Less Diagnosis, More Prayer

Lately it seems wherever I am the background noise consists of women discussing and analyzing their kids. I use the term “discussing” liberally, however, because it’s really a series of monologues that teeter-totter from one woman to the other; These women are never really interested in anyone else’s kid, but if they nod their head and say, “uh-huh, right, yeah” a couple of times, they know their turn will come. Of course most women think their kids are genius, but I’ve observed that many of these same women also believe their children are abnormal or frightfully screwed-up in one way or another. Apparently there are all sorts of indicators when you’re a child that reveal the numerous problems you will surely have in adulthood. For example, a mother can be sure her child will become obese in due time based on the shape of his ankles (this seems to be true even if he is the thinnest kid in his second grade class), if a pre-school boy is caught playing with his older sister’s dolls, his mother can be certain he’s a homo, and if a child, when prompted, refuses to sing her uncle the oh-so-cute song her mother heard her singing from her room only days before, she probably has some severe social anxiety disorder. The list goes on, but the point is made. If I had realized when I was a child that so many women spend their time noticing and discussing these things, I definitely would have had a mental breakdown at recess. The fact that these women don't have anything else to talk about is bad enough, but the more troubling aspect that I’ve gleaned from my mostly unintentional eves dropping is that these women are actually taking action on their observations. The kids are sent to counseling, given psychological exercises disguised as games, served Kool-Aid made with Splenda. One may contend that the fact these women care about their children and want the best for them is a positive thing, which is true (though their underlying motivations may be called into question), and I do realize there are valid reasons for some kids to get help, but I also know this: If I had been forced to go to therapy because I liked playing on my own more than with other kids or because I thought pieces of trash got sad if I threw them away, it's more likely I would have become an insecure heroin addict than a gregarious leader or whatever they thought I should be. I'd probably even be in therapy.

Blimey!

I began my decent down the middle of an empty public staircase. I had only progressed about two steps when a skinny guy in his twenties, wearing shaggy blond hair, dark jeans, and a soccer jacket began to ascend the middle of the staircase. Naturally I veered to my right in order to let him pass uninhibited. At the same time, however, he veered to his left. We were now on course for an awkward collision, so I quickly moved to my left as he strode confidently ahead. Who moves to their left to let someone pass?! Then I heard him answer his cell phone. He had a British accent. It all made sense.

Makeover: Complete

This is basically the same bike I posted a few months ago, but I stitched some leather onto some new handlebars, got a new saddle, new pedals, new wheels, and most importantly, a new paint job. One of my students paints cars, so he sprayed it for super cheap. It's holding up much better than the rattle can job I did the first time. Hopefully I don't crash it.

First Attempt

I tried painting with some acrylics.

Highlights From the Week(end)

If you can identify where this picture was taken, you know why it was easily the highlight of the week.

Returning a rented movie to the video store is not usually a highlight, but it is when the chore is completed on a bike, with a pipe, during an overcast morning.

A Most Splendid Date or Why One Nerd Needs Another Nerd

I used to think that people were lame for thinking it was important their potential spouse like similar music, film, books and what have you. As long as she loves the Lord and loves me, I thought, the other things are inconsequential. Well maybe they are to some extent, but I sure am glad I didn't get stuck with some philistine, because I'd miss out on amazing evenings like this.
We'd been looking forward to the release of Narrow Stairs for awhile so we decided to make it into a bit of an event. We drove to the record store with enthusiasm akin to that of a schoolboy on his birthday. We went out for dinner. We got in the car and headed for the longest stretch of open road I could find on Google maps. Jenny fed the disc to the car dash, pressed play and turned it up until the sound enveloped us like a down comforter. She kept her mouth shut, was absorbed in the moment, watched the sunset to her right, non-verbally appreciated the couple standing on the hill in a familiar embrace, squeezed my hand without looking at me, and analyzed every note and lyric without telling me she was analyzing every damn note and lyric. We had no destination in mind but it ended up being a bottle of fresh squeezed grapefruit juice, and that was enough. We wandered around and talked about what type of cabinets we should get for our new kitchen and where we should situate our prayer corner. Then we got in the car and headed home, taking in the album under a canopy of stars, airplanes, and telephone wires. The last note of the last song faded as I pulled into our parking space. And she got just as much pleasure out of that fact as I did. Yeah, we could still have a great marriage without taking turns reading a book to each other on the porch, riding bikes around the neighborhood, or going to concerts we are equally excited about. But when I think about the fact that I could have ended up with a girl who didn't derive pleasure from these things, who didn't reflect on passages of fiction or the bridges of songs, it makes me feel as though I've narrowly avoided a sea of quicksand. And that's why a nerd really should marry someone who is also a nerd.

To Depths Unknown

Whenever I grow tired of dealing with the attitudes and antics of my students I really should just assign a poem. They always connect me with the reality that surrounds me and force me to realize that I've lived a rather priveleged life. These are two of the standouts from the last batch. The first poem was written by a kid who was shot in the arm by a rival gang the weekend after he wrote this.

When I was younger in the hood I was a young buck,
One of the OG's gave me the mentality of not giving a fuck.
I grew up in a messed up home,
Not paying attention but inside I felt alone.
I used to always sit and wait for a letter to come in
Because my dad was always in and out of the pen.
I sit and think about my messed up life
Hoping one day I'll stop banging and get a beautiful wife.
I always used to wanna be like my dad,
Who knew when I came out I was twice as bad.
The life I chose probably wasn't for me,
But I live the gang bang life and I'm from ________ St.



"I Am From"
I am from the ghetto streets of LA,
from tagging and killing.
I am from a junky house with
roaches and spiders.
(big, juicy and creepy crawly)
I am from my parents not caring
when I needed changing.
That's what I remember.

I am from eating out the trash because
I didn't have enough food.
I'm from not making the same mistake
my parents made, drugs and poor lives.
I'm from a foster mom who did care
and fed me and bought me clothes.

I'm from eating rice, corn, bread, steak,
and a good loving family.
From winning track meets and being happy
and having good friends, to my foster mom
passing away, from still living a good life
and staying clean with a roof over my head.

I am from becoming nothing to something,
listening and learning how to become
who I am.