I'm Thinking "Hippophant," Maybe.

So after a brief hiatus of a few years (long, angry story,) I am back to running the Drama Club, and putting on plays for local elementary schools.  It's a pain, and expensive, but I really do think it's the right thing to do, and I can't avoid it any more.  So now we're back, and we just finished the last performances of the year.

This year, we were actually able to film our performance, and when I watched it, I was horrified.  Not because you can't hear anything the kids are saying (PROJECT, GOD DAMN IT!) or the fact that one of the elementary kids in the audience sticks her head in the frame, constantly blotting out any character who is stage left, rather it was because of the intro.

For every show, I come out in front of the curtain and warm up the audience and admonish them to be nice and quiet so they can hear and stuff, and I make the same corny jokes every time, but the kids seem to respond to it.  But I had never actually seen it on video.

Now, I know I'm fat, this is not a surprise to me, I mean I do own mirrors.  But seeing myself on the video was just horrifying.  As I may have mentioned once or twice, I am a kidney transplant recipient.  But the word "transplant" is not strictly accurate, as my old kidneys are still inside me, as is typical in these situations, as it is dangerous to remove them, and if they are not immediately threatening, they just leave them in there.  But because of my polycystic kidney disease, each of my old kidneys is the size of a 2-liter bottle of soda and comprised almost entirely of fluid-filled cysts (yeah, it's gonna be that kind of post, today.)  These pointless behemoths push all my guts out and forward, so that even when I lose weight (about ten pounds, thanks for asking!) I'm still largely spherical about the midsection, giving me the "Disney comic relief character" variety of fatness.  But my new kidney (thanks again, Dave!) is on my right side, and it too is pushed out by the twins, so I have a noticeable bulge in my gut on that side.

Standing on that elementary school stage, with the microphone stand dividing me down the middle, it really threw my bilateral asymmetry into sharp relief.  On one side, I've just got this round gut, but on the other side, it looks as if my stomach is making a break for it, heaving itself over my belt in a mad dash for freedom.  I look like the worst possible Frankenstein/hybrid thing, like a mad scientist sewed half of a fat guy to another, even fatter guy.  And then added a beard.

So that's my new weight loss goal: I want to lose enough fat from between my organs so that my shiny new kidney does not make me look like I'm budding.  I'm never going to have a beach-ready body (the best I can hope for is not to look like a beached body,) nor will I ever look "good."  I've made my peace with this. 

All I want is to look like a human, instead of needing my own separate entry in the Monster Manual next to the griffon or the owlbear.

Catharsis: Now available in a worksheet

So I have not had the best day.


Some days the sheer volume of toxic emotional effluvium that high school students produce can overwhelm one's sense of chill.


Today I was beset by rampant assholery both within and without my classroom.  My room is right off the courtyard, in an inadequately patrolled region.  Being so poorly monitored, the ravening hordes descend upon this area in order to engage in their simian behavior far from the eyes of administration.  As far as I can surmise, a cult has sprung up within this population solely dedicated to disrupting my 11th grade English class, and I honestly don't think I have ever brought more joy into anyone's life than I provide to the adherents of this malign faith.


The little pricks INSIDE my class are another post...


Well today, as I was again the impotent, star-less sheriff of the new wild west, I lost some of my fabled cool, and found myself becoming flappable.  But I persevered, and showed due restraint.


I didn't use the word "motherfucker" even once.


But time moves on, and I continued my day with only the merest of facial ticks and the sound of the ocean pounding in my ears (tingling arms are usual in such situations, right?)  And so I had no choice but to get to work with the rest of my teacher stuff.  This included making my vocabulary worksheets, which I use with my weekly SAT vocabulary notes, using the new format of the redone SAT.  But I was in a bit of a state, as I said before, so it is possible this oozed out ever so slightly in my usual format of creating a story using all ten of that week's words in context.


Either way, I felt a good bit better when it was finished, and now present this lesson for your own educational edification.


Enjoy!




Vocabulary Unit 5 Worksheet


                                   Bellicose                          Obsequious
                                   Critical                             Placid
                                   Dismay                            Quizzical
                                   Exultant                           Undermine
                                   Hollow                             Wanton

 

            Some days it can be really hard being a high school teacher.  You watch all those movies where a young teacher starts working at some school in a lower socio-economic neighborhood, and through sheer force of will and determination, the protagonist is able to win the hearts and minds of the students in the end, and when the big test they’ve been working on rolls around, the kids do amazing, and our hero is ____________ with their joyous victory over those who were ready to write these kids off.

            But it’s not that easy.  New teachers have to learn to deal with a wide array of challenges.  Pointless meetings, needless extra duties, and humiliating reviews rob you of the time you need to plan lessons.  This is made even worse by the fact that these wastes of time are only there to serve the needs of ____________ county officials who only attained those positions through flattery and sickening simpering.

            But such things are found in nearly any job.  The unique challenge comes from the students themselves.  It can be tough to face nothing but ____________ looks when you ask the students a question about what you just taught them a week, a day, or even five minutes ago.  Many are outright ____________, and will argue with you at every opportunity.  They will challenge everything you say in order to try to ____________ your authority, not to mention your very sanity.  Others turn their aggressive tendencies towards inanimate objects, causing ____________ destruction wherever they go; trashing bathrooms, hallways, and classrooms in their campaign of mindless ruin.

            This will threaten to crush your spirit, but you cannot give in to ____________; you must keep your spirits up and smile.  You must always appear to be completely ____________ in whatever you do.  This ability is ____________; if you cannot do so, you will be destroyed.

            And that great victory at the end of the year?  After all you have given of yourself, locked in a constant war against apathy, you may just find that victory to be  ____________, and you ask yourself if it was even worth it all.  And every year, you have to tell yourself that the answer is yes.

To A Teacher Retiring Old

I realize it's been... let's say more than a little while since I've posted, but I swear, I've got a really good reason which I've been working on, and once I've finished coming up with it, You'll see.

But the point is, that during that absence, only one person actually asked about my blog.  One person actually reads my diatribes and derives some degree of joy out of them.  Which means that only one person has really been encouraging me, and making me believe that there is some reason to continue.

That individual is my department head, Brenda.  She has been my superior (inasmuch as one such as I can have such a thing,) at school for the last seventeen years, and was instrumental in making my (sadly no longer extant) Mythology class happen.  She has been a guiding force in my career and I have learned more from here than I can describe (I actually could, but I don't want to, because that would take a while.)

But now she is retiring.  After (30? 40? I have no idea how long she has been there, I just assumed they built the place around her,) years, she is leaving the teaching profession to... I dunno, paint flowers?  I have no idea what people do when they stop teaching, I just assumed I was going to die in class one day (probably fifth hour.)

So it seems only fitting that I honor her illustrious career (teachers can have those, right?) I would make a new post in her honor (note to self: don't use honor twice, fix that in editing later.)

But I'm not good at sappy tribute posts, so how best to not suck at this?  Then I remembered that I'm really good at taking a better writer's work and adding a bunch of goofy shit to it so that I sound all smart and shit (note to self: don't use shit twice.)  (Second note to self: maybe don't use shit at all?  Maybe buy a thesaurus?)

So I was reminded of the moving words of A.E. Housman's poem "To an Athlete Dying Young" and thought I could just rip that off.  That would be classy as balls! (Note to self: you might not be as good at this as you thought.)  So here is my attempt at a classy tribute.  Without balls.

When Fridays came, those first few years,
You drove home tired, weak, in tears.
Dreading Mondays, wracked by stress,
How you survived was anyone's guess.

Today we ring the final bell,
Your tenure ending with its knell.
Chairs on desks, cabinets locked,
Home you'll go, alarms unclocked.

Smart lass to slip betimes away,
From overcrowded dank hallway,
And photocopiers that jam and freeze
Can cause no stress for those at peace.

Hands that have their red pens capped,
Round student necks dream not being wrapped.
And feet whose pacing days now pass,
No longer twitch toward laggard ass.

Now you will not see the legions,
Whose certificates merely show completion,
Students whom the system failed,
By E2020 their losses veiled.

So remember, ere the echoes fade,
Each poorly-grammared accolade.
Recall each student whose unsure future
You did your level best to nurture

And to your name will cling those masses,
Who learned so much within your classes,
Remembering each lesson and story,
They learned because of Mrs. Corey.


Happy Retirement, Boss.

Golden Time

I've taken a bit of flak from people about the things I have posted here on my blog in regards to my son, vis a vis his mental faculties.  Whenever I joke about my concerns about Arthur's slower development rate when compared to his sister (especially regarding reading,) people warn me that one day he will read these things and his feelings will be hurt.

I say that hurt feelings are a small price to pay to get to the day when he actually can read my comments.

Look, I know he has to develop at his own speed, and he has shown progress of late.  But I'm just impatient.  I joke about being afraid that he is just a dim kid, but the only reason I'm comfortable making such jokes is that I know he isn't.  If you spend time with Arthur, you will quickly see that he is quite sharp, and his mental acuity has never been called into question.

My son is no dummy, and grasps concepts quickly.  When he really wants to learn something, he picks it up easily, but he's stubborn (pretty sure he gets that from his mother.)  He fights us tooth and nail when we try to teach him to read, and resists all our attempts to help him.  He's fine with letters, and has an ever-expanding collection of sight words, but he doesn't want to put in the effort to sound things out, and prefers to have people just tell him what the words are because he's lazy (again, has to be from his mom.)

And it's frustrating.  I so badly want to share the joy and wonder of reading with him, and I know he will love being able to read for himself.  He's got this big old brain that is constantly working, but whenever we sit down to do reading practice, he sits there with a goofy grin and intentionally fools around and get things wrong to get a reaction (definitely from his mom.)

Of course all of this is normal.  As someone who grew up hearing parents and teachers go on about blah blah potential, blah blah blah effort, blah blah blah wasting opportunities, blah blah blah no future, I truly get that you have to give kids their own time to do what they are going to do.

I know this.

Buuuuut...

I want it now.  I want him to live up to what he can do now.  I don't want to wait, I want time to move according to my schedule.

But being a parent is largely defined by being subject to the whims of time.  When you have children, time is always moving at the wrong speed for what is going on.  Everyone talks about how fast time goes by, saying 'if you blink, you'll miss it!'  And sure, when you look back, time can fly away from you in  rush of hazy memories, but while you are actually experiencing it, time can absolutely crawl.

Anyone who has ever had to potty-train a child understands this phenomenon.  What seems like such a natural, obvious process; "don't shit there, shit here!" and should be a brief transition period of a few weeks of work, drags on and on for what feels like an ice age.  And then come the inevitable relapses that bring on a sense of futility (in addition to extra laundry.)  If you want to experience eternity, try potty training for a week and then loop that experience.

It's like that with tons of skills that kids have to learn.  You know they are smart enough to get it, but their little brains sometimes need far more instruction and repetition than it seems should be necessary.  And you can't rush them, you just have to be patient and move at their speed.  But boy, will you wish you could fast forward through a lot of those times.

Even after they pick up how to do something, many kids will do their very best to make time dilate into infinity by performing tasks with all the headlong rush of a glacier climbing a staircase.

After an epoch of teaching our daughter how to tie shoes, she is now a total pro.  And if she's putting on her shoes to go play outside she's like a freaking Nascar pit crew.  But what's that?  Mommy and Daddy are running late and we need to get out the door quickly?  Cue up the oboes and bassoon on the soundtrack, because suddenly tying her shoes has become like a session low-impact tai chi in an osteoporosis ward, and her fingers can't move through the kata slowly and methodically enough.

98% of my son's actions throughout the waking day involve running with the speed and intensity of focus of a cheetah who's just seen a gazelle trip.  But once he determines that his parents have any actual destination and timetable, he goes from hare to tortoise fast enough to need anti-lock brakes.  Suddenly every rock, leaf or cloud is endlessly fascinating, and demands careful scrutiny that would do Natty Bumpo proud.

At dinner, when I set down his plate, he gulps his food down like the Sarlacc, so that I barely have a moment to take a bite of my own dinner before he's demanding seconds.  But mornings?  When we have to get going?  Well now each food must be chewed thoroughly according to the National Institute of Health guidelines.  Suddenly he must pick through his food as if he's looking for Wonka's golden ticket.  And I have never seen a boy who feels the need to put a cup of apple juice up to his lips and FAKE THAT HE IS DRINKING!  I swear, it's like he's a teamster on golden time or something.

It seems that children universally lack any respect for the concept of finite time, and do everything as if they have all the time in the world.  That is because for them, it basically is.  For a four year old, time doesn't even register as scarce commodity.  Their origin is a hazy mist of impressions and their future is an ever-changing whirlpool of possibility.

And that's all well and good for kids, but parents have things to do, places to go, and deadlines to meet.  We have responsibilities and schedules and stress, and we just don't have the time for lollygagging, woolgathering, or any other such tomfoolery (today's word selection is brought to you by Old Crankypants Brand liniment tonic, now available in wintergreen!)

Parents need to get kids ready for school, get to work, pick up kids from school, get them fed, bathed, homeworked and pajama-ed so that they can get them to sleep early enough to do all the other crap they need to do.  And if kids insist on moving at a snail's pace, this throws a monkey wrench into the orderly works of the daily grind.

Children don't realize how valuable time is, and so they need to learn to move, work, eat, and develop skills faster.

But then again, while time is a one-way street, it is also a double-edged sword.

It may take an eternity of long slow hours in the bathroom for a child to use the potty seat, but eternity gets a lot faster once they learn to drive.  And you may find yourself regretting all those times you admonished your child to hurry up and eat once they are bolting down their dinner to hurry out the door  to hang out with their friends.  And that wearisome tugging on your child's hand in order to get them to keep up with you as you walk becomes a much heavier pulling on your heart when watching their back recede in the distance as they take off down the road to their own destiny, leaving you clutching nothing but hope and memories.

And for some parents...

Some parents must bear the burden of wanting every one of those wasted seconds back.  Must sit helplessly by a hospital bed begging for more time, hoping for one more day for the treatment to take hold, one more hour together to say all that needs to be said, one more minute for them to open their eyes just to say goodbye.

For some parents, there is no such thing as wasted time.

So you know what Arthur?  You take your own time learning to read.  I'll wait as long as you need.
You take all the time in the world, buddy.

Destructive Criticism

I was actually doing pretty well.  It was a beautiful cold day (in the 40's in the morning, a rare treat for South Florida,) I was early into school and got a good parking spot, I had all my photocopies ready to go, and everything seemed five by five.

I had told my Senior English classes that I would be giving them their big writing assignment today.  I had been talking about it for the last two weeks or so, as we finished reading Hamlet.  So they knew it was coming, and they were to pick up the packet describing the assignment as they completed their final tests.  It was all so simple and organized.

And then Sharcayla happened.

That's not her real name of course, it's just the closest I can come to her actual name without being unprofessional.  Perhaps I should take a moment to describe this individual before discussing the incident.

Sharcayla is one of those kids whose name is well known at school.  Hers is a name that comes up in the planning room on a regular basis, especially at the beginning of the year, where you will hear someone say "you have THAT kid?  Good luck!"  She is the type of kid who usually has a different list of teachers at the end of the year than she had at the beginning, as guidance and administration often have to move her from class to class due to problems with other students or teachers.  Her name popped up on the suspension lists with regularity in past years, usually for fighting.  She is one of those girls I've discussed before, a girl who lives every moment of her life with her back in a corner, every interaction with people (especially adults,) is a confrontation, every relationship an adversarial one.

And her face.  She has a permanent case of what can only be described as 'stank-face.'  Seriously, at any given moment when she is in my classroom, her face is contorted in a look of abject disgust and effrontery as if someone had just shoved an offensive political tract made of dog shit and rotten cabbage right under her nose.  She is perpetually repulsed and incensed at whatever is presented to her, be it a weekly vocabulary quiz or a hearty "good morning."  As far as I can tell, her only other face is highly expressive rolling of her eyes and neck, meant to convey her utter contempt and dismissal of the source of her initial stank face reaction.

When I saw that I would be graced with Sharcayla's presence this year, I was assured that she had improved with age, and as a senior, was ready to put all her ratchetude behind her and graduate with her class.  And true enough, she passed the first semester with...well she passed, and that is all that matters.

But every week, every class day, I give them work and get a double dose of the standard stank-face/eye roll combo, and I just have to shake my head and roll with it, because that's Sharcayla, and what are you going to do?

Today however I could not.

The big writing assignment (the approach of which, I remind you, had been presaged by portents and harbingers, in the form of me repeatedly fucking telling them,) has to do with Hamlet.  Now, I have not taught Hamlet in over ten years, since it has been that long since I have taught honors level English, and Macbeth has been the prescribed Shakespearean play for regular Seniors in all those years (which I adore.)

But with our new textbook (vileness and hatred!) Hamlet is back on the menu.  But that means I don't have any assignments on file that I like (I need to constantly update my stuff, and I can't abide using someone else's materials.)  So I've been making all new quizzes and such, and I wanted to come up with a really good writing assignment, one that would challenge them, but was still something they could do.  I sort of have to aim at the center of mass when it comes to ability level; these kids are not the best at self-motivation, and years of standardized test prep have mauled their sense of wonder and intellectual curiosity.

Nobody does literary research papers anymore.  Most kids at some point or another will write a paper on some topic (why dress codes are bad!) and have to bring in some evidence from the internet (there is literally no other source for information than the internet.  Accept that.)  But I feel that there are some valuable skills involved with analyzing a work of fiction to provide evidence for a claim.  But I can't expect my kids to be able to do an old fashioned research paper with citations, resources or literary criticisms and such.  And yes, that does make me sad and demoralized to commit that to writing, and I'm going to need a minute to myself.

Okay, so I decided to do a literary research essay.  I called it that because I couldn't bring myself to call it a research paper.  It was very basic; I gave them a number of questions, such as "did Horatio actually help Hamlet in the long run?" which they could answer, thus forming a thesis statement.  Then they had to give three (the magic number) reasons to support their thesis, and cite where in the story they obtained their evidence (act and scene, not even line numbers or anything.)

I thought this was a pretty straightforward assignment, and wrote exhaustive directions to explain it in as much detail as possible, so that even after I explained it in person, if they had questions outside of class, they could read the directions.  There was a planning sheet attached to it, and a clear description of how grading would be assigned.  The work was not too demanding, but still covered the all-important skill of drawing support from a work of fiction.  I was actually rather proud of this assignment.

"This is bullshit!"

And with that, I utterly lost my composure.  I had just started to go over the packet with them, and had gotten as far as "you will be writing a research essay..." when Sharcayla felt the need to make that comment.  She didn't shout it; she simply said it in a conversational tone, accompanied by one of her finest shit-sniffing sneers.

And it was just too much for me.  I mean, I should have just let her vulgar insult and dismissal of everything I value slide, because that is what a teacher is supposed to do today.  I was supposed to abandon any trace of personal or professional pride whatsoever and just say to myself "boy, I need to work a lot harder to reach this student, who is just as valuable and capable as any of the other students!"

But what I instead thought was: "fuck this little bitch!"  I know I am supposed to see these burgeoning adults as precious little snowflakes, but here was an eighteen-year-old pile of smug anger and self-assured entitlement taking a public dump over everything I was trying to do for her.  And it was too much.  I just wanted to slap the stank right off her face and tell her exactly what I thought of her and what she could do with her opinions on my assignment.

To quote Mike Birbiglia, "what I should have said was nothing."  I did not scream or rant, but I could not restrain myself from raising my eyebrows and saying "I'm sorry Sharcayla, you feel that writing an essay in Senior English class is bullshit?"

This was a mistake.  I knew it was a mistake before I said it, but my (genteel) berserker rage just took over.  Because you can't engage a girl like Sharcayla.  She has nothing to lose, and will never, CAN never back down.  As soon as I bothered to try to talk to her, there was no other possible scenario, and she simply slipped into a well-worn groove.

She raised her voice and dialed her 'I don't give a shit' attitude to maximum.  She just sat there with arms folded, her chin jutting out and her upper lip curled up like a Disney villain intoning "I don't care" to everything I said.

My fit passed quickly, the anger I felt at her outburst replaced by a crushing wave of sadness.  Sadness at the futility of it all.  Sadness that I had lost my temper, no matter how reservedly.  And sadness that this was just the way it is, and the way it will continue to be.

Kids like Sharcayla are a fact of life.  Much could be said about the many factors that produce such an individual, and scaffolds could be erected for the nature vs nurture debates that could arise from such a discussion, but none of that matters in the least.

The bottom line is that there is a person in my class who has an epic-level case of lousy attitude, and I'm not going to fix that.  Officially, no child is supposed to be left behind.  But you try teaching high school.

You're not only going to find that some kids aren't just left behind, but they intentionally run backwards.  And some of them?

You're going to want to back the bus over them.

Sigh.  I know this all seems terribly maudlin of me (and perhaps more than a touch "somebody call the authorities" troubling,) but it's just part of the job.  No matter where you work, I'm sure you have encountered customers or coworkers that inspire thoughts that would make Mister Rogers very disappointed with you, but you learn to deal with them.

And that's what I am doing, too.  It is a constant, ongoing struggle to be better and better, and to smile when I want to scream, just like anyone else.  I have to focus on the kids that are actually here to learn, and who do not feel the need to challenge everything you do.

But teenagers, man.

Fuck that kid.

**Edit**

I wrote this post last night, but did not post it then.  So I am sitting in my classroom during planning this morning, and as I was about to hit the "post" button, another kid from that same class yesterday stopped by my room.  This is another student who is famous for having a lousy attitude, and who is in my class because I agreed to take her from a colleague who was convinced that she would be forced to murder this child if she remained in her class.

This student stopped in my class and said, "Mr. Crumpler, there was something I meant to say to you.  I felt so bad yesterday when Sharcayla said she thought your assignment was bullshit.  I mean, who says that?"

So there you go.  There are still kids who hold to some basic elements of decorum and decency, and it is they that I need to focus on.  And I think this is a better ending to this tale.

Still pissed though.

Twas The Last Week Of Exams...

Ugh.

People who know me know that I adore the holidays.  Christmastime is easily my favorite part of the year, and it has only gotten better since my kids showed up.  As a teacher, this week, when exams mean less time with whiny teenagers and the winter break looms, are especially enjoyable each year.

But not today.  This has been one of the worst mornings I've had in recent memory.  Yesterday, the day when I was supposed to be writing my exams and doing a dozen or so other important tasks at work, the ENTIRE FUCKING COUNTY lost the ability to use our computers to access email, get on the internet, get to our grades, or even pull up our files and documents (say, an exam you were writing.)  So I was not able to get done all the work I needed to do.  I tried writing as much of it as I could offline and at home, but I also needed to cook hash brown casserole for the English department brunch this morning.

So when I arrived at school this morning, I was extremely harried, desperate to finish my exam, which I had to give to my first class of the day at 10:30.  We got there by 7:30 a.m., and the brunch was at 9, so I had an hour and a half to get it all written, printed, proofed, reprinted and copied.

I ended up being late to the brunch, and when I walked in with my casserole (I'm not super proud of how it turned out,) the place was packed, every seat filled with chatting coworkers.

I immediately hated everything.

There was no good reason for it, all the stress just built up inside my and crystallized into a jagged shard of crankiness.  I set my casserole down, grabbed a quick plate of food without speaking to anyone and left without a word.

I retreated to my room to seethe at the universe.  I wasn't mad at anyone (well, maybe at whomever screwed up the network yesterday,) I simply felt overwhelmed with mean, angry feelings, like I had transformed into the Incredible Sulk.

I had straight-up lost the Christmas spirit.

I felt like I was ready to beat Cindy-Lou Who to death with Tiny Tim's crutch and burn down Oh Christmas Tree with a menorah (I believe in being inclusive.)  I was certainly no fit company.  But unfortunately, I HAD to go up to the plan room (where the brunch was a-brunching,) in order to make photocopies.

So I went back up, still in a humbuggy huff. I needed to make a key for my brand new exam (new textbook!  Yay!) so I actually retreated into the storage closet and sat upon a stack of copy paper boxes to take my own exam like a holiday gargoyle (the "I Hate Myself on the shelf?")

I took care of what I had to do, and made a few pleasantries and scuttled back to my hate-cave to stew in my anti-Christmas juices.

It would be great to say that I had an epiphany there.  It would be awesome to explain how I was visited by the ghosts of department gatherings past, present and future, or how an angel showed my what life would be like without me, or that some hydrocephalic child explained to me the real meaning of Christmas and my heart grew three sizes (much to the alarm of my cardiologist.)

But none of these very special episodes happened, and instead I was visited by hiccups.  Miserable, constant, painful fucking hiccups.  Someone up there was definitely pissing in my egg nog today.

I was a cantankerous old humbug with no trace of holiday joy in my wizened, blackened heart.  And I was struck by an overpowering sense of familiarity.  I had seen this story before, about a cantankerous bastard who turns his back on humanity is just a general hateful asshole.  Scrooge?  Nah, poorer than that.  The Grinch?  Noooo, this story lacked meter.  Old Man Potter?  Hmm.. not in black and white.

Then it hit me; I knew what miserable cuss I was acting like:

I was acting like me in the 90's.

For those who may never have met that asshole, let me tell you he was the absolute worst.  I fucking hate that guy, and if I ever got the chance to pay him back for all the grief he has caused me, I would kick his smirking ass up one side of the street and then probably stop because that sounds exhausting.

But I got rid of him!  I exiled him to the phantom zone, sealed him away with the elder sign, and tore up the recipe for the elixir I drank to transform into him.

In a panic, I rushed to check a mirror.  Sure enough, my fuzzy dome had sprouted greasy hair that formed itself into a comb-over.  A beat-up black Ghost Rider T-shirt had wrapped itself around my torso, and a faded black trench coat began unfurling down my back.

He was returning.

I rushed home to hug my children.  That failed utterly, because they are in what is colloquially known as a 'testing phase.’  Normally that is fine, as we are a science-friendly household, and testing is part of learning.  But since the current test seems to be along the lines of ‘what exactly do I have to do to force my father to murder me?’ it’s not exactly good for what ails me.

I was fading fast, going code blue (or red and green as is contextually appropriate,) and in need of some holiday cheer, stat.  Any minute now, I was going to run screaming into the night, black coat flapping, hijack a VW beetle and start blasting Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill at full volume.  Something had to be done.

So I started writing this.

You see, that was the worst part about that guy; he never actually did anything.  He whinged about his problems to anyone who would listen, but he lacked a proper outlet, a means to channel that whining into something worth reading.

That guy needed a blog, so he could whine on the internet, where that kind of self-aggrandizing behavior is seen as normal.  So I wrote, I found humor in those infinitesimal tragedies that compose real life like molecules of everyday misery.  And I sent him away.

Christmas spirit restored.  Returning to DEFCON 2.  But I heard him sneer, as he slouched out of sight; “Merry Christmas to all, and I’ll be back New Year’s Night!”

A Leg Up, So To Speak

Life isn't fair.

We are not all dealt the same hand at birth, and with each new deal, some of us just get handed better cards; it's simply the luck of the draw.  And I for one have been exceedingly lucky in this game, all things considered.

Like most of you reading this, I had the extreme good fortune not to be born with Down syndrome, or any form of mental retardation.  I was spared the pain of cystic fibrosis, or juvenile diabetes, or any congenital heart defects.  All of my organs functioned as they were supposed to do (with two notable exceptions...#organshaming.)  Growing up, I did not require breathing tubes, daily injections, special leg braces (those came much later,) a rigid support to correct a spinal disorder, a helmet to correct a skull defect, or a plastic bubble to prevent me from suffering a fatal allergic reaction.  I was able to go outside, run and play with my friends, and never had to schedule my activities around medications or treatments.  I never had to have awkward and repetitive conversations with my peers about the unusual medical equipment that was always with me, or to explain why part of me 'looked funny.'   I got to swim without plugs in my ears, run without worrying about damaging my bones, and if I got a cut or a scrape, my mom just had to reach for a band-aid, not the telephone.

Likewise, I was lucky enough to be born in the first world.  Born in a country of unparalleled freedoms, where no one had to worry thatthe secret police would storm into my home because of the opinions my parents espoused.  Or where political unrest meant my street might become a war zone, threatening everyone who lived there with being caught in a deadly crossfire.  Or in an area where crime was so rampant that my parents would fear to send me out to play in broad daylight. Nor did I live in an area of crippling poverty, a victim of disintegrating infrastructure. No, I got to live in a functional democracy (I don't care what you cynics try to say, you should check out the rest of the world before you try to discredit our government,) with the freedoms of speech, religion and assembly guaranteed by the Bill of Rights.  I lived in a quiet, rural neighborhood within walking distance of close relatives who helped take care of me.  The streets were smoothly paved and well-lit at night, teachers, police and firefighters were all just 'people in my neighborhood,' and the water was safe to drink.

Child abuse was something I only heard about from after-school specials on the TV.  Like amoebic dysentery outbreaks and bread lines, it was something bad that happened to other kids, far away.  My home was not a 'broken' one, and I didn't have a single mom, a deadbeat dad, or an 'or legal guardian.'  Brothers and sisters were only available in the basic model, without any adjectival modifiers like half-, step-, or foster-.  I never had to lie to a police officer or bill collector on my parents' behalf, or learn to run when a signal was given.  I never had to worry about payday, when mommy or daddy would get drunk and beat me.  My parents never had to warn me about being alone with any of my aunts or uncles, or to never tell any of my cousins we had just bought a new appliance for fear that they would break in and steal it for drug money.  My parents loved me, my siblings loved me, and a whole tribe of family members on both sides loved me, and were always around to support and protect me.  When I did something well, I was praised and encouraged, and when I was punished, I always understood what I had done wrong, and knew not to do it again.  My parents had jobs, and taught me the value of a hard day's work.  I was lucky enough to be born to sober, intelligent people who read to me, made me do my homework, and encouraged me not only to go to college, but helped me pay for it when I got there.  They gave me the incomparable gift of language, and I never wanted for food or shelter.  And I was blessed enough to be raised by parents who instilled in me the Christian values of compassion, humility (well, they tried with that one at least,) and respect for the rights and dignity of all fellow humans, while still teaching me to keep an open mind about science, truth and rational thought, as well as accepting and respecting the rights of others to believe as they will.

There is nothing more humbling to me than to think of all the advantages that I was graced with, and that others were not.  The allotment of these advantages was in no way 'fair.'  I would not dream to have such hubris as to believe that all the things I was given at birth, handed to me as it were on a silver platter, were because I deserved them.  I no more believe that I was one of God's chosen elect than I would believe that the Norns had woven the skein of my life with golden thread.

It was dumb luck.

Plenty of people are born with much more potent advantages than I and subsequently went on to squander it all in ruinously self-destructive acts of stupidity.  While others were born with the merest fraction of the starting benefits I had, but nonetheless went on to perform feats that shame my own paltry catalog of successes and good deeds.  To try and find reason in why he got and she didn't is to court madness.  To quote the rapper Everlast: "you know where it ends, yo it usually depends on where you start."

I can't compare myself to anyone else, nor my road to theirs.  All I can do is keep my eyes on my own, both behind and in front, to better navigate my own route.  But it would be folly to ignore all the things that helped me along this road, all the people and events that helped guide me, provided me with directions or a steadying hand, or who flat out carried me over the rough parts.  Because as proud as I am of how far I've come, I know I didn't do it all alone.  I had plenty of benefits, advantages and blessings along the way.  I consider every single one of those factors in my background to be privileges.  Because that's what they are: privileges.

So why is it that the only one I'm supposed to acknowledge in public is that I am white?

Anyone who says being born white in America is not an advantage simply doesn't have eyes.  Of course being white has helped me, no rational person would disagree that being white eliminates a whole slew of potential pitfalls and obstacles at nearly every turn.  White privilege exists.

But to focus on that too much is deleterious in the long run.

Not to me, mind you.  Sure dismissing me or my accomplishments simply because I'm white is shitty, but it doesn't really hurt me, per se.  I mean, yeah, it's frustrating to have someone look at you and judge you as if they know everything about you and where you came from just because of the way you dress, or the music you listen to, and then write you off as a unique individual because of the color of you skin.  But they already have words for doing that to people, and I'm pretty sure I'm not the first guy to experience that from time to time, so I'm not going to whinge about little stuff like that.

But it hurts us all in the long run.  Because when you live in a society that has a serious problem with relations between people of different races (which we do,) and when there still exists inequity, injustice, and institutionalized discrimination (it's still a thing, y'all,) then the solution is not to point out the people who have more, it's about bringing everyone else to that level.

None of the great civil rights leaders made names for themselves (and helped bring about great advances for all people,) by taking about all the things that other people had.  They talked instead about how we should all be the same people.  Civil rights is human rights. and if you keep talking about 'white privilege' instead of 'not yet equally applied to everyone privilege,' all you're doing is denigrating people based on their race, and if that seems like a good plan to you, you may have missed the point.

What I'm saying is this:  there isn't supposed to be white privilege.  It's supposed to be everyone's privilege.  You shouldn't ascribe it to the white folks as if no one else is ever supposed to have it too, any more than you should blame white folks for having it.

I possess white privilege, but I am not my white privilege.  I am a man who has been extremely fortunate in this life.  I have had so many more advantages than many, and far less than some.  And whoever you are, and whether you feel you have had more or less than me, the only way we can possibly get along is if we judge each other by our actions, by what we do, not what we have.