I recently set out on a journey…
It was a significant moment in my life. Something happened along the way that changed me.
I decided to break my account of this into multiple parts. Here is the first.
A few weeks ago I made a trip to France. I was able to see buildings and structures that have become iconic over generations of time. I was able to interact with people of a foreign culture. I was able to stand in places that have become immortal in history books and family legacies.
Also, I was also able to take this journey amidst a constant accompaniment of my thoughts.
This trip was a last second decision. My school had the week off, but I was planning on staying in town and maybe taking some day trips. I figured I could finally see some of the places around me that I keep meaning to visit, while at the same time taking it easy on my wallet. However, as the time leading up to the break became smaller and smaller, so too did my rationality. Two days before the break, I bought a roundtrip ticket to Paris.
I was to leave on Saturday. On Friday, I was asked by a fair amount of friends and colleagues what I was planning on doing over the course of the vacation. I told them I was heading to Paris, with the ultimate goal of going to Omaha Beach, one of the beaches of D-Day, and the one that my grandpa had landed on. Every person said how great Paris is and how exciting it will be, and they all had the same question for me, “Are you going alone?” I would respond by saying, “Yes,” or sometimes a more casual, “Yep,” as if to say, “No big deal.” They would then say, “How cool,” or, “Good for you.” I thought it was pretty cool myself--The idea of it anyway.
Truth be told, beneath my bravado laced “Yep” was a bit of insecurity.
I think we often wonder what our limitations are. I know I wonder how much my body can handle, and I wonder even more how much my mind can take. I like to think that I can do the things that I dream up in my mind. They are the sorts of things that put to real life the vision I have of myself. You see, I have two versions of myself. The one that resides at the limits of all my abilities, and the one that is actively trying to catch up to that person.
I also like to think that I have a clear vision of who I am, which means that I am uncomfortably aware of the discrepancies between that person and the person I ultimately want to be. But that discomfort is good. In a large way, that’s what this whole journey to Scotland is about—challenging myself to be the person that I want to be. I purposefully say ‘want’ rather than ‘can’. I am not sure we need to push ourselves to be all we can be, but I do think we need to strive to be who we want to be.
And the only way we can know who in fact we want to be is to get to know ourselves better.
So I went to France a few weeks ago, alone, to get to know myself a little better.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Wrinkled Posters
Before you begin reading this post.
Please do not continue unless you are in a quiet place and you have at least 20 minutes to devote to it. Headphones are also recommended.
I also warn you that the part of me that has always wanted to be a hippie shines through in this post. Bear with me.
On Sunday, I was cleaning my kitchen after sleeping in unjustifiably through the morning. I decided to put on some music to aid the process, so I docked my ipod and hit shuffle. That’s when a song played, and my eyes became fixed upon a cheaply made poster on my wall.
If you’ll let me, I would like to tell you the story of this song.
A year ago I called a friend looking for inspiration of some sort. As many of my friends are aware, this is not an uncommon request from me. Often times, this is accomplished through a story, a movie, a book, or a heated debate, and other times, such as this, it is conceived through a song.
I can understand why people don’t have a passion for some of life’s arts that I have come to love, just as I hope that they understand when I am not always enthused about theirs. I am even beginning to accept that there are people that, no matter how hard I try, will never appreciate the game of baseball or be able to describe it as “beautiful”. However, I will never understand how some people can be so nonchalant about music; how they can listen to songs without being caused to feel the specific emotions that are locked away inside of us waiting to be coaxed out by the correct combination of notes and lyrics.
We listen to thousands of songs in our life. Whether we seek them or not, we are surrounded by songs. They are in the car, in the soundtracks to movies, being bastardized by commercials, and even in department stores and elevators. They are all around us. Sometimes we go out of our way to find them, and sometimes--they follow us.
So I called this friend seeking inspiration, and she shared a song from a particular band with me. Some of my favorite bands and songs didn’t resonate with me at first. They had to grow on me. Usually I wasn’t ready for them or their message. From the first song I heard from this band. I was in love. None has ever made me feel like this one did from the very beginning.
I am stubbornly and selfishly protective of songs that I love. I will keep them to myself in order to keep others from tainting the experience the song has caused for me. I will give them to people I trust, but not even them sometimes. I am the same way about books. However, I felt compelled to share this with anyone who would listen. I even remember boldly announcing to my class one morning as I introduced them to a particular song, that their lives would be changed on account of it. I can be a bit dramatic at times, especially when given an audience.
When I heard that they would be playing at a small venue in Portland a few months later, I bought tickets immediately, without even looking at the date. As the day approached, my excitement mounted. A couple weeks prior to the show, I was devastated to learn that the date of this concert was actually on a Monday. Since I lived in Seattle, and that is a weeknight, all seemed lost. But I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. I decided I would simply have to make the journey. I was even able to convince my girlfriend to make the rebellious school night trek with me.
As we waited outside of the classic rustic looking theater with our $9 tickets in hand, my feelings could only be described as “giddy”. From the moment the first song was sung, I knew I was having an experience I would never forget. The crowd reacted as if they were somewhat unsure of how to interpret what they were witnessing. You could tell that many of them had very little knowledge of who they were seeing. But as the night wore on, they seemed to share my belief that this was in fact an experience. A middle-aged woman in front of us, who had come to the concert alone, was even sitting amongst the standing crowd intently punching away at the keys on her laptop. We peered over her shoulder to see what she was writing, and learned that she was keeping a journal of her thoughts throughout the show. I clearly remember a moment in which this woman heard a group of three lines and felt compelled to make a statement, which was only audible due to the silence of the crowd who had long ago suspended all talking and movement in order to hear each word of the lyrics being shared with them. She softly and convincingly said in a voice that carried the weight of the experience it spoke from, “That’s the truth.”
And death is at your doorstep
And it will steal your innocence
But it will not steal your substance
As the band came out for their encore, they asked the crowd if we minded them playing a slower song that they hadn’t played on the tour. The lead singer said that they had been reluctant to play it for previous audiences, but they felt that “Portland gets it.” We all knew what that meant, and we listened as they allowed us to walk a little further with them. When it was over, I headed to the foyer to pull one of the concert posters off the wall. As I arrived, I saw a handful of other people with the same idea as me. We all wanted a piece of tangible evidence to prove that we had been there that night— to hang on our wall to remind us of this moment in hopes that we could recreate a glimpse of it each time our eyes are drawn to it.
We drove back to Seattle that night and arrived with just enough time to salvage an hour or two of sleep before heading to work. The whole way never doubting the worth of the trip.
Months later on a Friday afternoon, I was sitting at my desk in my classroom in Aberdeen. I knew that this same band was playing in Glasgow that night. I also knew that the tickets had been sold out well before I ever moved over here. There weren’t even people willing to part with them for a profit on the internet. I remember sitting there feeling disappointment and angst. In an absurd way, I felt like I was depriving myself of an experience and a chance to have a moment similar to that one back in May. I suppose I could best describe it as a feeling of need. So, I decided that I would not be able to justify not having tried. Therefore, I got in the car and drove the two and a half hours to Glasgow, even if I didn’t have a ticket. I was confident that if I was meant to get in, I would.
Unfortunately a brutal storm made that journey closer to four and a half hours, but that didn’t matter. I was on my way.
When I arrived, I parked my car and walked through the foreign city looking for the concert hall. As I had hoped, it was a small, worn building that looked like it had seen its years of undervalued music. I set up shop on the corner, dropped my pride, and began asking each and every person that walked by if they had an extra ticket. After an hour, my confidence was beginning to fade, and the reality was setting in. Even the scalpers had called it a night. It was just one other man and I desperately competing and leap-frogging over one another to get to the next person first. As the curtain time grew very close and all nearly seemed lost, a man tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I needed a ticket. I said yes, too excitedly. He asked me to name a price I was willing to pay. Afraid of how much I would be willing to pay, I told him I wouldn’t. I requested that he name a price instead, and he did. Knowing that you never agree to the initial number, I brazenly undercut it. That’s when he walked away and sold it to the other man. I felt my stomach sink. I had blown it. I had come as close as possible, and foolishly let it slip away, all to save 10 pounds. I knew the show was starting, and all hope was officially gone, but I stayed out on that corner anyway, clinging to faith and the depressing fact that I really had no other option. The line was gone, and only a few late-comers straggled in. Each was clearly in a hurry and no one showing up this late is looking to discard a ticket. That’s when a man walked over to me, and asked if I was looking to see the show. I said yes, and he held out a ticket and offered a price. Without asking a single question, I shook his hand. I was in. A rushed inside to beat the curtain. As I stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers, I couldn’t help but smile. And when the band walked on stage, we collectively listened and let ourselves feel. And as the concert came to a close, I whispered what I thought was in my head, but now I am pretty sure I said it out loud, “Glasgow gets it.”
So when I remember convincing a friend to listen to a song with me once, which turned into sitting silently through four, and instead of telling me that I was overdramatic, he asked, “How can anyone not love this?”
or when I remember how silent and still hundreds of people can be when they are fully aware of their emotions,
or I find myself driving through a monsoon with reckless abandon to get to a show I don’t have a ticket for,
or when I get a letter from a former student that confirms my bold statement that the song would change her life,
or I am stopped in my kitchen on a random Sunday by lyrics that sound so truthful they demand I listen,
or when I notice myself staring at a wrinkled concert poster on my wall in hopes that it will keep a memory from fading…I find myself at a loss for those who are not moved by music.
So I challenge you to take the time to listen to these three songs in their entirety. I ask you to truly hear the lyrics. Take a break from your busy day and the routine of daily life to be awakened and to be moved.
If for any reason this audio isn't working, here are the youtube links for the songs:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x2RKb3VNAOo
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kl-VCHzS1So
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMsTSdHIJds
Please do not continue unless you are in a quiet place and you have at least 20 minutes to devote to it. Headphones are also recommended.
I also warn you that the part of me that has always wanted to be a hippie shines through in this post. Bear with me.
On Sunday, I was cleaning my kitchen after sleeping in unjustifiably through the morning. I decided to put on some music to aid the process, so I docked my ipod and hit shuffle. That’s when a song played, and my eyes became fixed upon a cheaply made poster on my wall.
If you’ll let me, I would like to tell you the story of this song.
A year ago I called a friend looking for inspiration of some sort. As many of my friends are aware, this is not an uncommon request from me. Often times, this is accomplished through a story, a movie, a book, or a heated debate, and other times, such as this, it is conceived through a song.
I can understand why people don’t have a passion for some of life’s arts that I have come to love, just as I hope that they understand when I am not always enthused about theirs. I am even beginning to accept that there are people that, no matter how hard I try, will never appreciate the game of baseball or be able to describe it as “beautiful”. However, I will never understand how some people can be so nonchalant about music; how they can listen to songs without being caused to feel the specific emotions that are locked away inside of us waiting to be coaxed out by the correct combination of notes and lyrics.
We listen to thousands of songs in our life. Whether we seek them or not, we are surrounded by songs. They are in the car, in the soundtracks to movies, being bastardized by commercials, and even in department stores and elevators. They are all around us. Sometimes we go out of our way to find them, and sometimes--they follow us.
So I called this friend seeking inspiration, and she shared a song from a particular band with me. Some of my favorite bands and songs didn’t resonate with me at first. They had to grow on me. Usually I wasn’t ready for them or their message. From the first song I heard from this band. I was in love. None has ever made me feel like this one did from the very beginning.
I am stubbornly and selfishly protective of songs that I love. I will keep them to myself in order to keep others from tainting the experience the song has caused for me. I will give them to people I trust, but not even them sometimes. I am the same way about books. However, I felt compelled to share this with anyone who would listen. I even remember boldly announcing to my class one morning as I introduced them to a particular song, that their lives would be changed on account of it. I can be a bit dramatic at times, especially when given an audience.
When I heard that they would be playing at a small venue in Portland a few months later, I bought tickets immediately, without even looking at the date. As the day approached, my excitement mounted. A couple weeks prior to the show, I was devastated to learn that the date of this concert was actually on a Monday. Since I lived in Seattle, and that is a weeknight, all seemed lost. But I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. I decided I would simply have to make the journey. I was even able to convince my girlfriend to make the rebellious school night trek with me.
As we waited outside of the classic rustic looking theater with our $9 tickets in hand, my feelings could only be described as “giddy”. From the moment the first song was sung, I knew I was having an experience I would never forget. The crowd reacted as if they were somewhat unsure of how to interpret what they were witnessing. You could tell that many of them had very little knowledge of who they were seeing. But as the night wore on, they seemed to share my belief that this was in fact an experience. A middle-aged woman in front of us, who had come to the concert alone, was even sitting amongst the standing crowd intently punching away at the keys on her laptop. We peered over her shoulder to see what she was writing, and learned that she was keeping a journal of her thoughts throughout the show. I clearly remember a moment in which this woman heard a group of three lines and felt compelled to make a statement, which was only audible due to the silence of the crowd who had long ago suspended all talking and movement in order to hear each word of the lyrics being shared with them. She softly and convincingly said in a voice that carried the weight of the experience it spoke from, “That’s the truth.”
And death is at your doorstep
And it will steal your innocence
But it will not steal your substance
As the band came out for their encore, they asked the crowd if we minded them playing a slower song that they hadn’t played on the tour. The lead singer said that they had been reluctant to play it for previous audiences, but they felt that “Portland gets it.” We all knew what that meant, and we listened as they allowed us to walk a little further with them. When it was over, I headed to the foyer to pull one of the concert posters off the wall. As I arrived, I saw a handful of other people with the same idea as me. We all wanted a piece of tangible evidence to prove that we had been there that night— to hang on our wall to remind us of this moment in hopes that we could recreate a glimpse of it each time our eyes are drawn to it.
We drove back to Seattle that night and arrived with just enough time to salvage an hour or two of sleep before heading to work. The whole way never doubting the worth of the trip.
Months later on a Friday afternoon, I was sitting at my desk in my classroom in Aberdeen. I knew that this same band was playing in Glasgow that night. I also knew that the tickets had been sold out well before I ever moved over here. There weren’t even people willing to part with them for a profit on the internet. I remember sitting there feeling disappointment and angst. In an absurd way, I felt like I was depriving myself of an experience and a chance to have a moment similar to that one back in May. I suppose I could best describe it as a feeling of need. So, I decided that I would not be able to justify not having tried. Therefore, I got in the car and drove the two and a half hours to Glasgow, even if I didn’t have a ticket. I was confident that if I was meant to get in, I would.
Unfortunately a brutal storm made that journey closer to four and a half hours, but that didn’t matter. I was on my way.
When I arrived, I parked my car and walked through the foreign city looking for the concert hall. As I had hoped, it was a small, worn building that looked like it had seen its years of undervalued music. I set up shop on the corner, dropped my pride, and began asking each and every person that walked by if they had an extra ticket. After an hour, my confidence was beginning to fade, and the reality was setting in. Even the scalpers had called it a night. It was just one other man and I desperately competing and leap-frogging over one another to get to the next person first. As the curtain time grew very close and all nearly seemed lost, a man tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I needed a ticket. I said yes, too excitedly. He asked me to name a price I was willing to pay. Afraid of how much I would be willing to pay, I told him I wouldn’t. I requested that he name a price instead, and he did. Knowing that you never agree to the initial number, I brazenly undercut it. That’s when he walked away and sold it to the other man. I felt my stomach sink. I had blown it. I had come as close as possible, and foolishly let it slip away, all to save 10 pounds. I knew the show was starting, and all hope was officially gone, but I stayed out on that corner anyway, clinging to faith and the depressing fact that I really had no other option. The line was gone, and only a few late-comers straggled in. Each was clearly in a hurry and no one showing up this late is looking to discard a ticket. That’s when a man walked over to me, and asked if I was looking to see the show. I said yes, and he held out a ticket and offered a price. Without asking a single question, I shook his hand. I was in. A rushed inside to beat the curtain. As I stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers, I couldn’t help but smile. And when the band walked on stage, we collectively listened and let ourselves feel. And as the concert came to a close, I whispered what I thought was in my head, but now I am pretty sure I said it out loud, “Glasgow gets it.”
So when I remember convincing a friend to listen to a song with me once, which turned into sitting silently through four, and instead of telling me that I was overdramatic, he asked, “How can anyone not love this?”
or when I remember how silent and still hundreds of people can be when they are fully aware of their emotions,
or I find myself driving through a monsoon with reckless abandon to get to a show I don’t have a ticket for,
or when I get a letter from a former student that confirms my bold statement that the song would change her life,
or I am stopped in my kitchen on a random Sunday by lyrics that sound so truthful they demand I listen,
or when I notice myself staring at a wrinkled concert poster on my wall in hopes that it will keep a memory from fading…I find myself at a loss for those who are not moved by music.
So I challenge you to take the time to listen to these three songs in their entirety. I ask you to truly hear the lyrics. Take a break from your busy day and the routine of daily life to be awakened and to be moved.
If for any reason this audio isn't working, here are the youtube links for the songs:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x2RKb3VNAOo
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kl-VCHzS1So
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMsTSdHIJds
Monday, January 31, 2011
Guidance
I have a story I’d like to share with you about my hair and a crazy old lady who helped remind me who I am.
To fully appreciate this story you will need to know that spent the first 22 years of my life in Spokane, Washington.
When I first moved over here, I went through a short period of time in which I second-guessed my decision. I was told ahead of time by some close friends, who travelled abroad, that this would be part of the settling process. It’s natural. Nevertheless, that is only comforting to a degree, at the end of the day you are still left with your thoughts. I began to ask myself the questions that I told myself I wouldn’t. “Was it worth leaving everything behind? Am I truly meant to be where I am?” I also began to evaluate how I was going about settling in. “Do I need to change?” I remember clearly waking up on a Thursday morning feeling confused and looking for guidance.
I had an appointment after school to get my hair cut. I had been putting this off for a very long time, and finally it became apparent that I could not wait a day longer. I was packing up my things and writing down directions when I got stopped by one of my students’ parents. This made me pretty late, which was unfortunate because at this point, I still had no idea how to get around the city.
I set out to find the place with 15 minutes to get a distance of 20 minutes. Of course, I couldn’t find any parking, I inadvertently drove down the wrong way of a one way street, and in the process made myself even later for this appointment. However, I was still doing relatively "ok" on time because a parking spot miraculously opened up before my eyes just as frustration hit its boiling point.
I set out on foot. I searched for street names and addresses left and right, but Europeans love to hide these things. It’s a game that apparently, as an American, I cannot appreciate. Nevertheless, I arrived at the address. I was 15 minutes late but only 15, which could have been much worse. However, when I became fully aware of my surroundings, I noticed one small detail. I was not standing at the door of a barber. I was standing outside of a sandwich shop. I kept looking at the address on the tattered piece of paper in my hand and back up at the shop. I did this over and over until the absurdity finally took hold. There is an old saying that I remember my Dad telling me when I was young. It states, "When all else fails, read the directions." With nothing to read, I figured I best go inside and ask where this place was. At this point I was feeling the pressure of my tardiness. I walked in and asked the girl at the counter if she had any idea where the shop was. To my relief, she knew exactly where I was talking about. In fact, she had even worked there for a time. However, just before she can tell me how to get there, an elderly woman grabs me. I mean literally grabs me by the shoulders and tells me I don't want to go there. I responded by telling her that not only did I want to go, but I had to and was extremely late. I then take a step to go to ask the girl once more how to get there, and the old woman grabs me again and leads me away from her. This time she tells me that I cannot go; she would not allow it. Now this has got me quite confused. I again try to level with her. “I appreciate your advice, but I am really quite late, and out of sheer respect and decency I need to honor my appointment.” How do you argue this point? Here’s how. She flat-out tells me I, cannot go. She then asks me why I want to go anyway. I have never had to justify getting my hair cut to someone before. And judging by the clearly unprofessional length and the fact that this person was a complete stranger no more than 5 minutes prior, I was utterly confused as to why this was the first time I was being hassled about my grooming decisions. Oh, and if you are wondering if she still has a firm grasp of my shoulders, she does. I am now considering the possibility of this lady being crazy. The evidence is heavily leaning toward this conclusion, and that’s precisely when she tightens her grip on my shoulders, looks me in the eye, and in a tone that implies more meaning than the face-value of the words, tells me that I should not change anything about myself.
She then walks me to the stoop of her shop, and tells me to look at the people walking by. She proceeds to pick out people and thoroughly critique them. And this is the hard part to explain; she did it in a manner that somehow avoided sounding judgmental. She spoke with a voice of compassion. She tells me about how each has conformed and given up their individuality and with it, their self-respect. She then asks me where I am from. I tell her Seattle, and she asks me where in Seattle. I asked if she actually knew the city, and she says that in fact she does. It turns out she used to teach in Vancouver and spent a great deal of time in Seattle. I found this to be an incredible coincidence. At this point, I remember thinking I simply have to go if I am going to make it to this appointment. But it struck me that this was a moment. This was a moment I am supposed to go with and to let take me where it pleases. So I did just that. I decided to drop all plans and follow this lady wherever she saw fit. She proceeded to compare the Scottish school system to the American and Canadian and detail all of her perceived problems with the system here. She then eloquently explained how that has transferred into the society. We ended up talking education and society on that doorstep for over an hour until she had to close the shop for the evening. When we finished, she walked me 20 feet down to the corner and pointed at the barbershop I had been looking for. We then said our goodbyes and finally exchanged names. I will never forget Barbara.
Having some newly found free time, I decided to walk the area and see what it had to offer. I came across a cobblestone street and headed down aimlessly. I saw a store that looked interesting and quickly realized that it was a record store. I must have spent an hour in the store looking through everything they had. There was an intriguing band playing on the overhead speakers, so I asked the guy working at the counter about them. While I was at the counter, a book on a shelf in the corner caught my eye. This is simply because it was the only book for sale in the store and seemed very out of place. I picked it up and turned to the first page. You know when you look at a page of words and one sticks out as if it is 3 times the font of the others? Well, the word that practically jumped off the page was “Spokane”. The first chapter is about a boy who is moving away from his hometown of Spokane, Washington. He is lonely, confused, and looking for a “home”. I bought the book. I took it home and read it cover to cover that night.
When I look back at the course of events from that day, I can’t help but marvel at how everything fell into place. I began the day looking for guidance to help me come to terms with change and to affirm that I had made the right decision to come here, and that is exactly what I received. Had I not been stopped by that parent, I wouldn’t have been late. Therefore, I would not have been rushed and would have written down better directions. Had I not gotten lost, I would not have ended up at the door of the sandwich shop. I would not have entered the shop looking for directions, meaning I would not have met the wise old woman. Had I not trusted my instincts (and the woman’s firm grip) to skip the appointment and continue our conversation, I would not have been given some of the best advice of my life, which was to stay true to myself. Had we not ended up there and had this conversation, subsequently missing the appointment and having some free time to wander about, I would not have been walking aimlessly in a foreign part of the city, which means I would not have stumbled upon the record store and the lone book for sale about a boy from a small town that undoubtedly no one in this far corner of Scotland has heard of, except me that is.
Thank you Barbara.
To fully appreciate this story you will need to know that spent the first 22 years of my life in Spokane, Washington.
When I first moved over here, I went through a short period of time in which I second-guessed my decision. I was told ahead of time by some close friends, who travelled abroad, that this would be part of the settling process. It’s natural. Nevertheless, that is only comforting to a degree, at the end of the day you are still left with your thoughts. I began to ask myself the questions that I told myself I wouldn’t. “Was it worth leaving everything behind? Am I truly meant to be where I am?” I also began to evaluate how I was going about settling in. “Do I need to change?” I remember clearly waking up on a Thursday morning feeling confused and looking for guidance.
I had an appointment after school to get my hair cut. I had been putting this off for a very long time, and finally it became apparent that I could not wait a day longer. I was packing up my things and writing down directions when I got stopped by one of my students’ parents. This made me pretty late, which was unfortunate because at this point, I still had no idea how to get around the city.
I set out to find the place with 15 minutes to get a distance of 20 minutes. Of course, I couldn’t find any parking, I inadvertently drove down the wrong way of a one way street, and in the process made myself even later for this appointment. However, I was still doing relatively "ok" on time because a parking spot miraculously opened up before my eyes just as frustration hit its boiling point.
I set out on foot. I searched for street names and addresses left and right, but Europeans love to hide these things. It’s a game that apparently, as an American, I cannot appreciate. Nevertheless, I arrived at the address. I was 15 minutes late but only 15, which could have been much worse. However, when I became fully aware of my surroundings, I noticed one small detail. I was not standing at the door of a barber. I was standing outside of a sandwich shop. I kept looking at the address on the tattered piece of paper in my hand and back up at the shop. I did this over and over until the absurdity finally took hold. There is an old saying that I remember my Dad telling me when I was young. It states, "When all else fails, read the directions." With nothing to read, I figured I best go inside and ask where this place was. At this point I was feeling the pressure of my tardiness. I walked in and asked the girl at the counter if she had any idea where the shop was. To my relief, she knew exactly where I was talking about. In fact, she had even worked there for a time. However, just before she can tell me how to get there, an elderly woman grabs me. I mean literally grabs me by the shoulders and tells me I don't want to go there. I responded by telling her that not only did I want to go, but I had to and was extremely late. I then take a step to go to ask the girl once more how to get there, and the old woman grabs me again and leads me away from her. This time she tells me that I cannot go; she would not allow it. Now this has got me quite confused. I again try to level with her. “I appreciate your advice, but I am really quite late, and out of sheer respect and decency I need to honor my appointment.” How do you argue this point? Here’s how. She flat-out tells me I, cannot go. She then asks me why I want to go anyway. I have never had to justify getting my hair cut to someone before. And judging by the clearly unprofessional length and the fact that this person was a complete stranger no more than 5 minutes prior, I was utterly confused as to why this was the first time I was being hassled about my grooming decisions. Oh, and if you are wondering if she still has a firm grasp of my shoulders, she does. I am now considering the possibility of this lady being crazy. The evidence is heavily leaning toward this conclusion, and that’s precisely when she tightens her grip on my shoulders, looks me in the eye, and in a tone that implies more meaning than the face-value of the words, tells me that I should not change anything about myself.
She then walks me to the stoop of her shop, and tells me to look at the people walking by. She proceeds to pick out people and thoroughly critique them. And this is the hard part to explain; she did it in a manner that somehow avoided sounding judgmental. She spoke with a voice of compassion. She tells me about how each has conformed and given up their individuality and with it, their self-respect. She then asks me where I am from. I tell her Seattle, and she asks me where in Seattle. I asked if she actually knew the city, and she says that in fact she does. It turns out she used to teach in Vancouver and spent a great deal of time in Seattle. I found this to be an incredible coincidence. At this point, I remember thinking I simply have to go if I am going to make it to this appointment. But it struck me that this was a moment. This was a moment I am supposed to go with and to let take me where it pleases. So I did just that. I decided to drop all plans and follow this lady wherever she saw fit. She proceeded to compare the Scottish school system to the American and Canadian and detail all of her perceived problems with the system here. She then eloquently explained how that has transferred into the society. We ended up talking education and society on that doorstep for over an hour until she had to close the shop for the evening. When we finished, she walked me 20 feet down to the corner and pointed at the barbershop I had been looking for. We then said our goodbyes and finally exchanged names. I will never forget Barbara.
Having some newly found free time, I decided to walk the area and see what it had to offer. I came across a cobblestone street and headed down aimlessly. I saw a store that looked interesting and quickly realized that it was a record store. I must have spent an hour in the store looking through everything they had. There was an intriguing band playing on the overhead speakers, so I asked the guy working at the counter about them. While I was at the counter, a book on a shelf in the corner caught my eye. This is simply because it was the only book for sale in the store and seemed very out of place. I picked it up and turned to the first page. You know when you look at a page of words and one sticks out as if it is 3 times the font of the others? Well, the word that practically jumped off the page was “Spokane”. The first chapter is about a boy who is moving away from his hometown of Spokane, Washington. He is lonely, confused, and looking for a “home”. I bought the book. I took it home and read it cover to cover that night.
When I look back at the course of events from that day, I can’t help but marvel at how everything fell into place. I began the day looking for guidance to help me come to terms with change and to affirm that I had made the right decision to come here, and that is exactly what I received. Had I not been stopped by that parent, I wouldn’t have been late. Therefore, I would not have been rushed and would have written down better directions. Had I not gotten lost, I would not have ended up at the door of the sandwich shop. I would not have entered the shop looking for directions, meaning I would not have met the wise old woman. Had I not trusted my instincts (and the woman’s firm grip) to skip the appointment and continue our conversation, I would not have been given some of the best advice of my life, which was to stay true to myself. Had we not ended up there and had this conversation, subsequently missing the appointment and having some free time to wander about, I would not have been walking aimlessly in a foreign part of the city, which means I would not have stumbled upon the record store and the lone book for sale about a boy from a small town that undoubtedly no one in this far corner of Scotland has heard of, except me that is.
Thank you Barbara.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Due Respect
I have seen a fair amount of memorials and monuments in my life. As a history teacher this is something we do. Some of these structures will accomplish the artist’s desired effect. They will cause you to stop and reflect. They may even inspire you to learn about those for whom the memorial was constructed. Some, however, will not. Their failure is usually due to two factors above all: a lack of knowledge of the tragedy or a disconnect from the oppressed.
That said, I came across a memorial on a tour in Amsterdam that was particularly moving. It was a memorial to victims of the Holocaust. I have seen a great deal of Holocaust memorials, and I have never come across one that wasn’t moving, but some leave a stronger impression than others.
Before I tell you about this memorial. Let me say that I am constantly amazed by the lack of knowledge that people have about this tragedy. It has slipped further and further away from relevance in the public mind. There is something to be said for looking toward the future and healing from our past, but there is a difference between healing and indifference and ignorance. I have heard those who say we need to learn from our past and move toward the future. I agree with them, but only after we learn. Many Holocaust memorials have the words “Never Again” inscribed on them. This was the promise that the world made following the genocide. Never again would the world turn a blind eye to the mass murder of people due to race or creed. Since then, we have seen multiple genocides. And as the south of Sudan elects to be an independent nation, we should be reminded of the genocide that has been taking place in Darfur for more than 7 years while the world chose not to notice.
As I said earlier, the lack of knowledge about the facts of the Holocaust is concerning. Most people know that 6,000,000 Jewish people lost their lives, and some know that the total number of victims is 11,000,000, but fewer people know who made up the other 5,000,000 victims. This is one of the great injustices of our remembrance of the Holocaust. We neglect to remember the many other groups of people who were targeted and murdered. These include the Roma, the physically and mentally disabled, those with hereditary diseases, political enemies, prisoners of war, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and the individuals and groups of the resistance. I mentioned earlier that I came across a memorial this past week that stood out for me. This structure was dedicated to another group of victims that too often gets overlooked. This memorial was built in honor of the homosexuals who were murdered during the Holocaust.
I mentioned at the beginning of this entry that I have a theory that the primary factors contributing to a memorial’s failed effect is a lack of knowledge, whether naïveté or ignorance, and a disconnect from the oppressed. These are shortcomings that are completely in our control.
We can also begin to correct one of the other injustices of the Holocaust. I quoted two numbers for you earlier: 6,000,000 and 11,000,000. These are the numbers widely used to represent the victims of the Holocaust. Please think about the fact that these numbers represent people. After you have done this, think about the injustice we commit by rounding these numbers to nice easy to remember, easy to quote figures.
“History counts its skeletons in round numbers. A thousand and one remains a thousand,
as though the one had never existed:
an imaginary embryo, an empty cradle”
-Wislawa Szymborska
Sunday, January 16, 2011
The Beginning...
A year ago this Friday, I awoke abruptly at 5 AM, which is far from my normal wake-up time. This would normally not bother me. As those close to me know, I can fall asleep again before I ever really comprehend what time it is. I consider it one of my most beneficial talents. However, this morning was different than most. I was met with the anxious energy that is usually associated with moments such as: remembering you have a paper due, or you left the iron on, or you forgot a close friend’s birthday. The great thing about morning is that it is the only time of day that offers the true, uninhibited clarity that gets lost amidst the interactions and hours of thought of any given day. I would not be going back to sleep that morning.
Only a few times in my life have I been able to pinpoint the cause of my stress as easily as I was able to that morning. I saw my life playing out in a sequential order. It was similar to watching a line of dominos fall onto each other. It was too predictable. It was too uniformed. It was too ordinary. I immediately remembered a promise I made to myself back in college. I would uproot and challenge myself to make it in a new environment, and rather than visit and look at it from the outside, I would learn to interact with this foreign culture, wherever it may be. Most of all, I promised myself that I would not follow the routine--the one that says, “Be patient. Stay the course. What needs to happen will happen in due time.” There is some wisdom to this line of thought, but it can also be an excuse to remain comfortable.
For years I had been telling people that I planned on teaching abroad one day. One of the great things about sharing plans with others is that they will remind you of them. Once you declare something you only have two options: Make it happen, or make an excuse. So there I was, laying in bed, asking myself if I was going to make it happen or… I looked at my life as objectively as I could, and I asked myself if I was happy. I can honestly say I was. I loved my job and my students. I had amazing friends. I loved Seattle. I loved being close enough to my family that I could drive home for the weekend on a whim. But I saw the dominos, and they scared the hell out of me. I got out of bed and went about making it happen.
I looked up the next international job fair. I had missed the deadline, but thought I would call and see if they could make an exception. They told me that if I registered and got everything in by the end of the day, they would allow me to attend. I spent the following weekend at a friend's cabin wrestling with the idea of leaving. A week later I was in Boston. 3 days later I was signing a paper that would send me to Scotland for the next 2 years. I have been living here for 6 months now. Yesterday it struck me that this is home.
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