"In the history of the South, there's much to celebrate. And that flag is a desecration of all of it. It's a banner of hatred and separatism. It's a banner of ignorance and violence and a war that pitted brother against brother. And to ask young black men and women, young Jewish men and women, Asians, Native Americans......to ask Americans to walk beneath its shadow is a humiliation of irreducible proportions. And we all know it." Robert Guillaume as Isaac Jaffee, on ABC's tragically short lived Sports Night.
First of all, this post is not intended to insult anyone. It may offend, but I hope it won't insult. Secondly, this is America, the greatest nation on Earth. And in America, you have every right to fly that rebel flag. I believe in that right. Freedom of speech is central to democracy. And you are free to express each of the many messages bound up in the battle flag of the confederacy. BUT, before waving that banner, make sure you want to send each of those messages. Because you are sending every connotation, every nuance, every echo of racism and seperatism that flag represents. Own it. Accept responsibility for it. You can say that isn't what it means to you. But you don't get off that easily. You have a responsibility for the messages you send. Let me explain......
Many, many years ago, when I was just starting my mass communications major at Missouri Southern, I sat in the classroom of one Richard Massa, as he taught Intro to Human Communication. Now that I type his name into this post about both open and latent racism, it strikes me as quite ironic that I am sighting lessons I learned from a man called "Massa." For that word was uttered by many a slave in reference to his owner, his oppressor, his master. I suppose I learned a lot in that class, but one lesson has always stood out above nearly any lesson I've learned. It is this:
"Meanings are in people, not in words. Words are merely arbitrary symbols, having whatever meaning that we, as society, ascribe to them."
A second lesson from Intro to Human Communication is this:
"Communication is a two way street. The sender of any message is responsible for that message. He cannot send a given message, knowing how the receiver will receive it, and then claim innocence when it is received as expected."
I know, love, and respect some people who wave that flag. I know that they can say that, to them, it symbolizes rich Southern traditions, distinct Southern culture, rural Southern hospitalities, Southern statesmen, Southern literature, Southern architecture, and a Southern way of life. I know that many people will say that the South was only fighting for State's Rights, not for slavery. (Incidentally, the state's right they were fighting for was the right to own slaves.) But there is so much more waving in the air than regional pride, when the rebel flag is flown. Like it or not, the meaning that we, as society, have ascribed to that flag, to that symbol, is racism. It is hate. It is white supremacy. It is a belief that people of color are no better than the mules who worked beside them in the Southern sun, slaves to their white owners, their white masters. You cannot separate the component messages of that flag, and send only the ones you like. When you wave that flag, you send them all.
It reminds me of a friend I had at back at Missouri Southern. She was a transfer to MSSC from Ozark Christian College, also located in Joplin. Her name was Amy, still is, I suppose. She was sweet, smart, funny, ornery as all get out, and enjoyed the pushing of people's buttons. Amy used to flip people off, a lot. It seemed at odds with her Christian faith and friendly demeanor. So, after much confusion, I asked her about it. Here's what she said: "to me, it means I Love You." I suppose that it was all in fun, and I don't think she ever flew that middle finger in the face of a stranger or of anyone she wasn't friends with. But, what if she had? What message would she have sent to that stranger, or enemy? What message could she have expected them to receive? After all, she claimed that, to her, it meant "I Love You." Would that have gotten her off the hook? Would it have been the fault of the receiver of that gesture for taking offense? Or would Amy have been responsible for the message she sent? After all, society has established what that finger waved in the air means. It's a symbol of an idea beneath it, just like words, just like flags.
We have a family campout this weekend, Friday and Saturday, concluding with worship Sunday morning. I'm looking forward to seeing the 50 or so family members who'll likely be there. My aunt Pam will be there. I love my aunt Pam. She's sweet, funny, compassionate, and one of the absolute best cooks, and nicest people, you could ever meet. (She's also my neighbor, as of a month ago.) I've not seen Pam in a couple of weeks. What would happen if I were to walk up to my dear aunt Pam Friday evening, and raise my middle finger, flagrantly flying it in her face? What message would she receive? I already mentioned that I love my aunt Pam. Would she read "I Love You" in that finger? Absolutely not. She would be offended, hurt, and angry. And she would be right to feel those things. (She'd also be right to slap my face for the insult.) How much more so if that finger carried with it the same connotations, nuances, and echoes of racism, oppression, and hate contained in the rebel flag? What if that finger I'd flown in Pam's face also said, "I think you're less than human, worth no more than cattle or mules, not even possessing the soul of man that God breathed into Adam."?
Those are some of the many messages woven into the rebel flag, the battle flag, of the confederacy. Those are the messages received by millions of people of color when they see that flag flying. If those are the messages you mean to send, then send away. This is America. And you do have the right to send them. But own it. Don't pretend it means something else. Most of us are not naive. It's like a ball player in contract negotiations saying "it isn't about the money." Sure it is. Or it's like Barry Bonds saying "I didn't know what my trainer was giving me." Sure he did. That flag, that symbol, carries a lot of meaning with it, some positive, much negative. And like I can't claim the middle finger means "I Love You," you can't claim that the rebel flag doesn't carry with it the undertones, even overtones, of hatred and racism. Sure it does.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
I Am Uncle Greg
(Saturday, 2pm)
So, there I stood, bare-chested against the blustery breeze in the Union Station parking lot, wiping liquified excrement from my naked chest with a wet wipe.
"A small price to pay for what you get in return. For what you get in return, it's a steal." Robert Guillaume as Isaac Jaffe in ABC's tragically short lived Sports Night
[Reader be warned.......this is a long one.]
(48 hours earlier......)
So, there I stood, on a thin pitcher's rubber in a dusty future location of the Fisher Family Field of Dreams, tossing pitch after pitch to my nephews. I'd paid about $10 for a set of bases from K-Mart a few days before, and the boys had been living it up playing ball in what will someday be a decent back yard. Right now, it's just post-construction dust & mess. But there isn't much more a 6 or 7 year old boy needs in order to have a ball playing ball than dust, mess, ball, & bat. I used to pitch a bit when I was a kid. This is greater somehow, more meaningful, more fun even. Isaiah & Josiah are both good hitters, so I've got to be on my toes. Josiah nearly sent me to the urologist with a sharply hit tennis ball about a month or so ago, so pitcher beware. It was Thursday morning, and we were all excited to be heading to Kansas City on Friday for Josiah's first ever Major League Baseball game, the Royals hosting the White Sox at Kauffman Stadium.
I'd say that playing baseball that day was a physical appetizer for the game Friday; but that would suggest that baseball isn't an everyday part of their lives, which it is. My nephews come from a long line of baseball people. Their mother, my baby sister, Kelley, is a life-long Royals fan. Their uncle, Greg (aka, me), is a huge and long-suffering Royals fan, like my parents before me. Their father, my brother in law, Grady, is, if possible, an even bigger baseball fan than I am, just like his father before him. My nephews come from a mixed baseball marriage. Their mother is a Royals fan, and their father is a Cardinals fan. They're raising them up to appreciate both. But, as often happens in such homes, the battle lines are already drawn. Kelley & Isaiah prefer the Royals, but root for the Cards, as well. Grady and Josiah prefer the Cards, but root for the Royals, as well. As the younger boys, Eli, Gideon, and Jonathan, come of age, I suspect they'll choose a side, too. But this weekend, we're all Royals fans. This weekend is to be quite special. A first big league game is a rite of passage for a boy in their family. Last September, it was Isaiah's special day. This year, Josiah's. At some point during the week, the decision was made to take all 5 boys to Kansas City, and have my Mom watch Eli & Gideon in the hotel while the rest of us went to the game.
(Friday, circa 2pm)
So, there I sat, in a car with Eli, his Grandma & Grandpa, and me. It's about a 4 hour drive from our new house to Kansas City. Since Grady had been working on our new deck during the week, all the happy Goodwyns have been happy-ing at our new house of late. So, we piled into the Goodwyn's van and my folks' car, and ventured northward. It was a long drive, and tiring. It's odd how sitting in a car can be tiring. But it can. Mom was in the back trying to keep Eli entertained, and did a great job. He didn't jump out of the car a single time, and only once reached around Dad's head to cover his eyes while driving. (OK, that part, I made up.) Eli was good. He was tiring of playing dot-to-dot with his Grandma, so I convinced him to play 20 questions. I really didn't think he'd have the patience for it; but he did. He actually got into it & had fun. We made it to the hotel a little later than we'd planned, but weren't late. We caught the hotel shuttle from Holiday Inn, and headed for the game.
(Friday evening)
So, there I sat, in a sweatshirt & shorts, enduring the chilly temperature and intermittent rain of an unusually cool Kansas City September evening, surrounded on all sides by a gaggle of screaming adolescent girls. I mean no offense here, honestly; but there is no sound in all the natural world louder than a herd of teenage or pre-teen girls. At what point, and to what point, do they learn that piercing, shrill, spine-tingling woot? There was a girls softball team in the 2 rows in front of us and some of the row behind us. Our seats were pretty good. We were in the 3rd row on the right field line, about half way between the foul (fair) pole and 1st base. The girls, God bless them, screamed non stop from before the 1st pitch till the fireworks after the game. They'd scream, woot, scream, woot, laugh, scream, woot, complain about how they're losing their voices, and then scream some more. They directed most of their screams at one Jeff Fancoeur, the very popular right fielder in his 1st year with the Royals.
It's nigh on impossible not to love Frenchie. He plays very hard, hustles, has a flat out cannon for an arm, is active in charities and church, and absolutely ALWAYS has a smile on his face. He's having his best year as a big leaguer, and seems to love it in KC, which automatically endears him to the Royals fans. Well, this screaming gaggle of teenage girls spent the whole evening screaming in his direction. You'd think he were a Beatle during the 1960's. Long about the 3rd or 4th inning, as he was running out to take his posistion in right field, and the girls were screaming like a battalion of banshees, he did acknowledge them with a quick wave. They loved that. And so they screamed. Long about the 8th inning, maybe only the 7th, when Frenchie ran to take the field, he didn't take his normal, direct route. Oh, no. He ran right along the outfield wall, right up to those screaming teens, and threw them a glove's worth of candy, gum, and sunflower seed packages, one of which was open, indicating to the lucky girl who'd caught it that Frenchie, himself, had been eating out of it. Well, those girls went absolutely NUTS! They screamed, they swooned, they screamed some more. The volume was extreme, but it was really kind of heartwarming. Francoeur gave those girls a thrill they'll never forget. Heck, I'll never forget it either.
(Friday, circa 10pm)
So, there I sat, alongside my oldest nephew, Isaiah, in the bottom of the 9th inning. The Royals had been leading most of the game, but not anymore. The score was tied 6-6, after Tim Collins gave up a 2 run homer to the White Sox Brent Morel in the 8th. It had been a very enjoyable game, lots of offense, a homer for Moose, some stolen bases, just lots of action. Then, the lead we'd enjoyed evaporated, and we were on the brink of extra innings, or even a heartbreaking loss. That said, they had a 5 game winning streak going, and were playing with a lot of energy. So, hope remained. Isaiah is a true baseball lover. Whether he's watching on TV or watching at the stadium, he's into every pitch. He knows what's going on, and usually knows why. He was riveted. Alex Gordon led off the bottom of the 9th with a single to right. Cabrera bunted him to 2nd base. The White Sox then intentionally walked Billy Butler.....my favorite player, much to the chagrin of the raucus remaining crowd. Then, Eric Hosmer stepped to the plate. Hos has superstar written all over him. He's a rookie with a special glove at 1st base, and extra special zip in his bat. My prediction is that the Royals will trade him when he's about to enter free agency, and he will replace Mark Texiera at 1st base for the Yankees the following year. I hope that won't be the case; but that's what I forsee. As Isaiah can tell you, one reason to walk Butler to get to Hosmer is to set up the lefty vs lefty matchup, which typically favors the pitcher. But, this night was special. You could feel it in the unseasonably chilly air, in the enthusiasm and energy of this, the youngest team in the league, echoed back to them by their faithful, long-suffering fans. This, would be a night to remember.
So, there I stood, fists in the air, cheering at the top of my lungs, as the ball jumped off Hosmer's bat bound for left field, just over the glove of Juan Pierre. There I stood, and there I cheered as Alex scored the game winning run, and as the team dog-piled Hosmer behind the pitcher's mound. And there I stood, looking down at my nephews cheering wildly, Isaiah jumping up and down for a good 2 minutes, overcome with excitement and exuberance. After all, he's a Royals fan. There I stood, as my fondest hopes for this game came to fruition, a walk off win in the bottom of the 9th. I loved the moment for myself; but that is lost in what I felt for what the moment meant, and I hope will always mean to my nephews. It was........perfect. There I stood, enjoying the perfect enjoyment my nephews got to experience on this, Josiah's 1st ever big league game, and a special night for us all.
(Saturday, 1pm)
So, there I sat, in a train themed restaurant at Crown Center, as the train dropped our orders off at our tables. We'd come to Union Station, in large part, for this train themed restaurant, which we'd walked across The Link to Crown Center to reach. (Sadly, I don't remember the name of the restaurant.) We had walked around Union Station for an hour or so late that morning, just looking around. The boys had so much fun in the model train room, darting from this display to that, loving trains as boys tend to do. There I sat, between Isaiah and Josiah, as the food arrived at our table via the train track above us. There I sat, as my oldest nephew, at 7 1/2 years, Isaiah, My-saiah, looked down at his old fashioned hot dog and said these words: "This is the best day ever." I'm sure parents love to hear those kinds of words. But so do uncles. I don't have any progeny; but I've got lots of kids, 1 niece, 5 nephews, and more cousins than I can count. I've got kids. And your heart just melts to see them so happy. "This is the best day ever." (Sigh.)
(Saturday, 2pm)
So, there I stood, bare-chested against the blustery breeze in the Union Station parking lot, wiping liquified excrement from my naked chest with a wet wipe. I'd been carrying little Jonathan, 2 1/2 months old, from the restaurant back over the Link to Union Station. We had made it all the way across the Link, and were descending the last stairs, when I noticed that my right nipple was wet. Now, I'm pretty sure I'm not lactating, so that seemed out of sorts for me. I picked Jonathan up off my left shoulder, where I'd most lately been carrying him, and moved him to my right. It was then that I noticed that most of the left side of my chest was wet, too. I held the little guy out from me, and saw that he had messed all the way through his clothes, and through mine, too. I'll not deny that I found it disgusting. We headed out to the car and the van to get him cleaned up and a change of clothes, and to get me cleaned up and a change of shirt, for which I'm most thankful I had the notion to pack. Mom had some wet wipes in the car, so I pulled off my shirt to clean up, and felt the 55 degrees most keenly, and the north wind most bitingly. I proceeded to wipe off my naked chest, there in the open, in the parking lot at Union Station. It was then that it occurred to me, that..........I am Uncle Greg. I am a lot of things: a Christian, a baseball fan, a music lover and occasional musician, a songwriter, a son, a brother, a grandson. But I think my most defining trait, is Uncle. I pitch batting practice. I make up dragon stories. I play with. I pray with. And I pray for. I sing to. I make laugh. I teach what little it is that I know. Sometimes I get to watch as my nephews jump for joy at the Royals game. Sometimes I get to listen as my nephews say "This is the best day ever." Sometimes I stand half naked in a brisk breeze wiping liquified baby poop off my bare chest in front of Union Station. And I wouldn't have it any other way. After all, I am Uncle Greg. And, Uncle Greg, am I.
So, there I stood, bare-chested against the blustery breeze in the Union Station parking lot, wiping liquified excrement from my naked chest with a wet wipe.
"A small price to pay for what you get in return. For what you get in return, it's a steal." Robert Guillaume as Isaac Jaffe in ABC's tragically short lived Sports Night
[Reader be warned.......this is a long one.]
(48 hours earlier......)
So, there I stood, on a thin pitcher's rubber in a dusty future location of the Fisher Family Field of Dreams, tossing pitch after pitch to my nephews. I'd paid about $10 for a set of bases from K-Mart a few days before, and the boys had been living it up playing ball in what will someday be a decent back yard. Right now, it's just post-construction dust & mess. But there isn't much more a 6 or 7 year old boy needs in order to have a ball playing ball than dust, mess, ball, & bat. I used to pitch a bit when I was a kid. This is greater somehow, more meaningful, more fun even. Isaiah & Josiah are both good hitters, so I've got to be on my toes. Josiah nearly sent me to the urologist with a sharply hit tennis ball about a month or so ago, so pitcher beware. It was Thursday morning, and we were all excited to be heading to Kansas City on Friday for Josiah's first ever Major League Baseball game, the Royals hosting the White Sox at Kauffman Stadium.
I'd say that playing baseball that day was a physical appetizer for the game Friday; but that would suggest that baseball isn't an everyday part of their lives, which it is. My nephews come from a long line of baseball people. Their mother, my baby sister, Kelley, is a life-long Royals fan. Their uncle, Greg (aka, me), is a huge and long-suffering Royals fan, like my parents before me. Their father, my brother in law, Grady, is, if possible, an even bigger baseball fan than I am, just like his father before him. My nephews come from a mixed baseball marriage. Their mother is a Royals fan, and their father is a Cardinals fan. They're raising them up to appreciate both. But, as often happens in such homes, the battle lines are already drawn. Kelley & Isaiah prefer the Royals, but root for the Cards, as well. Grady and Josiah prefer the Cards, but root for the Royals, as well. As the younger boys, Eli, Gideon, and Jonathan, come of age, I suspect they'll choose a side, too. But this weekend, we're all Royals fans. This weekend is to be quite special. A first big league game is a rite of passage for a boy in their family. Last September, it was Isaiah's special day. This year, Josiah's. At some point during the week, the decision was made to take all 5 boys to Kansas City, and have my Mom watch Eli & Gideon in the hotel while the rest of us went to the game.
(Friday, circa 2pm)
So, there I sat, in a car with Eli, his Grandma & Grandpa, and me. It's about a 4 hour drive from our new house to Kansas City. Since Grady had been working on our new deck during the week, all the happy Goodwyns have been happy-ing at our new house of late. So, we piled into the Goodwyn's van and my folks' car, and ventured northward. It was a long drive, and tiring. It's odd how sitting in a car can be tiring. But it can. Mom was in the back trying to keep Eli entertained, and did a great job. He didn't jump out of the car a single time, and only once reached around Dad's head to cover his eyes while driving. (OK, that part, I made up.) Eli was good. He was tiring of playing dot-to-dot with his Grandma, so I convinced him to play 20 questions. I really didn't think he'd have the patience for it; but he did. He actually got into it & had fun. We made it to the hotel a little later than we'd planned, but weren't late. We caught the hotel shuttle from Holiday Inn, and headed for the game.
(Friday evening)
So, there I sat, in a sweatshirt & shorts, enduring the chilly temperature and intermittent rain of an unusually cool Kansas City September evening, surrounded on all sides by a gaggle of screaming adolescent girls. I mean no offense here, honestly; but there is no sound in all the natural world louder than a herd of teenage or pre-teen girls. At what point, and to what point, do they learn that piercing, shrill, spine-tingling woot? There was a girls softball team in the 2 rows in front of us and some of the row behind us. Our seats were pretty good. We were in the 3rd row on the right field line, about half way between the foul (fair) pole and 1st base. The girls, God bless them, screamed non stop from before the 1st pitch till the fireworks after the game. They'd scream, woot, scream, woot, laugh, scream, woot, complain about how they're losing their voices, and then scream some more. They directed most of their screams at one Jeff Fancoeur, the very popular right fielder in his 1st year with the Royals.
It's nigh on impossible not to love Frenchie. He plays very hard, hustles, has a flat out cannon for an arm, is active in charities and church, and absolutely ALWAYS has a smile on his face. He's having his best year as a big leaguer, and seems to love it in KC, which automatically endears him to the Royals fans. Well, this screaming gaggle of teenage girls spent the whole evening screaming in his direction. You'd think he were a Beatle during the 1960's. Long about the 3rd or 4th inning, as he was running out to take his posistion in right field, and the girls were screaming like a battalion of banshees, he did acknowledge them with a quick wave. They loved that. And so they screamed. Long about the 8th inning, maybe only the 7th, when Frenchie ran to take the field, he didn't take his normal, direct route. Oh, no. He ran right along the outfield wall, right up to those screaming teens, and threw them a glove's worth of candy, gum, and sunflower seed packages, one of which was open, indicating to the lucky girl who'd caught it that Frenchie, himself, had been eating out of it. Well, those girls went absolutely NUTS! They screamed, they swooned, they screamed some more. The volume was extreme, but it was really kind of heartwarming. Francoeur gave those girls a thrill they'll never forget. Heck, I'll never forget it either.
(Friday, circa 10pm)
So, there I sat, alongside my oldest nephew, Isaiah, in the bottom of the 9th inning. The Royals had been leading most of the game, but not anymore. The score was tied 6-6, after Tim Collins gave up a 2 run homer to the White Sox Brent Morel in the 8th. It had been a very enjoyable game, lots of offense, a homer for Moose, some stolen bases, just lots of action. Then, the lead we'd enjoyed evaporated, and we were on the brink of extra innings, or even a heartbreaking loss. That said, they had a 5 game winning streak going, and were playing with a lot of energy. So, hope remained. Isaiah is a true baseball lover. Whether he's watching on TV or watching at the stadium, he's into every pitch. He knows what's going on, and usually knows why. He was riveted. Alex Gordon led off the bottom of the 9th with a single to right. Cabrera bunted him to 2nd base. The White Sox then intentionally walked Billy Butler.....my favorite player, much to the chagrin of the raucus remaining crowd. Then, Eric Hosmer stepped to the plate. Hos has superstar written all over him. He's a rookie with a special glove at 1st base, and extra special zip in his bat. My prediction is that the Royals will trade him when he's about to enter free agency, and he will replace Mark Texiera at 1st base for the Yankees the following year. I hope that won't be the case; but that's what I forsee. As Isaiah can tell you, one reason to walk Butler to get to Hosmer is to set up the lefty vs lefty matchup, which typically favors the pitcher. But, this night was special. You could feel it in the unseasonably chilly air, in the enthusiasm and energy of this, the youngest team in the league, echoed back to them by their faithful, long-suffering fans. This, would be a night to remember.
So, there I stood, fists in the air, cheering at the top of my lungs, as the ball jumped off Hosmer's bat bound for left field, just over the glove of Juan Pierre. There I stood, and there I cheered as Alex scored the game winning run, and as the team dog-piled Hosmer behind the pitcher's mound. And there I stood, looking down at my nephews cheering wildly, Isaiah jumping up and down for a good 2 minutes, overcome with excitement and exuberance. After all, he's a Royals fan. There I stood, as my fondest hopes for this game came to fruition, a walk off win in the bottom of the 9th. I loved the moment for myself; but that is lost in what I felt for what the moment meant, and I hope will always mean to my nephews. It was........perfect. There I stood, enjoying the perfect enjoyment my nephews got to experience on this, Josiah's 1st ever big league game, and a special night for us all.
(Saturday, 1pm)
So, there I sat, in a train themed restaurant at Crown Center, as the train dropped our orders off at our tables. We'd come to Union Station, in large part, for this train themed restaurant, which we'd walked across The Link to Crown Center to reach. (Sadly, I don't remember the name of the restaurant.) We had walked around Union Station for an hour or so late that morning, just looking around. The boys had so much fun in the model train room, darting from this display to that, loving trains as boys tend to do. There I sat, between Isaiah and Josiah, as the food arrived at our table via the train track above us. There I sat, as my oldest nephew, at 7 1/2 years, Isaiah, My-saiah, looked down at his old fashioned hot dog and said these words: "This is the best day ever." I'm sure parents love to hear those kinds of words. But so do uncles. I don't have any progeny; but I've got lots of kids, 1 niece, 5 nephews, and more cousins than I can count. I've got kids. And your heart just melts to see them so happy. "This is the best day ever." (Sigh.)
(Saturday, 2pm)
So, there I stood, bare-chested against the blustery breeze in the Union Station parking lot, wiping liquified excrement from my naked chest with a wet wipe. I'd been carrying little Jonathan, 2 1/2 months old, from the restaurant back over the Link to Union Station. We had made it all the way across the Link, and were descending the last stairs, when I noticed that my right nipple was wet. Now, I'm pretty sure I'm not lactating, so that seemed out of sorts for me. I picked Jonathan up off my left shoulder, where I'd most lately been carrying him, and moved him to my right. It was then that I noticed that most of the left side of my chest was wet, too. I held the little guy out from me, and saw that he had messed all the way through his clothes, and through mine, too. I'll not deny that I found it disgusting. We headed out to the car and the van to get him cleaned up and a change of clothes, and to get me cleaned up and a change of shirt, for which I'm most thankful I had the notion to pack. Mom had some wet wipes in the car, so I pulled off my shirt to clean up, and felt the 55 degrees most keenly, and the north wind most bitingly. I proceeded to wipe off my naked chest, there in the open, in the parking lot at Union Station. It was then that it occurred to me, that..........I am Uncle Greg. I am a lot of things: a Christian, a baseball fan, a music lover and occasional musician, a songwriter, a son, a brother, a grandson. But I think my most defining trait, is Uncle. I pitch batting practice. I make up dragon stories. I play with. I pray with. And I pray for. I sing to. I make laugh. I teach what little it is that I know. Sometimes I get to watch as my nephews jump for joy at the Royals game. Sometimes I get to listen as my nephews say "This is the best day ever." Sometimes I stand half naked in a brisk breeze wiping liquified baby poop off my bare chest in front of Union Station. And I wouldn't have it any other way. After all, I am Uncle Greg. And, Uncle Greg, am I.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
9/11/01 (Where I was)
"The world is changed: I feel it in the water, I feel it in the earth, I smell it in the air...Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it." Galadriel, from the opening monologue of Fellowship of the Ring
That quote has nothing to do with 9/11/01. But it also has everything to do with it. Things have never been the same since that day. We eat; we sleep; we pray; we laugh; we love. But everything is different now. Or, at least, since that day, our eyes have been opened to how different things already were. For many, it took their life, or the life or lives of loved ones. For many, it took that basic sense of security, that feeling of invulnerability here in our homeland. It left in its wake: wounds, both physical and emotional; empty seats at the dinner table, empty beds in the bedroom, empty homes, empty hearts.
You should know before reading further, that I've nothing profound or earth-shattereing to say here. Comparativley speaking, my story of 9/11/01 is mild. I was half a continent away from New York & Washington, D.C. I only knew one person in NYC at the time, and he was perfectly safe. But every American alive and aware on that day has a story to tell, a story of where he was at that moment, of what he saw, heard, and felt when it happened, when the world changed. My story is unremarkable, even dull. But it's one I'll never forget.
I was in college at Missouri Southern at the time, as I was for a very long time. It would have been a great day for me. I had a voice lesson scheduled at 10:00 am. Then Concert Choir at noon, and a voice studio class at 1 pm, then on to work at 3:30 pm. Of course, none of those things happened. All that had been scheduled was changed. After all, all that we knew was changed that day. I slept till 8:30 or so, then started getting ready for my day. I went into my bathroom to shower, turning on a CD to play while I got clean and dressed. I grabbed some breakfast, a strawberry Pop Tart, & headed out the door without ever having turned on radio or TV. I lived just over 30 minutes from the campus, and always drove through Neosho on the way. I was warming up for my voice lesson in the car, as I sometimes did; so I hadn't turned on the radio till I reached the stoplight by Wal Mart in Neosho. My radio was tuned to 103.5, which was at the time an Oldies station out of Pittsburg, KS. I'll never forget the song that was playing when I turned on the radio: "If You Want to Be Happy for the Rest of Your Life, don't go make a pretty woman your wife." The song finished, and they immediately cut away to CNN.
That was it. That was the moment the world changed for me. The last thing I heard before learning of these attacks was that song. It's such a crazy juxtaposition. This light-hearted, fun, frivolous tune from the 60's immediately followed by death and destruction, and a loss of our perception of safety and security. The second tower had just been hit when they cut away to CNN. It took a couple of minutes to realize exactly what the reporters were talking about. I was dazed, like I'd been hit in the head with a hammer or something. Your mind won't process certain information of that intensity. It tries to protect you by fogging up the information; the information won't make any sense, as if it were given in a foreign language you only partly understand. The fog started to clear, and I began to realize this was real. People were dying, many people were injured. People were fleeing for their lives.
By the time I got to campus, they had set up a TV in the band room, and several of us were watching it in there. You all know the images we saw that day. Images of planes crashing into buildings, of towers falling to the street, of mountains of dust chasing terrified people down the street. Later, we learned of so many heroes, many of them fallen, each of them worthy of rememberance. And we remember. And we mourn. And we take extra precautions. And we go on with day to day living, in the shadow cast by the events of that day. We'll never quite make it out of that shadow. But light still shines on us despite it. And, so....we eat; we sleep; we pray; we laugh; and we love. And, again, we mourn. To some degree, I think we'll always mourn. We mourn the lives lost, the securiy lost, and the innocence lost. Ten years. So long ago, and yet it also seems like just yesterday.
God bless you, you who were injured or killed in the attacks. God bless you, you who live on in their absence. God bless you, you who heroically labor to keep us safe from such attacks in the future. God bless you, bless you, and bless you again, you who risk your lives to rescue us when we're in danger from fire, from accident, and from enemy without or within. But most of all, God Bless America. May we always follow Him, praise Him, serve Him, love Him, thank Him, for all He's given, all He's done, all He's provided, and all He is.
That quote has nothing to do with 9/11/01. But it also has everything to do with it. Things have never been the same since that day. We eat; we sleep; we pray; we laugh; we love. But everything is different now. Or, at least, since that day, our eyes have been opened to how different things already were. For many, it took their life, or the life or lives of loved ones. For many, it took that basic sense of security, that feeling of invulnerability here in our homeland. It left in its wake: wounds, both physical and emotional; empty seats at the dinner table, empty beds in the bedroom, empty homes, empty hearts.
You should know before reading further, that I've nothing profound or earth-shattereing to say here. Comparativley speaking, my story of 9/11/01 is mild. I was half a continent away from New York & Washington, D.C. I only knew one person in NYC at the time, and he was perfectly safe. But every American alive and aware on that day has a story to tell, a story of where he was at that moment, of what he saw, heard, and felt when it happened, when the world changed. My story is unremarkable, even dull. But it's one I'll never forget.
I was in college at Missouri Southern at the time, as I was for a very long time. It would have been a great day for me. I had a voice lesson scheduled at 10:00 am. Then Concert Choir at noon, and a voice studio class at 1 pm, then on to work at 3:30 pm. Of course, none of those things happened. All that had been scheduled was changed. After all, all that we knew was changed that day. I slept till 8:30 or so, then started getting ready for my day. I went into my bathroom to shower, turning on a CD to play while I got clean and dressed. I grabbed some breakfast, a strawberry Pop Tart, & headed out the door without ever having turned on radio or TV. I lived just over 30 minutes from the campus, and always drove through Neosho on the way. I was warming up for my voice lesson in the car, as I sometimes did; so I hadn't turned on the radio till I reached the stoplight by Wal Mart in Neosho. My radio was tuned to 103.5, which was at the time an Oldies station out of Pittsburg, KS. I'll never forget the song that was playing when I turned on the radio: "If You Want to Be Happy for the Rest of Your Life, don't go make a pretty woman your wife." The song finished, and they immediately cut away to CNN.
That was it. That was the moment the world changed for me. The last thing I heard before learning of these attacks was that song. It's such a crazy juxtaposition. This light-hearted, fun, frivolous tune from the 60's immediately followed by death and destruction, and a loss of our perception of safety and security. The second tower had just been hit when they cut away to CNN. It took a couple of minutes to realize exactly what the reporters were talking about. I was dazed, like I'd been hit in the head with a hammer or something. Your mind won't process certain information of that intensity. It tries to protect you by fogging up the information; the information won't make any sense, as if it were given in a foreign language you only partly understand. The fog started to clear, and I began to realize this was real. People were dying, many people were injured. People were fleeing for their lives.
By the time I got to campus, they had set up a TV in the band room, and several of us were watching it in there. You all know the images we saw that day. Images of planes crashing into buildings, of towers falling to the street, of mountains of dust chasing terrified people down the street. Later, we learned of so many heroes, many of them fallen, each of them worthy of rememberance. And we remember. And we mourn. And we take extra precautions. And we go on with day to day living, in the shadow cast by the events of that day. We'll never quite make it out of that shadow. But light still shines on us despite it. And, so....we eat; we sleep; we pray; we laugh; and we love. And, again, we mourn. To some degree, I think we'll always mourn. We mourn the lives lost, the securiy lost, and the innocence lost. Ten years. So long ago, and yet it also seems like just yesterday.
God bless you, you who were injured or killed in the attacks. God bless you, you who live on in their absence. God bless you, you who heroically labor to keep us safe from such attacks in the future. God bless you, bless you, and bless you again, you who risk your lives to rescue us when we're in danger from fire, from accident, and from enemy without or within. But most of all, God Bless America. May we always follow Him, praise Him, serve Him, love Him, thank Him, for all He's given, all He's done, all He's provided, and all He is.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
What it is to Love a Loser
I'm a Royals fan. No......really. A huge Royals fan. Seriously. I know, I know. The Royals are losers. The Royals have lost more games in the past 18 seasons than any other team in baseball, and found new and creative ways to lose games, lose players, lose seasons, lose fans, and lose respectability. Losers. But they've never lost me. And they never will. (FYI......shocking as it may seem, I'm not alone.)
from the movie, Fever Pitch, as Ben reveals his sad love of the Red Sox
"Ben: I like being part of something that's bigger than me, than I. It's good for your soul to invest in something you can't control.
Lindsey Meeks: You're a romantic. You have a lyrical soul. You can love under the best and worst conditions."
I have this friend who is a lifelong Yankees fan. (And we're friends?) His team has the richest history, most resources, the biggest fan base, and the largest TV revenue stream, allowing them to spend more, obtain the best players, cover development and free agent mistakes, and above all.....to win, win often, and win big. The Royals have none of the above. I've absolutely no idea why my friend is a Yankees fan, as he grew up in Joplin, Missouri. He's known losses, and heartache, just not in the same way that I have. You could equate it to the fact that I know pain, because I've stubbed my toe on many occasions. But I don't know pain in the same way that my baby sister does, as she's birthed 5 boys, the most recent of which was all natural, and within earshot of her older brother. (But that's a whole other blog post.) I think of baseball fandom as a marriage. "For better or worse" is all well and good, so long as it's all better, and no worse. But what about when it's all worse, and no better. That is what it is to love truly. That is what it is to love a loser. That's what it is to love the Royals.
So why would anybody actually do it, love a loser? I suppose one reason my friend, Steven, roots for the Yankees is simply.......'cause they win. You can count on them to spend many times what most teams can afford, and there is a correllation between spending and winning. (Note: spending doesn't mean you'll win. Bad decisions can come with huge price tags. But not spending is a guarantee of losing. Not spending for 25 years is a guarantee of losing for a long, long time.) I think it must be easy to root for the Yankees, knowing that most of the time your team will be in the hunt for a championship. But why root for the Royals, or the Pirates, or the Mariners, or the Padres, or any of the teams who've found new and heartbreaking ways to flounder in their own filth?
For me, it's because I grew up with the Royals. I grew up about an hour from Kansas City, watching, at the time, one of the great teams in baseball. I grew up watching Frank White make spectacular play after spectacular play, leaping into the air to snag a line drive, or turning the sweetest of double plays at second base, with the runner bearing down on him. (Frank remains my all time favorite Royal.) I grew up watching Willie Wilson fly around the bases for an inside the park home run, or leaping over the outfield wall to steal a home run. I grew up watching Dan Quisenberry submarine his way to subtlely, silently, being the best reliever in baseball, without bravado, fanfare, or arrogance. I grew up watching George Brett hit clutch homer, after clutch double, after late inning Gossage beating homer. George was the greatest Royal in team history. I loved him. But he was never my favorite Royal.
Maybe the fact that George Brett was never my favorite Royal is a part of this whole "why love the Royals" question. Sure, I enjoyed the winning. I loved the celebration after winning a Division, or a League, or a World Series. Of course I did. But I think the thing I loved most was just that they were "my" team. Those were "my" Royals. In those days, my favorite players were Frank White, Willie Wilson, and going even further back, Freddie Patek. Remember him? Probably not. But he was my favorite player when I was first old enough to have a favorite player. He was a 5 feet 4 (maybe 5) inch shortsop for my beloved Royals when I was 4, 5, 6, years old, when my love of baseball was first forming. He played hard, he played fast; but he was never great. He was, however, mine. I didn't cheer for him because he hit titanic homers. I cheered for him because he was my shortstop.
And I don't love the Royals for their rich, allbeit almost ancient, history of greatness. Nor do I love them because of their truly bright future. (see Alex Gordon, Eric Hosmer, Billy Butler, Alcides Escobar, Johnny Giavotella, Salvador Perez, Will Myers, Christian Colon, and the rest of baseballs greatest ever farm system.) Though I do think the highs will be that much sweeter after the depth and duration of the lows. No, I love them simply because they are my team. Those are not just the Kansas City Royals out there. They are MY Kansas City Royals. Always have been. Always will be. And I love them for that. Till death do us part. Perhaps, like Ben Wrightman in Fever Pitch, I'm a romantic, with a lyrical soul, who can "love under the best and worst conditions." And I can live with that. On the other hand, perhaps I'm just a fool. (But a fool who's true to his heart, and true to his team.) Maybe the Royals will be good next year. Maybe not. Either way, they'll still be MY Royals. Go get 'em, Royals. I'm right behind you.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Moving......(ugh) And Creativity Lost (sigh)
I've been mostly absent from facebook, twitter, and this new blog for the past couple of weeks. It's not that I haven't had time. (Though, I really haven't.) It's just that I haven't had the mental energy & creativity to say anything important, clever, inspirational, or humorous......... or even to think anything important, clever, inspirational, or humorous. I've been at it from about 6am to midnight for about 2 weeks, what with cleaning the old apartment, packing the old apartment, taking a load of formerly beloved now 100% junk from the old apartment to the dump, taping the trim in the new house, putting plastic on the floors of the new house, helping Wes texture the living room and master bedroom in the new house, giving up on texturing the rest of the new house due to the sheer enormity of the task and its spectacular messiness, almost helping Wes paint the new house, moving myself into the new house, driving to my folks' old house to pack them up, moving them to the new house, unpacking their mountains of stuff from their old house.........oh, and working my regular job.
One thing I've learned over the years is that when I'm mentally exhausted, for whatever reason, I don't create anything. Not music, poetry, story, or even a well crafted pun. I noticed a few years ago that when we are busiest at work, I don't write. When I'm stressed out from work, I don't write. Often, I don't even sing or play. I envy those people who can work their 40 hours and still find, not the physical strength, but the mental agility and creative verve to paint a landscape, or write a book, or tell their nephews an even half decent dragon story. I've long since given up the hope of making a living from my music; but I do think it would be nice, in a pipe-dreamy sort of way, to be able to spend all my mental energy on creating new words and tunes, and not give any thought whatsover to how to cover which shift at work because someone wants off, or how to get all these info requests answered, or how to scrape along with less staff than we need because of how hard the economy has hit us in Branson, or how to make this payment on time, or how to be there for friends in need, or how to cope with the guilt I feel for not having been able to be there for friends in need.
But I do spend mental energy on those things, each and every one, over and over. I think we get more and more weighed down with the cares of this world as we grow older. When you're a little kid, all you really have to worry about is getting your homework done, completing a chore or two, getting home on time from riding your bike to play at a friend's house, or, on occasion, pleasing your parents just for pleasing's sake. You really are care-free as a child, simply because the cares of life haven't caught up to you yet. During those years, you create constantly: playing with toys, inventing new games, all kinds of make believe friends and foes, worlds and roles. Then you hit high school, and you have so much more to worry about: fitting in, getting good grades (ideally), and wondering where life will take you, and with whom. Then college, which for some of us was an extraordinarily long time, worring about paying tuition, paying rent, paying the piper for how you paid tuition and rent down the road. And you create less. You're busy, you're stressed from studying and working. You no longer invent new worlds and new games. Then after college, adult life really sets in. Bills, politics, bosses, employees, gas prices, national debt, personal debt, raising a family, and on, and on, and on. And your creative juices flow less freely, less fondly, less formidablly. I think that's why Willie Nelson wrote in "My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys" the words, "I let the words of my youth fade away."
I've never been a prolific songwriter, usually 4 to 6 songs per year. Then, a few years ago, that turned into 1 song, maybe 2, per year. And that creative slow down coincides almost precisely with when I began my current job. I don't say that to imply that I regret having my job or doing my job. But, it can be stressful, here in the mundane melancholy of middle management. And I sometimes wonder if I might be just a little bit more creative if I were just a little less consumed with my work. Or, perhaps, that's just part of growing older, or perhaps growing up. Oh, to be Peter Pan in Neverland! Maybe I could write a song about it. But that would be creating. (sigh)
p.s. That said, I've nearly finished a song this week that I began about 3 years ago. Just deciding whether or not it truly needs a bridge. I hate to follow convention just for convention's sake, you know
p.p.s. In the spirit of "My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys" here's a Cowboy by the name of Rolla Ray Fisher, my Grandpa, long before I was a glint in his progeny's eye.
One thing I've learned over the years is that when I'm mentally exhausted, for whatever reason, I don't create anything. Not music, poetry, story, or even a well crafted pun. I noticed a few years ago that when we are busiest at work, I don't write. When I'm stressed out from work, I don't write. Often, I don't even sing or play. I envy those people who can work their 40 hours and still find, not the physical strength, but the mental agility and creative verve to paint a landscape, or write a book, or tell their nephews an even half decent dragon story. I've long since given up the hope of making a living from my music; but I do think it would be nice, in a pipe-dreamy sort of way, to be able to spend all my mental energy on creating new words and tunes, and not give any thought whatsover to how to cover which shift at work because someone wants off, or how to get all these info requests answered, or how to scrape along with less staff than we need because of how hard the economy has hit us in Branson, or how to make this payment on time, or how to be there for friends in need, or how to cope with the guilt I feel for not having been able to be there for friends in need.
But I do spend mental energy on those things, each and every one, over and over. I think we get more and more weighed down with the cares of this world as we grow older. When you're a little kid, all you really have to worry about is getting your homework done, completing a chore or two, getting home on time from riding your bike to play at a friend's house, or, on occasion, pleasing your parents just for pleasing's sake. You really are care-free as a child, simply because the cares of life haven't caught up to you yet. During those years, you create constantly: playing with toys, inventing new games, all kinds of make believe friends and foes, worlds and roles. Then you hit high school, and you have so much more to worry about: fitting in, getting good grades (ideally), and wondering where life will take you, and with whom. Then college, which for some of us was an extraordinarily long time, worring about paying tuition, paying rent, paying the piper for how you paid tuition and rent down the road. And you create less. You're busy, you're stressed from studying and working. You no longer invent new worlds and new games. Then after college, adult life really sets in. Bills, politics, bosses, employees, gas prices, national debt, personal debt, raising a family, and on, and on, and on. And your creative juices flow less freely, less fondly, less formidablly. I think that's why Willie Nelson wrote in "My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys" the words, "I let the words of my youth fade away."
I've never been a prolific songwriter, usually 4 to 6 songs per year. Then, a few years ago, that turned into 1 song, maybe 2, per year. And that creative slow down coincides almost precisely with when I began my current job. I don't say that to imply that I regret having my job or doing my job. But, it can be stressful, here in the mundane melancholy of middle management. And I sometimes wonder if I might be just a little bit more creative if I were just a little less consumed with my work. Or, perhaps, that's just part of growing older, or perhaps growing up. Oh, to be Peter Pan in Neverland! Maybe I could write a song about it. But that would be creating. (sigh)
p.s. That said, I've nearly finished a song this week that I began about 3 years ago. Just deciding whether or not it truly needs a bridge. I hate to follow convention just for convention's sake, you know
p.p.s. In the spirit of "My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys" here's a Cowboy by the name of Rolla Ray Fisher, my Grandpa, long before I was a glint in his progeny's eye.
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| R.R. Fisher, Grandpa |
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