South Korea morns. South Korea cries. South Korea fears. South Korea waits to see what tomorrow brings.
North Korea tests nuclear weapons , firing six short-range missiles this week, and publicly tears up the truce which ended the Korean War and made a peaceful coexistence between Pyongyang and Seoul possible since 1953, stating, "We will no longer be bound by the armistice accord." "...the Korean peninsula will go back to a state of war..." "We will deal a merciless retaliatory blow at any attempt to stop, check, and inspect our vessels, regarding it a violation of our inviolable sovereignty."
Washington plays off the events of the East as "saber-rattling and bluster and threats." While stating, "We're certainly concerned and take any threat seriously..." and then the "BUT"
My children stand in the dead center of all this commotion.
My daughter lives and works in Icheon, Korea a short commute from Seoul, and my son is aboard the USS Boxer in waters between Singapore and Japan.
It's funny how life reminds you of the other side of things. Love may be a universal language, but so are hate and fear.
A leader, a good and strong leader, removed from his position for acts he may or may not have committed hates where his life has lead him and fears the future so much he steps from a mountain top, leaving his country to morn and ask questions they will find no answers to.
A country hates so much they risk not only the well-being of their perceived enemies, but their own as well, willing to declare war to protect their selves. But from what?
Or could it be more a love of power which motivates these leaders?
I wish I were wiser, but then again, no, for it seems to me wisdom comes with it's own price. Perhaps what I really wish for, sometimes, is a more clouded view.
I tried to express my concerns to my mother this morning over coffee, and though she is a very intelligent woman, one of the smartest people I know, she wanted to sweep these issues under the, "God will take care of your children, you just have to trust him." carpet.
When I reminded her that I trusted God to not allow my family to fall apart and it still did she said, "God had nothing to do with that, Pamela."
To which I said back, "He's either God or he isn't, Mom. He had something to do with that or he has nothing to do with my kids and Korea."
I was told to stop being difficult.
If by difficult she meant honest, well, okay, I can do that outwardly, but inside, I am scared. I am worried. I am angry.
The truth is this, God is in control and he still allows bad things to happen to good people and though he will be there to see us through whatever comes our way, God is not an insurance policy against hurt, loss, or pain.
And so I stand, looking towards the East, waiting to see what emerges.
The You Tube link is taken from a wonderful documentary from a forward-thinking Mark Johnson. Play for Change: Peace through Music.
I used to work a second job at Barnes and Nobel as a bookseller. There was a young man who would come into the store who loved books. He loved words, and writing, and there was always something just a little sad and lost about him, like the swan trying to fit into the world of ducklings. I don't know how often he came in before I became aware of him, could distinguish him from the other hundreds of customers who came up to my cash wrap on any given Saturday or Sunday. But, I will never forget the night he became Eric to me.
He had been given a gift card for his birthday, he was all of fourteen, turned that day. He was small for his age, all arms a legs. Light freckles across pale white skin, fair sandy hair, thick coke bottle lenses, voice not yet changed. He stood for a long time at the end of the cash wrap, sorting through his books, making what were clearly painful choices about which books to keep and which to put back. After making his choices he turned to replace the rejects back on the shelves from which he had taken them, thus endearing himself to me. Most would have simply left the books at the end of the cash wrap for me to put away.
He made his way back up to the register and placed his treasured books on the counter for me to ring up.
I already knew the answer to the mandated question, "Do you have a Barnes and Noble card to save ten percent tonight?"
"Oh, yes. This card saves me tons of money."
I rang up his books, bagged them, slid his discount card through the register, and then signaled for him to slide his gift card. Being the nosy person I am, I had already asked about the card and found his grandmother had bought it for him for his birthday. He blushed when I asked, "So when is your birthday?"
"Today."
"So you just couldn't wait even a day, huh? "
A deeper shade of red flushed across his cheeks, as he shrugged, "Well, ya know."
"Yes, sir, I surely do know. Books are my best friends too. Happy Birthday!"
We shared a chuckle and he allowed himself to make eye contact with me finally.
"Thanks."
"Ok, that leaves three dollars and forty cents."
His eyes flew to mine as a look of horror flashed across his face along with the deepest shade oh crimson I have seen on any living human.
"Um, well...I'm going to have to put one back. Are you sure, 'cause I did the math?"
"I think when you did the math you took the ten percent off but forgot to add back on the tax."
Though I didn't think it possible, his face grew an even deeper shade of red.
"Damn, I mean... um, damn."
"Hey, listen, you come in here a lot don't you?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, look, I have that much right here." I said, as I tipped my badge over to secure the money I always kept tucked there for just such cases, "Let me cover your tax. You can pay me back later if you remember and if not, we'll just call this a birthday present from me to you."
"No, you don't need to do that, honest."
"Yes, I do, honest. I know just how you feel. I love books too. it would destroy my day to have to put another one back. It's not a big deal. This happens all the time, it's why I keep this money tucked away. So? Come on, what do you say?"
"Thanks, I'll pay you back."
"Okay, if you do. Okay if you don't. No worries either way."
When I came to work the following Saturday, my boss handed me a bag. Inside the bag was the book Perks of a Wallflower, and a short note along with the three bucks and change.
Thanks for the books. Here's a good one from one book-lover to another.
Eric
I wasn't surprised by either the note or the book, though I was touched by both. I had been covering book-lover's taxes for a while and I almost always got paid back and usually there was a little something extra, though I never expected it, I had just come to trust the goodness of people.
Eric became a fixture at my cash wrap. He would come in on my days off and ask when I would be in next then show up at the start of my shift and follow me about talking books and life, school and philosophies. I challenged him to try different books and he threw the challenge right back at me, and so we each learned and grew from the other. Each of our lives opened a bit, expanded a tad.
Through the months I came to know him in a real way as book and philosophical talks began to bleed into real life. His life. We would talk about the wisdom of allowing government to legislate morality and end up talking about his rejection and hurt. His talks about the pain of the protagonist from his latest novel would soon lend themselves to talks about his own personal pain.
As I put away books left carelessly behind, I also picked up bits and parts about this young man, a boy really. His aloness was palpable. He spent most of his Friday and Saturday nights following me about the aisles of the B&N.
I watched him turn fifteen, and then sixteen. Slowly through those years a group of friends started to join him. First two girls, dressed all in black, with Emoness oozing from their pores. I watched as his too-high-waisted dark blue-jeans became faded black, knee torn, silver studded belted jeans and his polo shirts became dark torn t-shirts sporting some dark and I'm sure meaningful to someone saying. Soon three other boys joined the group as they made their weekend visits to the bookstore and coffee shop. The one thing that never changed were our talks.
He would leave his friends in the attached Starbucks to follow me for a bit and talk about this book or that article in the paper, or this current affair and what did I think? Or was I aware?
Towards the end of my time at the Barnes and Noble he came into the store alone and antsy. I didn't know what was up, but within five minutes of his entrance it was clear something had happened--something big. It was a fairly busy Saturday night and he came to the cash wrap several times to try and say something that he never was able to start before a customer would come needing to pay for their books.
I could finally take his discomfort no longer and suggested we have a talk outside when I went on break in half-an-hour. I told him I would meet him at the far east steps. He agreed and left the store.
I was surprised to find him waiting at the door when I came through. His nerves were contagious, and I found myself becoming jittery. It took him several false starts to tell me what I had long suspected.
"Well, you see, the thing is... Well, there is someone I want you to meet. He's really important to me."
He led me to a forty-something looking man who put his arms around Eric and gave him a snugly hug reserved for ones most intimates.
I was keenly aware of Eric's studying of my face, though pretending to be casual. I was being watched very closely, ever eye flicker, every scrunch of the forehead. His eyes were pleading with me to not let him down, to please, understand. It was difficult to control my face for I was very disturbed by the age difference between this boy and what I perceived to be a dirty old man, and in all fairness would have been equally horrified had Eric been a girl, but I knew the way I reacted would be a deal breaker for Eric. He was coming out of the closet and he would perceive any negative reaction on my part as disapproval and would forever close the door on any influence I may have earned through the years.
"I want you to meet Tim. He's my boyfriend."
My brain scrambled for something safe to say, any safe reaction to buy me time to process this situation. I offered my hand to Tim and asked how they had met, meaning, "What in the world can you have in common enough with this young boy to justify sleeping with him."
"He works at Borders." Was Eric's quick response. Tim stood by silently letting this boy do his fighting and talking.
Lucky, Eric's answer offered me the escape I sought.
"So, let me get this straight, you've been cheating on me with Borders?"
The relief felt by all was tangible. Mine, for being spared a tough choice between being honest and alienating a young man who needed trusted adult counsel or lying and there by being a part of something damaging to this boy I had come to care for. His for having been proven right in trusting me. For not having been rejected and let down. Tim's for simply not being called on poor behavior and spared the discomfort of my judgments.
In the weeks that followed, Eric talked about the difficult days he was facing. He had been raised in the church by very firmly religious parents and though they loved Eric and were doing their best to accept him, accept this difficult news, for it had to be difficult, they were not completely accepting. They tried to talk him out of his feelings, and I have to say, I'm not sure I could or would have done much better were he my child, though the age gap between his first chosen lover and the youngness of his years would come into play more soundly than the fact that his first lover was a man,though that would be something I would have to work through and come to terms with as well.
Many of Eric's friends turned on him, they were, after all, raised in the church along side Eric, but his core group, the ones who came each week with him remained steadfast, if somewhat perplexed.
Eric faced difficult days at school as he came out in the grandest of styles, tapping into some stereotypes and waving them about him like a rainbowed flag.
Too often I wanted to ask him to be more subtle so he could be spared the hurt, but this was his road and he had to decide where and how to step.
I only got to spend a few more weeks with Eric before life forced me to quit the bookstore with only a days notice.
I haven't seen Eric in over four years. I have thought about him often and wondered how he was. Hoped he had found peace and happiness.
Today, I found a friends request waiting for me from Eric. I was stunned. I haven't a clue how he found me. I don't think I had ever shared my last name with him. I was just Pamela from the B&N, but found me he did.
I accepted Eric's request and gave him my number. Within ten minutes of responding my phone rang.
He is now twenty. Lives in Italy and speaks the language fluently. He wants to be a linguistics, and work as an interpreter. He is in a loving relationship with a young man his own age, and they are currently learning to speak Japanese, and plan to move to Japan to live. He is happy. Says his journey through accepting and dealing with his own sexuality has brought him closer to God.
He is smart, and sweet, and still full of insights and passion.
He expressed his dismay at my disappearance from his life, the void it left. He shared his darkest hours with me, where he knew who he was but before he was able or willing to show that person to the world. He spoke about finding strength in our talks. And then he completely stunned me and brought me to my knees.
He shared how he had waffled for many months between showing his true self and risking what felt like everything to him, or simply choosing to be no more. He said many of the conversations we had shared were his seeking his own answers, testing to see if perhaps I would/could accept him no matter what, and then deciding if I would maybe others could too.
The thing is, when brushing against the lives of others we don't know what impact we are making.
Eric is a reminder to me to be careful to leave a loving impression behind.
I am also astounded by the loving care of God the Father. Never have I been so intensely and intimately aware of the truthfulness of Romans 8:28 "for all things work together for the good of those who love the lord and are called according to his purpose."
Eric did two things today that impacted my life as surely and soundly as he claims I have his.
As mere humans we are rarely given a glimpse into the time frame of God's hand, but in sharing with me today, Eric showed me a tiny, tiny bit of his time line.
During my time with Eric I was watching a student of mine, a little four-year-old, struggle with his sexuality, as I have shared here in an earlier post, and because of Cooper I was struggling with my own ideals and beliefs and many of these personal conflicts worked their way into conversations with Eric. God used Cooper to challenge me and he used my conflict and growing awareness to comfort Eric, give voice to his own confusion. In watching me come to terms with my own wrong thinking, Eric found the security to find his own terms.
Now here is the truly amazing thing to me. Today Eric gave me some long sought answers. I am struggling within my relationship with God, wondering if he hasn't closed the door on me and left me for lost, and it has only been in the pass few months that I have even considered there could be grace enough for me, to cover even the sin of rebuking him. I would not have been opened to the idea before now. Eric told me how he has been looking for me, on and off, through these four years. It is not chance or circumstance that he only found me today. It is the hand of God, showing me his grace, showing me that even when I felt myself lost to him, beyond his grace, he was still using my life to touch the lives of others for him. I can feel the dawning of acceptance growing inside me today.
What a mighty and loving Father we have.
Today my heart breaks with love and gratitude, fully aware how undeserving I am of such love.
My children both find themselves in worlds other than the ones they grew up knowing, each are in countries in which they do not speak the native language, and yet each talks about the kindnesses bestowed upon them by others, and so it seems to me the important things transcend the bonds of culture and language.
My daughter lives in Incheon, Korea and is there teaching Korean jr. high school boys English, even as she herself struggles to learn Korean. She talks about the random acts of kindness bestowed upon her by those who recognize her as foreign. Little women running up to her on the streets holding their umbrella over her head so she will not get wet. Older gentlemen worrying when she calls in to work sick, insisting she come into work and sleep in the nurses office so they can keep a watch on her knowing she is alone without family. Offers to help her decipher notes left by the postman as to the whereabouts of her latest package.
Michael is in Dubai, United Arab Emirates and he tells of people helping guide him to his hotel using broken English and exaggerated hand gestures, offering to buy him a drink, thanking him for being "sailor man."
Little niceties, random acts of kindness, concern for a complete stranger, a foreigner even, these things exist in every country, in every culture, in every society, and so it seems to me love is the great common denominator.
Love is the universal language.
Concern for the well being of someone unknown to you is an act of pure love, for there is nothing in these acts for the other person, except the feeling of having done good, of knowing another's life is a little better, a little easier for having crossed yours.
As I struggle to make sense of my spiritual life, the one thing that has never been uncertain is this one fact. The key to everything is love.
I know there is room for more love inside myself. There are people I find difficult to deal with. They frustrate me and aggravate me, rub me the wrong way, and I understand it is a lack of love in me towards them that makes this true.
Love is the key to understanding, and understanding the key to love. They are, to my way of looking at things, opposite sides of the same coin, both necessary for the other's existence.
So the next time I feel my toes curl and my neck stiffen with irritation, I'm going to try to slow down and take a breath and listen, ask questions and really listen to what the other has to say. Listen with ears that want to understand. Put down my judgments and strive to understand.
Even as I type these words I already know this will be a battle I will lose more often than I win, but as with all things worthwhile and right, worth the effort all the same, and hopefully, in time, I will win more than I lose, will be able to stop and listen, will be able to look through eyes of love instead of judgment and listen with ears that truly want to hear.
Someone wise once said, "People need to know how much you care before they will ever care how much you know." Why would any of these people listen to my side of things if I don't care enough about theirs to at least listen to truly understand?
These two made me a mother and they hold my heart in very different ways, but the pride I feel for each is great and the admiration for the braveness of spirit in which they each live their life is, at times, overwhelming.
Michael came into this world almost two months early, kicking and screaming his rage at being taken from his warm cocoon so abruptly. He fought the machines as they helped him breath, he screamed with outrage as the doctors and nurses did those things necessary for his survival.
It's in the name, really, Michael was, after all, the archangel of war.
He cried and raged for three months, then one spring morning he woke as sunny as the day. It was as if a switch had been thrown. He was the happiest baby and toddler I've ever seen. I big grin always gracing is little face, but the tenacity of spirit he displayed at birth has always been a core part of who he is and it has both served him well, and worked against him.
Nothing has come easily for this boy of mine. He struggled with speech early on, uttering a language uniquely is own and only fully understood by his sister and I. School came hard for him as he struggled with three different learning disabilities, he grew up feeling less than and stupid, never realizing just how smart he really is. His dad and I separated when he was twelve and it fell on him extra hard and so he raged again, this time the raging would last six years, then, just as when he was a baby, a switch was thrown and he decided the road he was on ended nowhere and he wanted better, deserved better, and, just like that, he determined to change is life.
Today he is a high school graduate. He is free of all that once held him so tightly in its grip. He will, himself, become a father at the end of this month. He joined the Navy and scored the top marks on all his tests, thus proving what I have always know, and is this morning on a ship heading towards foreign lands, but more importantly, a bright and promising future.
Elizabeth has always been the girl sitting back quietly taking everything in. Nothing escapes her notice. Where her baby brother is charismatic and impulsive, she is introspective and disciplined. She lives her life with a strength that is deceptive in its quietness, for there is a rod of pure determination at her core.
Perceptive beyond her years from the time she was small, she has always dreamed of bigger worlds than the ones I've known and determined young she wanted a taste of the entire world, and found a way to get those things on her own and for herself.
She graduated in the top ten of her class of more than five hundred and won for herself a scholarship to PATTInstitute in Brooklyn, New York where she graduated top of her class with a writing degree.
These are wonderful things of which to be proud of a daughter, incredible accomplishments, but it is her spirit, displayed in an article she wrote for her school paper, of which I am most proud, an article that cost her a seat on the stage at her high school graduation, in which she stated,
"I am honored to be in the top ten academic, and even more honored to have been chosen as one of the top ten teacher picks, but I will not be attending the awards ceremonies or banquets, for studies come easily to me and I am fully aware of how much harder others, like my brother, struggle to make their C's than I will ever work for my A's. So, if you want to honor me, honor me because I am kind when it is easier to be cruel. Honor me because I stand up for what is right when no one around me will. Honor me for being willing to speak the hard truths and stay silent when it would be easier but less kind to speak my mind. For ten years from now, no one will remember nor care where I ranked in high school, but the courage to speak truths, to stand up for those who are no longer able to stand for their self, the ability to show kindness, these things will withstand the test of time."
She now lives in Korea where she teaches English as a second language, and just for the record, she is kind and she does stand up for those who stand in need. She has an incredibleability to see through the fog and go straight to the heart of people and situations and is brave enough, strong enough to tell the hard truths, even to herself about herself.
I stand amazed that two such incredible humans were ever a part of me. That I have anything whatever to do with such amazing people being here on planet Earth both astounds and humbles me.
I know on Mother's Day, it is the tradition to say thank you to our mothers, but it is I who am grateful to have had the privilege of being a part of my children's world. That I am allowed to be their mother simply amazes me.
I kissed my son goodbye today, watched him walk towards a plane bound for San Diego, where a helicopter waits to take him to his ship already on its way to Iraq.
Single hardest moment of my life.
It's funny, I am a writer, a lover of words, yet here in this space, in this moment, words fail me.
I love you, Son, am more proud of you than I can express so take care, my boy, and hurry home because a world without you is no world for me.
I've been having some health issues, and my son has been home on leave and using my car, so I asked my dad if he wouldn't mind taking me to my doctor's appointment yesterday.
My phone rings two hours prior to the appointment, dad, making sure I remembered I had the appointment and was getting ready. One-hour-and-a-half before my appointment dad calls again, just to make certain I am dressed and ready to go, and to strongly suggest we go ahead and head out now, just to be sure we arrive on time. I explained to him that from my house we were only fifteen minutes away from the doctor's office which was, at that point in the day, still closed, and since he was only five minutes away from me, I thought his leaving to come get me at seven-thirty would leave us more than enough time to make our eight o'clock appointment.
Not pleased with my lack of foresightedness, he begrudgingly agreed to my time-table but not before leaving me with this warning, "Fine, but I am not going to drive like a bat our of hell the way you do just to get you there on time."
"Yes, daddy, this bat out of hell hasn't had a ticket in over twenty years, but hey, I'm sure that is all about pure luck."
There were two more calls before the agreed upon pick-up time. One to make certain I had the money to pay the doctor, the other to alert me that he was on his way so I might want to go ahead and finish getting ready so we could leave as soon as he gets to me, you know, so we weren't late.
We pull into the doctor's parking lot and dad begins to rapid-fire question me.
"What sort of doctor's office is this next to a donut shop?"
"Which car is the doctor's?"
"How long have you been seeing this guy? What's wrong with Dr. Collins, he's been taking care of Mom and me just fine all these years."
Once inside dad found a quiet corner to read his book while I signed in and payed cash for my visit, per the instructions on the sign beside the window. I took a seat next to dad's and before I could reach inside my purse for my book he asked, "What sort of doctor only takes cash? I don't trust the fellow, Pamela, I don't trust him at all."
While we waited there were comments about the big screen TV set blaring Lady and the Tramp through the surround sound holding the attention of two children waiting along with us, and observations made about the art choices gracing the walls. Speculations on the cost of all, and a sound verdict that my doctor had shite taste in art.
After being called back and seeing the doctor, I came out to find my father talking with the girl at the window. I don't know the content of the conversation, I only know it stopped abruptly when I came around the corner.
On the way home dad peppered me with opinions about my doctor, all taken in stride. He's been my dad for a long time, after all, I knew what I was getting into when I asked for his help.
This morning I woke to the insistent ringing of my phone. It was dad, informing me that I have a three o'clock appointment with Dr. Collins today which he and mom are paying for.
I forgot to ask if he had already called my boss to clear that time off with her. I wouldn't be surprised to find he has.
For all his pushiness, for all his rough exterior, for all his opinionated, insistent, interference, I wouldn't trade him for anything in the world, because the one thing I have known my entire life with absolute certainty, I am his daughter and I am well loved and much treasured.
It's me again. It's been a while since I've sat and talk with you. Been even longer since I've felt your warmth, heard your voice, known your presence.
Thing is God, I don't know if you are willing to forgive certain things. Don't know how much pain you will endure from us, your children, before you simply shut the door and say no more.
You show us Job, hold him as the light of a righteous man. When Satan came along you gave him leave to touch all Job held dear, and it was all taken from him, except a nagging wife, that did not escape my notice, and still Job stood firm. "I will take the good with the bad, I will still honor my Lord." He never cursed you. He never showed his doubt, because you see, I know he doubted. I know in the darkest hours he cried out to you, "Why me, Lord!" even if that part didn't make the final cut, the final edit, because the point of the story was, when everything was taken from Job, when you were all he had left, you prove yourself enough. You, alone, were enough.
Put no other God before me.
One of the top ten.
But you see, God, without knowing it, I did. I put my husband before you. I made him my God. My all in all. My El Elyon. And when he was taken away, my faith collapsed like the sand it was built upon.
When Satan came along, and took from me, I clung to you. I held on tight. I sought your answers. I claimed your promises, and then, after it was all said and done, after being willing to be anything you required me to be, my world still walked away, I turned on you, the rock who had sustained and with every cell in my being rebuked you. Said out loud, and meant with everything I was, had been, or would ever be, "I no longer believe in you, for if you are real you make no difference in the lives of your people so what good are you."
So here I stand God, wondering, is there forgiveness enough--grace enough-- for even me?
Truly disassociating oneself from beliefs taught from birth is a difficult and confusing process. I was raised to believe homosexuality was a choice and a sin. The same church which taught me to love others and treat them the way I wanted to be treated, also taught me to avoid and reject anyone choosing a same-sex partner. It was perplexing and I could find no justification for placing my sin on a higher moral ground than anyone else's, so I refused to reject others based on their sexuality, still in the dark recesses of my mind thrived the idea that homosexuality was a choice and a sin. Thus, I was able to deceive myself for many years believing myself to be better than my sign toting, gay bashing counterparts, never recognizing the arrogance of judging another's life sinful -- until I met Cooper.
He was four-years-old with dirty blond hair, cut in a chili-bowl style, always seeming to be in need of a trim, giant blue-gray eyes filled with spirit and an intelligence every teacher wishes for each of her students. From his dough-boy fingers sprang such detailed pictures of cowboys on horses and princesses in ball gowns they put the stick figures and scribblings of the other students to shame. Full of questions and quirky insights, this bright and funny little boy quickly endeared himself to my heart. But something beneath the surface of his sunny demeanor began to slowly unfold along with the school year. I first got a glimpse of its dark underbelly three weeks into the school year.
It was picture day and Cooper came through the classroom door dressed like a little gentleman. When told how handsome he looked he expressed disgust for the cute sweater set and bow tie his mother sent him to school in. He spent the morning looking longingly at the frills and bows being paraded by the girls. An hour before it was time to have our pictures taken I realized Cooper had been in the bathroom an unusually long time. Knocking lightly, I asked if I could come in and when Cooper opened the door it was clear he had been crying. Alarmed, I bent to scoop him up and comfort him.
“Hey buddy, what’s this all about?”
Cooper didn’t cry easily. He was tough. Only yesterday I’d seen him slammed to the ground with such force it sent me scurrying to help, but before I was halfway to him, he had jumped up, brushed the dirt from his shirt, and taken off in pursuit of whoever he had been chasing.
“Boys can’t wear dresses, can they?” he sobbed.
“Well, I suppose they could if they really wanted to, why?”
“My mommy says they can’t. Boys wear pants and girls wear dresses, but girls wear pants too, don’t they?”
“Well, Cooper, I’ll have to give that some thought.” I said, side-stepping his question, “So you’re upset because you don’t like your clothes today?”
Wiping his cheeks dry with his chubby baby-fist, he nodded yes, never moving his gaze from his tan Buster Browns.
“How about I make you a deal? Right after pictures we’ll come back here and you can change into your shorts. You have a change of clothes in your bag, don’t you?”
Heaving a shaky sigh he again nodded, this time glancing at me from the corner of his eye.
“Well, I’ll let you be the first to change, then I’ll help you make the coolest hat in the class. We’ll make yours first, now, how does that sound?”
His eyes shot directly at mine, and my efforts to cheer him were finally rewarded with a genuine smile of pleasure.
“I can make it any color I want?”
“Absolutely!”
As the school year moved from one month to the next, so did my conversations with Cooper, delving deeper and deeper, working their way to the heart of his discontentment.
One cool October day, Cooper was mixing red paint with white to make pink, the color we were learning to spell that month.
“Pink used to be my favorite color.”
“Yes, I know, Cooper, you love pink.”
“Mama says I can’t like pink anymore. I have to have a new favorite color.”
“Oh? Why?”
He slapped his brush into the center of a large white glob of paint and continued talking casually, relaying information as four-year-olds will, with no agenda or realization of the impact of his words on me.
“Pink’s a girl color.”
“I don’t think so, Cooper. I think pink is just a color.”
He paused, brush dangling inches from the reddish-pink globs dotting his paper, blue eyes earnestly searching mine.
“Really?”
The uncertain awe of his voice made me want to hold him tightly and whisper, "You are just fine exactly the way you are."
“Yeah, really.”
He studied my face like a serious old chemist searching for the proof to support his theory, before turning on a smile that was both happy and coy.
“Okay, well, pink really is my favorite color, Ms. Pamela, but you can’t tell my mommy, okay?”
We sat for a moment locked in understanding before he turned his attention back to the paint waiting to be made pink -- his secret favorite.
November brought more insight into the battle Cooper struggled with daily. Planning for the Christmas pageant started the day after the big Thanksgiving feast. Preparing for our program, I asked the children, individually, what they wanted for Christmas.
“I want a Barbie dream house, but I’m not allowed to ask Santa for it.”
“Why not, Cooper?”
“Barbies are for girls. I’m a boy, I can’t play with Barbie.”
Coward that I was, I let the subject drop, but during the quiet times of my day would pick it back up and allow it to challenge my belief that one's sexuality was a matter of choice.
In December Cooper fell in love with Jason, a riveting, boisterous boy, Yang to Cooper’s Yin. Beautiful, careful drawings soon overflowed from Jason’s cubby, placed there lovingly, expressions of Cooper’s admiration. I waited to see Jason's response to the new attention from Cooper, and was pleasantly surprised to find he simply shrugged it off as he did the affection of almost every girl in the class. I guess it takes more than four years for little boys to learn cruelty. If only it would take longer for them to learn self-doubt and loathing.
One early March day, I was keeping Cooper company at the art table, his favorite center. He was drawing a family and singing along perfectly to the Italian opera coming from the CD player.
"Ms. Pamela?"
"Yes, Cooper."
"You like Josh Groban, don't you?"
"Yes, Cooper, I do. Very much."
“I like him too.”
“I know you do, and you sing his songs really well.”
“Thanks!” He beamed and put down his crayon to give me a hug I was happy to return.
“Do you like my picture?”
“I do, tell me about it.” I said, as I pulled him into my lap for a little snuggle. I held his picture in front of us where we both could see it and waited to hear what he had to say about the Crayon family smiling back at us.
“Well,” he began in his little professor voice that never failed to amuse me and always made me want to ruffle his hair or pinch his cheek, “This is my family. Not the one I have now, the one I’m going to have, you know, when I’m big.”
Taking his picture back, he slid from my lap and settled in the chair marking his place at the art table. He went back to concentrating on the drawing in front of him. We sat beside each other in tiny, tot-sized chairs, each happily involved in our own activity, he planning the family yet to be, and me mixing together paints for the day’s art activity.
“Ms. Pamela?”
“Yes, Cooper.”
“Boys have to marry girls, right?”
“Boys can marry girls if they want to, Cooper, but they don’t have to.”
“But they can’t marry boys, can they?”
I paused to weigh my answer. This was a Christian school which expected its teachers to teach and follow a set of values laid down by the church, but this was a little boy whom I loved and knew was struggling and conflicted. It was hard to find a line which allowed me to teeter between the two without doing damage to either.
“Cooper, when you get big you can marry anyone you want.”
He put down his crayon and looked up at me, questions raced across his face. I reached over and gave his shoulder a small reassuring squeeze and smiled. His confusion left no room for a returned smile.
“But I shouldn’t want to marry a boy, should I, Ms. Pamela?” The tentative hope in his voice broke my heart. Keenly aware of the caution required, I searched for the right words.
“Cooper, when you get big, and don’t live with your mommy and daddy anymore, you can decide who you want to marry. You can choose anyone you want.”
“Can I choose Jason?”
Wishing I had paid better attention during tap lessons, I gave his more precise question the consideration it deserved, then took the coward's way out.
“Cooper, I doubt you and Jason will still know each other when you’re both big.”
I knew I'd let him down before I looked into his upturned face. Even still, the disappointment reflecting so brightly from his eyes slammed into my heart like a bullet. I was ashamed of myself. I was ashamed to be a part of anything that caused such a bright, wonderful little boy to question his worth. I was ashamed to have ever been so stupid as to believe that sexuality is anything other than something we are each assigned at birth.
Throughout the year I watched Cooper’s turmoil and confusion grow. I watched as he struggled daily to make peace with what his parents told him was acceptable and what he felt inside. I watched this lovely boy being torn between pleasing his parents and being himself, and the dawning realization that who he was, somehow, was wrong, and the price this knowledge extracted from his happy, easy nature.
I taught Cooper how to read, how to spell all of his colors, and say them in French, Italian, and Spanish, but I fear I failed to teach him the more important lessons of life. How who we are is always enough, and choosing to love is more important than who we love.
The Bible says, a little child shall lead them, and so it was with Cooper and me. He led me to the dark part of myself, the part I didn’t admit to. He led me to understand that we are all made in the likeness of God and God does not make sin. I don’t have it all figured out yet -- still don’t know how to make my peace with what I’ve been taught and what I now know is true -- but four-year-olds don’t make choices about sexuality, they simply are. I don’t know for sure who Cooper will end up loving, but whoever he chooses will be lucky to be loved by such a bright, sensitive, loving man, if those parts of him survive the turmoil of his growing up.
AS HUMAN BEINGS, OUR GREATNESS LIES NOT SO MUCH IN BEING ABLE TO REMAKE THE WORLD AS IN BEING ABLE TO REMAKE OURSELVES. MOHANDAS GANDHI
I don't completely trust a man who tells me he has no prejudices. I do not believe such a creature exists. We all have wrong thoughts, ingrained mistrusts, ignorance. It is the human condition, to get it wrong even when we know better. So, NO, I do not trust a man who claims to be without prejudices. He is either the worst sort of a lair, deceiving himself, or fearful of being judged.
I know it is not politically correct to admit ones prejudices out loud but what is wrong with it? How else do we fix the problem if we are all too afraid to admit one still exists, and not in an out there sort of way, but in an up close, inside me sort of way?
See, I think we need to cast off our fears and sit round a table with some good coffee and just get real, drop our PC fronts and speak from our hearts, even those dark little corners we don't like admitting to, especially those darker corners, for only from those corners can change emerge
If I could say to my friend, "You know, I understand it is wrong. I am not proud of this. I wish I could change it, but I feel...." and she could say back, "I get that, because you see, I think...." and we could admit these things out loud and talk about them and accept them in each other and forgive each other, I think it would make it harder to maintain those wrong thoughts, easier to actively change them. Sort of like that catch all drawer where you shove all the stuff you don't have the time to find a place for, so you shove it there, out of sight and close the door. Were you to pull all that stuff out and lay it in plain sight, and force yourself to walk past it day after day, allow your friends to walk past it when they came to visit, it would soon wear on you and you would find yourself coming up with a plan to clear away the garbage, one loose nail at a time.
I understand the problem is complex and the solutions not so easily found, and I get that this a very simplistic view of a greater problem--- greater shame, however, there is great wisdom in what Gandhi said, "Be the change you desire."
I cannot take away what has been. Cannot repair the damage done by the ignorance of others. Cannot rebuild the towers. Cannot unhang the hanged. Cannot give back futures denied, families lost. Cannot unshoot heroes shot. Cannot restore fortunes stolen. But I can face those facets of myself and hold them to the flame, turn them bit by bit, and let truth regrind, reshape, until those ugly bits of me are no longer and I emerge a better human being for having been willing to go through the process.
Woke again, with you on my heart--inside my brain--it doesn't help knowing you to be unworthy of such places of honor.
Took a shower, made some coffee, fed the dog, checked my e-mails, but you stayed-- on my heart--inside my brain.
So, maybe one day you will wake to find me taking up space in a small corner of your mind, and you will take a shower, and make some coffee, and feed the dog and, when checking e-mails, stumble across this silly little blog and read my words, and know, with complete certainty, you are loved.
TWENTY YEARS FROM NOW YOU WILL BE MORE DISAPPOINTED BY THE THINGS YOU DIDN'T DO THAN BY THE ONES YOU DID DO. SO, THROW OFF THE BOWLINES. SAIL AWAY FROM THE SAFE HARBOR. CATCH THE TRADE WINDS IN YOUR SAILS. EXPLORE. DREAM. DISCOVER. MARK TWAIN
Who would my children, parents, sister, friends, students, boss, nieces describe if asked who I am?
Why is it so hard to shed the weight of these rolls, the weight of other's expectations, to define for myself who I am and then find the courage to simply be.
If it's true that we are the sum total of our choices and, if one chooses to live by the expectations others set for them, does one then become merely a reflection? And if so, I have to ask, a reflection of what?
For the first time in my life I find myself in a space and time completely alone. By this I mean, there is no one depending on me. There is no other whom I must consider. My actions will only impact myself at this juncture in my life. Were I to fall, I would only take myself down. There is no one to stop me from doing-----well, anything, and yet here I sit, Still afraid. Still moving in the same unsatisfactory circles. Around and around my little fish bowl I go, same rocks, same glass, same small enclosed space, same outward looking. Same longing. Same wanting. Wanting something different. Wanting something bigger. Wanting, but what?
This, I now understand is the question that must first be answered before I can take that first step from this little glass bowl.
What do I want?
Such a simple question.
Such a complex answer.
Wish me well as I struggle to obtain the answer I now seek.
Poetry surrounds us everywhere, but putting it on paper is, alas, not so easy as looking at it. Vincent Van Gogh
BOOKS THAT HAVE MATTERED IN MY LIFE
The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver
Native Son by Richard Wright
Silent Spring by Rachel Carson
Catch 22 by Joseph Heller
An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser
The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger
The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers
You Have Seen Their Faces by Erskine Caldwell & Margaret Bourke-White
Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson
Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller
Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe
A Seperate Peace by John Knowles
Beloved by Toni Morrison
Cry the Beloved Country by Alan Paton
Followers
Calm Intensity by Ford Smith
Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; So I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Mary Ellen Mark
“The obsessions we have are pretty much the same our whole lives. Mine are people, the human condition, life.”
Migrant Mother by Dorothea Lang
am trying here to say something about the despised, the defeated, the alienated. About death and disaster, about the wounded, the crippled, the helpless, the rootless, the dislocated. About finality. About the last ditch. - Dorothea Lange
