hustle to make my book a financial success, I almost forgot that there was a reason I didn't wait on the big publishers to help me tell my story. There is a reason I did it myself. I wanted to tell my story. I wanted to share myself with the world. I wanted to open up in a way that I rarely have, in hopes of touching other people. I've gotten texts. I've gotten emails. I get messages on FB daily. The messages are clear. Whether I sell 12 books or 12 million, the book is a success.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Good on the Bad Days
Ever have one of those days where things just don't go your way? One of those days that just leaves you feeling kind of sour? Well, I had one of those days today.
The day actually started out pretty good. I sent the lady out the door with a few extra kisses. A nice big check showed up in my account this morning. Sonny boy and I were on schedule getting to the bus, which isn't always the case. I was feeling pretty good. With my extra couple dollars, I figured I'd open all the past due bills and spread the love. (There's mistake #1) Turns out the bills were just enough to shoot that big check to right to h.e.double hockey sticks. So now I'm just about back to broke. But, the bills are paid, so I'm still doing okay. Then I get a call from some publisher who wants to argue with me about my choice of publisher, simply because I didn't choose him. He goes on to tell me how I'll never get anywhere with this route and how if I'd only....... And so now I'm kinda mad. But, I've got a few bucks in my pocket and no food in the house, so its time for a trip to the store. While in the check out line I get one of those "Daddy, can you.." phone calls. Turns out my teenage daughter has locked herself out of her car at the gas station and needs my assistance. I of course get there when I can. Because I don't have one of those laser beam things they use on Star Trek, I apparently took too long to save her and got treated to a healthy dose of teenage girl attitude. Somehow I didn't realize that her locking her keys in her car was my fault. (There's mistake #2) Okay now I'm hot.
In my attempt to brighten my evening, I decided to go buy my lady friend a little something. Making someone else smile always seems to soothe the soul. I head to the jewelry store. (Mistake #3) It's been a while since I've had a girl to buy anything for, so I totally forgot what it's like being the broke guy in the jewelry store. They don't exactly treat you like royalty when you say, "I wanna buy something, but here's my budget."
So I'm winding down my night, angry, a bit frustrated, and all around tired. My son asks for some juice, which he always does just before bed. Normally he drinks it in the kitchen, because he's not permitted to drink juice in the living room. But tonight I'm so tired I don't bother to remind him of this rule. (Yup, mistake #4) Just as I'm checking emails and tending to loose ends, I here "Daddy, I kinda got some juice on my pajamas." Of course I knew what that meant. Some juice on the pajamas, the rest on the couch. I tried to contain my anger. I really did. I didn't yell. I didn't punish. I just cleaned him up and sent him to bed. But I guess the look I gave him was just a hair meaner than I meant it to be. When I got upstairs to read him his bedtime story, I found a pouting and sad little boy. "Daddy, I'm sorry for what I did downstairs. I'm really sorry." Sniffle, sniffle.
In that very second, I remembered that kids don't understand parents having a bad day. To them, everyday and every minute is about them. I was frustrated about my day. All he knew was that I was frustrated. He doesn't care that I'm broke. He doesn't know that the publisher, the jewelry store lady, and everyone in between got on my nerves today. All he knows is that I snapped at him for some juice. To him, I was being mean. To him, I was a little off. But dad's don't get to take the day off. There is no vacation from this job. I don't get to have a bad day.
I gave him a hug. I told him I was never mad at him. We read our story. All was well again. Luckily for me, I've got some great kids. That makes it a little easier. Still, its hard work being a good dad on a bad day.
The day actually started out pretty good. I sent the lady out the door with a few extra kisses. A nice big check showed up in my account this morning. Sonny boy and I were on schedule getting to the bus, which isn't always the case. I was feeling pretty good. With my extra couple dollars, I figured I'd open all the past due bills and spread the love. (There's mistake #1) Turns out the bills were just enough to shoot that big check to right to h.e.double hockey sticks. So now I'm just about back to broke. But, the bills are paid, so I'm still doing okay. Then I get a call from some publisher who wants to argue with me about my choice of publisher, simply because I didn't choose him. He goes on to tell me how I'll never get anywhere with this route and how if I'd only....... And so now I'm kinda mad. But, I've got a few bucks in my pocket and no food in the house, so its time for a trip to the store. While in the check out line I get one of those "Daddy, can you.." phone calls. Turns out my teenage daughter has locked herself out of her car at the gas station and needs my assistance. I of course get there when I can. Because I don't have one of those laser beam things they use on Star Trek, I apparently took too long to save her and got treated to a healthy dose of teenage girl attitude. Somehow I didn't realize that her locking her keys in her car was my fault. (There's mistake #2) Okay now I'm hot.
In my attempt to brighten my evening, I decided to go buy my lady friend a little something. Making someone else smile always seems to soothe the soul. I head to the jewelry store. (Mistake #3) It's been a while since I've had a girl to buy anything for, so I totally forgot what it's like being the broke guy in the jewelry store. They don't exactly treat you like royalty when you say, "I wanna buy something, but here's my budget."
So I'm winding down my night, angry, a bit frustrated, and all around tired. My son asks for some juice, which he always does just before bed. Normally he drinks it in the kitchen, because he's not permitted to drink juice in the living room. But tonight I'm so tired I don't bother to remind him of this rule. (Yup, mistake #4) Just as I'm checking emails and tending to loose ends, I here "Daddy, I kinda got some juice on my pajamas." Of course I knew what that meant. Some juice on the pajamas, the rest on the couch. I tried to contain my anger. I really did. I didn't yell. I didn't punish. I just cleaned him up and sent him to bed. But I guess the look I gave him was just a hair meaner than I meant it to be. When I got upstairs to read him his bedtime story, I found a pouting and sad little boy. "Daddy, I'm sorry for what I did downstairs. I'm really sorry." Sniffle, sniffle.
In that very second, I remembered that kids don't understand parents having a bad day. To them, everyday and every minute is about them. I was frustrated about my day. All he knew was that I was frustrated. He doesn't care that I'm broke. He doesn't know that the publisher, the jewelry store lady, and everyone in between got on my nerves today. All he knows is that I snapped at him for some juice. To him, I was being mean. To him, I was a little off. But dad's don't get to take the day off. There is no vacation from this job. I don't get to have a bad day.
I gave him a hug. I told him I was never mad at him. We read our story. All was well again. Luckily for me, I've got some great kids. That makes it a little easier. Still, its hard work being a good dad on a bad day.
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