I have been told on more than one occasion that I am naive. I try to believe the best in people, and I often give people more credit than they necessarily deserve. I have faith in the good side of humanity, and I trust in each person's ability to redeem themselves if redemption is what they really want. To me, this is optimistic and far preferable to the alternative, but to others, I am apparently - hopelessly - naive. I admit that sometimes I may deserve this title, but other times I am shocked by the audacious person before me who feels compelled to make such a sharp judgment against someone they barely know (and thus my optimism works against me!).
The first time I recall being labeled naive, I was a junior in college. I had just transferred from my community college, and I was taking Playwriting I. The instructor was a less-than-pleasant man who wanted so badly to be artsy and unusual that he wrote page-long descriptions of one paragraph assignments and then read them to us as a class, each one topping the last on how we needed to "play" with the assignment, "dance" with the requirements, and, finally, make our products "sparkle." Yes, he used those words in exactly those ways.
As the class progressed, I found myself disagreeing on more than one occasion with another student, a man who spent more time instructing people on how to pronounce his last name than he did actually working in theater. On this day, however, we were debating the purpose and motivation of writing. This man, a self-proclaimed artiste, explained that it was necessary to put his art aside in order to cater to the masses (cue dramatic music). I, of course, disagreed. I replied that, while his method may have worked wonders for the likes of Louisa May Alcott and Margaret Mitchell, it was unlikely to produce a satisfied artist. Instead, I explained, I wrote (and write) for myself. I write what I want to write, when I want to write it, and if I never stage a play or sell a novel, so be it. The disgruntled artiste promptly told me I was naive for thinking any successful artist behaved in such a manner. Just as I came up with a response more artistic than "Bite me," the instructor cut us off. That was the last time I engaged in a conversation with that student.
After I finished my undergraduate work, I moved to upstate New York to work on my M.A. After a long semester of semiotics, hermaneutics, and hundreds of hours ensconced in theory that I promptly forgot, I found myself taking a very enjoyable class on literature by ethnic women. As a starting piece, however, our professor assigned "The Yellow Wall-paper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Now this professor was an incredibly impressive woman who deserved no small amount of praise for her work and intellect, and I would have been happy to worship her accordingly had she not been so busy telling me how much praise she deserved. That being said, the overall class was great and I still build upon the foundation of knowledge she set for me. With this particular story, however, our ultra-feminista professor lectured us on how all women fall victims to men much like the woman in this story. She wailed about the loss of livelihood that each woman experiences when she sacrifices (yes, sacrifices) her self and her future at the hands of her controlling husband (cue more dramatic music). When I tried to explain how I felt that surely not all women lived like this, I was once again branded "naive."
So, there you have it. Call me optimistic, call me naive, call me whatever you want. I will continue to believe in the good side of humanity and assume that everything is going well, and I will be happy. You will be next to me, judging me, labeling me, and ultimately calling me naive. Luckily, I'm optimistic that you will change your mind.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
From the Mouths of Strangers
Everyday I drive to work and use the back road to get there. Each day I pass a sharp curve in the road with a guard rail, and each day I notice the blue and orange ribbons on the guard rail. I slow down, think about the ambiguous accident the ribbons must represent, and I go on with my day. I have done this everyday that I've driven to work for the last three years. Today, I found out why.
Today was a different day for me. I taught, I held office hours, I grew frustrated with a student, laughed with some coworkers, and left. Today, however, I stayed late to have lunch with a friend of mine, a man I always refer to as Gorgeous (because he is!). We talked and laughed, and overall it was a very enjoyable meal, but the result was that I left work much later than usual. I took my usual route home, thinking all the way how much I wanted to get home in time to rest for just an hour before I picked up Ellie. As the saying goes, we make plans . . . God laughs.
Today I found myself immersed in surprising midday traffic, and when I passed the guard rail with the ribbons I barely glanced over, yet I saw just enough to realize there was a man with the ribbons today. I don't know what compelled me to do this (although I have a guess), but I stopped. I turned my car around, and I returned to the ribbons. As I walked up to the man, he noticed me and offered a greeting. As he did so, he began to cry. I greeted in kind and asked him if he wanted to talk about what brought him there today. His story changed my life.
To protect his identity I will refer to him by his initials, P. J. C. I soon learned that PJC comes to this spot every month, close to the 21st, and puts up fresh ribbons and flowers. On January 21, 2007, PJC and his two sons were on a lengthy and enjoyable motorcycle ride together, partly to rejoice in the fact that they all lived close to each other once again (the oldest son, B. J. C., had just returned to the area two weeks earlier). PJC lead the ride up until they reached the train tracks at the intersection right before the guard rail. As the train neared its end, PJC motioned for BJC to take the lead. He did, but, tragically, he was overzealous in his enthusiasm on an unfamiliar road. He lost control of his bike on the curve, slid along the pavement, and died instantly. PJC and his other son, R. J. C., did everything they could for him, but it was too late. At the young age of twenty-five, BJC died.
I listened to this man talk for two hours about who his son was, what he did with his life, and the miracles the man and his family have experienced since losing their oldest son. He spoke of yellow butterflies representing lost loved ones in his wife's family, and as he did so, two yellow butterflies came to our spot on the road. He spoke of numbers representing importance in his family and reappearing in various parts of their lives. He spoke of favored songs played in unlikely places, best friends and former bosses offering tributes, former girlfriends coming from near and far, all to help remember and honor his son. As he spoke, I found myself caught up in the story he had to offer about bereavement and loss turning to hope and faith.
I don't mean for this story to sound overly sentimental and optimistic. PJC and his wife are far from "over" their son's death, and he said with some confidence that he will still be on the side of the road around this time next month. However, he will do so knowing his son is in Heaven and he is there for a reason. After he finished, he asked what brought me to this spot, and so I offered minimal details of my own story. We connected, this stranger and I, and we don't even know each other. We shared stories, we cried, and then we parted ways with only the promise of prayers for each other's future.
To many, this story will seem overly trite and unlikely. To others it may seem like a foolish decision to stop on a highway to speak to a strange man. Still others will see this story as evidence of His work as they already know is likely to happen. To me and to him, PJC, it's another day, another moment to grieve, and another person to share an experience we can only pray will remain a mystery to our well-intentioned friends and family. And it's another reason to thank Him for the strange and unexpected gifts He brings to our lives, including this experience.
Today was a different day for me. I taught, I held office hours, I grew frustrated with a student, laughed with some coworkers, and left. Today, however, I stayed late to have lunch with a friend of mine, a man I always refer to as Gorgeous (because he is!). We talked and laughed, and overall it was a very enjoyable meal, but the result was that I left work much later than usual. I took my usual route home, thinking all the way how much I wanted to get home in time to rest for just an hour before I picked up Ellie. As the saying goes, we make plans . . . God laughs.
Today I found myself immersed in surprising midday traffic, and when I passed the guard rail with the ribbons I barely glanced over, yet I saw just enough to realize there was a man with the ribbons today. I don't know what compelled me to do this (although I have a guess), but I stopped. I turned my car around, and I returned to the ribbons. As I walked up to the man, he noticed me and offered a greeting. As he did so, he began to cry. I greeted in kind and asked him if he wanted to talk about what brought him there today. His story changed my life.
To protect his identity I will refer to him by his initials, P. J. C. I soon learned that PJC comes to this spot every month, close to the 21st, and puts up fresh ribbons and flowers. On January 21, 2007, PJC and his two sons were on a lengthy and enjoyable motorcycle ride together, partly to rejoice in the fact that they all lived close to each other once again (the oldest son, B. J. C., had just returned to the area two weeks earlier). PJC lead the ride up until they reached the train tracks at the intersection right before the guard rail. As the train neared its end, PJC motioned for BJC to take the lead. He did, but, tragically, he was overzealous in his enthusiasm on an unfamiliar road. He lost control of his bike on the curve, slid along the pavement, and died instantly. PJC and his other son, R. J. C., did everything they could for him, but it was too late. At the young age of twenty-five, BJC died.
I listened to this man talk for two hours about who his son was, what he did with his life, and the miracles the man and his family have experienced since losing their oldest son. He spoke of yellow butterflies representing lost loved ones in his wife's family, and as he did so, two yellow butterflies came to our spot on the road. He spoke of numbers representing importance in his family and reappearing in various parts of their lives. He spoke of favored songs played in unlikely places, best friends and former bosses offering tributes, former girlfriends coming from near and far, all to help remember and honor his son. As he spoke, I found myself caught up in the story he had to offer about bereavement and loss turning to hope and faith.
I don't mean for this story to sound overly sentimental and optimistic. PJC and his wife are far from "over" their son's death, and he said with some confidence that he will still be on the side of the road around this time next month. However, he will do so knowing his son is in Heaven and he is there for a reason. After he finished, he asked what brought me to this spot, and so I offered minimal details of my own story. We connected, this stranger and I, and we don't even know each other. We shared stories, we cried, and then we parted ways with only the promise of prayers for each other's future.
To many, this story will seem overly trite and unlikely. To others it may seem like a foolish decision to stop on a highway to speak to a strange man. Still others will see this story as evidence of His work as they already know is likely to happen. To me and to him, PJC, it's another day, another moment to grieve, and another person to share an experience we can only pray will remain a mystery to our well-intentioned friends and family. And it's another reason to thank Him for the strange and unexpected gifts He brings to our lives, including this experience.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Follow the Trail
I really try to practice what I preach. If I tell my students not to use Wikipedia, I don't use Wikipedia. If I tell my students to turn things on time . . . well, I try to turn things in close to on time. What I tell my students most often, however, is to follow the trail. These three words tend to answer most of their questions. Why am I failing? Well, let's see. You earned an F on your paper. You earned on F on your paper because it was half the required length. It was half the required length because you didn't know how long it was supposed to be. You didn't know how long it was supposed to be because you sleep through every class. So, to answer your question, you are failing because you sleep through class. And, problem solved!
I use the same approach to politics. Recently I had an argument with a close family member whom I often respect and admire, but this conversation left me baffled. Close Family Member (CFM) was excited because of a new bill that states an individual can not be responsible for more than 15% of the cost of COBRA. "That's great!" I told her, "where's the money coming from?" She explained that the former employer would have to cover the rest, which left me asking again, "But where's the money coming from?" She explained that the former employer would receive a tax credit for the 85% they paid for the individual COBRA plan. I, of course, asked again, "Where's the money coming from?" Somewhere in this plan, someone is paying for this. My tax dollars? Yours? Cuts in a budget that we otherwise consider important (such as education or defense)? I don't know, and neither did she. My point remains the same. You have to follow the trail if you want to fully understand a subject. The same is apparently true of my latest ventures and vexations.
My husband and I are in the process of trying to adopt. That's right. We are "in the process of" merely "trying to" adopt. We did the research, found an agency, followed the steps, filled out the application, and prepared for our meeting. Then we learned that they are only licensing families who will adopt children over the age of ten or sibling groups. In other words, they won't license us. No problem, there are many agencies out there. I tried going directly to Texas Department of Family and Protective Services. They are only licensing families willing to adopt sibling groups. I called another agency, and then another, and then another. We are ready to adopt. We are ready to take all the classes in the world in order to provide a home and family for a child in waiting. Unfortunately, the agencies are not ready for us. Each agent and/or representative said that the highest need for adoption right now belongs to sibling groups, so they are reserving their resources for those groups. I understand this, so I felt it was best to take my own advice and follow the trail. I am, after all, entirely new to this area and not well-versed in who is adopted each year versus who is entering the system. Here is what I found:
3,000+ Children currently available for adoption in Texas
29 Percentage of African-American children in "Substitute Care" in Texas
12 Percentage of African-American children in all of Texas
1 Number of meetings required to start the application process
30 Hours of classes to take before being cleared for licensure
4-6 Months typically pass between completing the license process and receiving a child
1-2 Years typically pass between completing the license process and receiving a child is unwilling to take a sibling group and/or a teenager
7-17 Age of children most likely waiting for adoption
$1,000 Cost that must be paid in installments in order to adopt
$1,000 Cost that is refunded to the family once the adoption is complete
I saw pictures of children, read profiles, and learned more about the countless young people waiting for true homes and families. I read stories about successful adoptions and adoptions gone wrong. I spoke to agents about children with behavioral disorders, abusive histories, and disabilities as a result of abuse and neglect. I followed every trail I could find, and each time I found obstacle after obstacle in the way of adopting, but at the end of the trail was a child who needs what I have to offer: a safe home and a family.
I know that we will adopt and soon enough we will have a child, but I will admit that facing all these obstacles almost a year after we got started (and admittedly put everything on hold) is discouraging. Equally discouraging is the number of people stating that we don't need to adopt because we can have biological children (true), we will put our family through considerable hardships by adopting (true), and so we shouldn't adopt (false). Which, of course, takes me back to following the trail. I admit to not knowing enough about adoption just yet, but I am learning. Meanwhile, I can't but wonder if more people wouldn't adopt, and if fewer people would object, if only they were willing to follow the trail as well.
This is where the trail starts: http://tare.dfps.state.tx.us/search/SearchResults.jsp
I use the same approach to politics. Recently I had an argument with a close family member whom I often respect and admire, but this conversation left me baffled. Close Family Member (CFM) was excited because of a new bill that states an individual can not be responsible for more than 15% of the cost of COBRA. "That's great!" I told her, "where's the money coming from?" She explained that the former employer would have to cover the rest, which left me asking again, "But where's the money coming from?" She explained that the former employer would receive a tax credit for the 85% they paid for the individual COBRA plan. I, of course, asked again, "Where's the money coming from?" Somewhere in this plan, someone is paying for this. My tax dollars? Yours? Cuts in a budget that we otherwise consider important (such as education or defense)? I don't know, and neither did she. My point remains the same. You have to follow the trail if you want to fully understand a subject. The same is apparently true of my latest ventures and vexations.
My husband and I are in the process of trying to adopt. That's right. We are "in the process of" merely "trying to" adopt. We did the research, found an agency, followed the steps, filled out the application, and prepared for our meeting. Then we learned that they are only licensing families who will adopt children over the age of ten or sibling groups. In other words, they won't license us. No problem, there are many agencies out there. I tried going directly to Texas Department of Family and Protective Services. They are only licensing families willing to adopt sibling groups. I called another agency, and then another, and then another. We are ready to adopt. We are ready to take all the classes in the world in order to provide a home and family for a child in waiting. Unfortunately, the agencies are not ready for us. Each agent and/or representative said that the highest need for adoption right now belongs to sibling groups, so they are reserving their resources for those groups. I understand this, so I felt it was best to take my own advice and follow the trail. I am, after all, entirely new to this area and not well-versed in who is adopted each year versus who is entering the system. Here is what I found:
3,000+ Children currently available for adoption in Texas
29 Percentage of African-American children in "Substitute Care" in Texas
12 Percentage of African-American children in all of Texas
1 Number of meetings required to start the application process
30 Hours of classes to take before being cleared for licensure
4-6 Months typically pass between completing the license process and receiving a child
1-2 Years typically pass between completing the license process and receiving a child is unwilling to take a sibling group and/or a teenager
7-17 Age of children most likely waiting for adoption
$1,000 Cost that must be paid in installments in order to adopt
$1,000 Cost that is refunded to the family once the adoption is complete
I saw pictures of children, read profiles, and learned more about the countless young people waiting for true homes and families. I read stories about successful adoptions and adoptions gone wrong. I spoke to agents about children with behavioral disorders, abusive histories, and disabilities as a result of abuse and neglect. I followed every trail I could find, and each time I found obstacle after obstacle in the way of adopting, but at the end of the trail was a child who needs what I have to offer: a safe home and a family.
I know that we will adopt and soon enough we will have a child, but I will admit that facing all these obstacles almost a year after we got started (and admittedly put everything on hold) is discouraging. Equally discouraging is the number of people stating that we don't need to adopt because we can have biological children (true), we will put our family through considerable hardships by adopting (true), and so we shouldn't adopt (false). Which, of course, takes me back to following the trail. I admit to not knowing enough about adoption just yet, but I am learning. Meanwhile, I can't but wonder if more people wouldn't adopt, and if fewer people would object, if only they were willing to follow the trail as well.
This is where the trail starts: http://tare.dfps.state.tx.us/search/SearchResults.jsp
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