So fall break has come and nearly gone, and another beach trip with it. I’m a lucky guy. I got to see this, and share it with my family.

There was swimming, and running, and jumping, and singing, and playing, and digging, and hugging, and laughing, (and a few exhaustion tears), and gumbo. Always gumbo, holding it all together.

Gumbo is an amazing dish. Separately, you have little that’s worth eating alone. I mean sure, shrimp is always great (and sausage), but the rest is just rice, flower, okra, onion, and oil. In other words, absolutely nothing to write home about (or blog about for that matter).

But when you mix them together, and add time and hard work (you’ve got to constantly stir the roux, or it will burn), leave them all to sit together overnight, and what comes out is pure magic.

Vacations are the same way. Play hard. Stir the pot by getting your girl to talk to you while hunting for crabs. And try not to get lost forever in her eyes.

Pay attention when the boy is singing “Hakuna Matata,” so you can sing the “No Worries” lyric at just the right moment.

Pay attention and give everything time to sit together overnight. What comes out is pure magic.

As I said, I’m a lucky guy.

__________

Some have noticed that I haven’t written as much lately. That I haven’t written nearly as much about the School Board as I was writing in the past.

Although I’m sure that I will be writing about our schools for a long time to come, there’s a simple explanation for that: As important as trying to keep the board honest and the superintendent focused on keeping our kids first is, honestly it’s about 99th on my top 100 list. (It’s slightly ahead of making sure the toilets are flushing correctly. A necessary, but completely unenjoyable task.)

In other words, there’s more to life than working to make our public officials do their jobs. Plus, when there’s always that one crazy guy who goes to the meetings and writes about the inane crap the board and super say and do, no one else thinks that they need to do the same.

And frankly, there’s just more important things to do, like spending time with my family as they grow. Because they’re the important ones.

And my time with them feels like it’s fading as the sun into the sea.

The post Of Gumbo and Sunsets appeared first on Geek Palaver.

On Sunday, September 16, 2001, I had the responsibility of coming up with words to fill the void that was very much alive and screaming from five days earlier. Those words were inadequate to the task.

Yes, poets, priest and politicians all have words to thank for their position. And I have played, at some level, all three.

But today requires something more than words can capture.

It requires an acknowledgement that sometimes, we just need to hush and listen. Even if there’s nothing to hear.

The post September 11, 2011: Silence appeared first on Geek Palaver.

Fair warning: This is a self-indulgent and selfish posting. There’s nothing unique here; every parent feels this way. Feel free to ignore.

Another Sunday, another early departure from Church for me and the boy.

I know that no one really understands anyone, but I wish I knew what upsets him so. What causes him to cry out, almost in pain, once the music stops? There shouldn’t be a wall between me and my boy.

But there is.

God, I’m sick of seeing through a mirror darkly.

I want to see my boy, face to face, eye to eye.

I want to know the boy behind those eyes.

Update: This afternoon, playing in the tub at Gaygay’s using his tub letters, the boy spelled out and read “Rabbit,” “Tigger,” and “Pooh.” Language is a beautiful thing.

Location:Esslinger Rd SE,Huntsville,United States

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Vacation – a time when we’re supposed to remove ourselves from our daily responsibilities and live it up, let our hair down (well for some of you), relax, and set aside the cares of this world. Even better, a vacation on a cruise ship provides further isolation from the world around us with no email, no phones…no contact. I though it also meant that I’d be able to take a break from the weekly responsibilities of a Bible teacher (or “discussion leader” as I’d prefer to call it). For this month our studies have focused on the life of Jeremiah, and we’ve learned much from his experiences. However, the preparation for these Old Testament texts is tedious and time consuming especially for me. I’m much more comfortable with New Testament scripture. Nevertheless, I’ve always benefited from the preparation likely more than the fellow learners in my class, even if it costs me a little rest. So, a vacation seemed like a good time to catch up on some rest since I wouldn’t have to prepare for one week of lesson.

Lesson #1: God doesn’t take vacations.

Sometimes God has to hit you on the head:

One of our excursions was a trip to the Mayan ruins at Uxmal (oosh-MAHL), a fascinating place complete with iguanas on every rock, a Mayan game field, temple grounds, and a grand pyramid. The pyramid was 150ft high and my son and I climbed to the top to experience a breathtaking view. You could see for miles over the tree line in every direction from our vantage point. The trip up the hundreds of steps was fairly easy…the trip down for me was not. I made it down to a large platform about 5ft off the rocky ground around the pyramid and took my last step. As I planted my foot on the ground I somehow lost my balance and wound up falling face first onto a nearby rock. What was a fun experience now turned into what seemed like a life-threatening one as I realized that blood was leaving my head and nose at an alarming rate.

As I sat there, a couple of people from my tour group, despite not knowing me, came to my aid offering a towel and water. A Mexican man who happened to be a doctor was nearby visiting with his family and attended to me, making sure I hadn’t suffered a concussion. Our tour guides Carlos and Louise came to my side and watched over my belongings. A Mexican paramedic arrived to patch me up and conversed with the doctor in a language I didn’t understand about my condition and whether or not I should go to the hospital. As he was able, the doctor translated for me. It occurred to me that not once during the experience was I asked to show papers of my citizenship or proof that I was able to pay for costs, or any form of ID. The people surrounding me were concerned about only one thing, my well-being.

After the experience I also realized another thing. My lesson that I was skipping for the week included Jeremiah 22, where God instructs the leaders of Judah to exhibit compassion and kindness to foreigners, orphans, and widows and not to be harsh but to be just and righteous. In fact, in speaking about good king Josiah, God says that in taking up the case of the poor and needy, Josiah demonstrated what it means to know God (Jeremiah 22:16). The kind acts of the nameless people who attended to me in my time of need were examples of God’s character present in each and every one of us. We have the capability of knowing God and exhibiting this character if we choose. Although I’m a supporter of strong immigration laws and protection of our borders, lesson #2 taught to me on that day was that I need to remember first to think of all individuals, whether they appear to be here legally or not, as people worthy of respect, kindness and compassion.
The Love of God comes from unexpected places:

A few days after returning to the ship, on one of the last evenings aboard, the cruise director threw a “deck party” for everyone. The party kicked off with a bit of line dancing to songs like “Cupid shuffle”, “Cha Cha Slide”, “Macarena”, and “YMCA”, songs that everyone younger than me know dance moves to. Since my special-needs daughter, Katie (she has Down Syndrome), loves to dance and apparently knows all the moves plus some of her own, she joined in with the help of her “O2” group director, Kate. Even though Katie is a little slower than others at the dance moves, I was quite surprised that she kept up with the group. At breaks people were walking up to Katie to tell her how much they enjoyed watching her and how good her dancing was. Eventually, all the people on the deck gathered around in a circle as some uninhibited individuals showed off their moves in the circle. Again to my surprise (why am I surprised by anything now?), Katie made her way to the middle and strutted her stuff to everyone’s delight. The support people showed and the inclusion of Katie in their event is something that would have been unthinkable 30 years ago, but on this night Katie was having a ball.

It was then that the evening turned uneasy for me, but wound up teaching me another lesson. The DJ kicked off a sequence of slow dance music and most of the people left the deck to just a few who paired up to dance. Sure enough, Katie was there dancing as she often does with her imaginary date. For a few awkward moments she stuck out from everyone and I debated whether it was worse for her to dance with her imaginary friend or to have to dance with her father. As I was about to make my way to the floor to join her, a young man stepped away from his date and joined Katie for a little while. This young man was not someone you’d typically think about letting your daughter date. Like most of the other people on the deck, he was drinking and like many, smoking. But, he did something that most of us never do…he had compassion for my daughter. He and his date decided that they’d put their evening aside for a moment, and create a highlight for Katie’s evening. After he danced with her for a while, another young man danced with her. Two young men who based on appearances alone I’d never let near my daughter demonstrated God’s love by showing compassion to Katie. This shouldn’t surprise me. Lesson #3: We all are made in God’s image and possess the ability to love. In fact, Jesus commanded us to love one another (John 13:34) and He won’t command us to do something we’re not capable of doing. Despite their outward appearances, these two men demonstrated the truth that we all bear God’s image by putting Katie’s needs ahead of their own.
The choice is ours:

So there you have it: God’s lessons for me during my vacation. I share them with you because they are the most fundamental aspects of relating to God. We all can choose the path we take. We can ignore the makeup of our being, the fingerprint of God on us and choose the path that is quarrelsome, uncaring, and devoid of love. Or, we can choose the path He intended for us where we love one another, not just those close to us but even those foreign to us. I’m glad those nameless individuals I encountered during my vacation choose the latter path.

The post Lessons Learned while on Vacation–David S. appeared first on Geek Palaver.

Leader of the Playground

Once when the girl was still not quite three and the boy was happiest in his car seat carrier, we were traveling from Georgia and stopped at McDonald’s. Cause you know, you’ve just got to stop at McDonald’s. Doesn’t matter if you’re hungry (it’s actually better if you’re not). Doesn’t matter if you’re less than an hour from the end of an eight hour drive.

The playground under the golden arches is a siren song to bored ears.

So, ya stop, and ya play. Resistance is futile.

Thing is, with any playground, you’re never really sure what you’re going to get. Sometimes the kids are awesome; sometimes they’re not. So especially when the girl is barely big enough to climb the slide on her own, you watch and listen.

Besides, it’s McDonald’s. What else are you going to do? Read the menu?

So on this stop, the girl is easily five years younger than anyone else playing, and we’re watching closely as they play tag.

When you have to make use of every muscle in your body to move from one step to another, you tend to get tagged. A lot.

Yet she’s having fun, which is good. There is laughter, which is great. My girl is happy, which is heaven.

Until the big kids decide to play a different game.

Being old and crusty, on the outside of childhood looking in, I don’t have a clue what the change in the game was. It still looked like tag to me, but for whatever reason, the girl had had enough. And so, at almost three, she stands to make her speech:

“No, I don’t want to play that. I want to play follow the leader.” And she turns her back to play follow the leader on her own.

Again, I’m old. I don’t have any idea how follow the leader works without both leaders and followers. All I can say is, it’s a shame that we lose our imagination as we get old. The girl had no problem imagining it or doing it.

And so she played, follow the leader, blazing her trail. And as I watched, the older kids, being cool kids with great imaginations, went and followed.

So she’s having fun again, which is good. There is laughter, which is great. My girl, not quite three, followed the beat of her own drum, which is heaven.

Especially to her dad who can’t imagine a cooler little girl.

Thanks for the swinging.

It seems that the attention on Father’s Day is sent in the wrong direction. When you’ve got the two greatest kids on the planet who at almost three were already blazing their own path, honestly, I’m just grateful to be along for the swinging.

The post Follow the Leader: On Being a Dad appeared first on Geek Palaver.

The boy is crying. Again. Except “crying” doesn’t capture it. He is bawling. He is screaming. He is weeping. He is wailing. He is furious.

He is afraid. And I have no idea why.

Just moments ago he was happy. All was right in the world in which he lives. Just moments ago.

Maybe he’s hurt himself when I wasn’t looking. Maybe his skin feels like it’s exploding. Maybe Elmo on this episode has a slightly deeper voice that still sounds too high to me, but makes all the difference in the world to him. Maybe the orange magic marker he’s been carrying around since Friday isn’t exactly the right shade anymore. Maybe his little trampoline isn’t bouncing him high enough.

All I can do is hold him and cry too. And I think to myself for the nine thousandth time since he was two and a half: I really want to understand my son.

I want to be able to connect with him. To see that magic marker as the window into the orange universe that it is for him. To taste the cacophony of music, vibrations, sounds, and sometimes words that echo across his tongue, down his back, through the balls of his feet as his bounces on them.

Like him, I want to hug the air and feel her hugging back.

I want to understand him, but when I need to the most, it just doesn’t happen. Beings living in different dimensions of space and time just can’t.

And yet, occasionally, it happens. Just enough for me to believe again. Just enough for me to wake up in the middle of the night with tears rolling down cause we were talking, he and I, just talking in the middle of my dream.

“Hey dad, CATCH!” “Hey dad, I want a hug.” “Hey dad . . .”

Just talking.

A couple of weeks back Sigan Hartley, a University of Wisconsin-Madison researcher, published a study that showed that 30% of dads with autistic, Downs and fragile X syndrome children experience depression. They already knew that moms basically have PTSD on levels similar to soldiers coming home from war. Somehow it was unique enough to hear about dads that it deserved to be published.

While I appreciate the attention, please, spend your time and energy studying autism, Downs, and fragile X instead. Help me understand my boy; I can deal with the depression.

I just want to understand him. Is that asking too much? Please?

- – -

And the boy is laughing. Again. Except “laughing” doesn’t capture it. Words really can’t. And while this change is a welcomed one, a wonderful one, a joyous one, I still don’t understand.

All I can do is hold him when he comes to climb in my lap.

All I can do is watch the tears roll down his cheeks because the joke is just too funny,

and cough a little because the laughter hurts a bit,

and laugh till I cry.

connected with my little guy

[yframe url='http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4L9JvSS-ti8']

The post Understanding My Boy appeared first on Geek Palaver.

When you have an epiphany, it’s a good idea to write it down. I’ve long since been of the opinion that if you don’t write it down, it didn’t happen. So on those rare moments when a clear thought does wind it’s way up my spine to enlighten my darken mind, I have to put it down. Otherwise that light will go out. And if there’s anything that we must rage against, as Dylan Thomas said, it’s the dying of the light.

And so I write to rage against meaninglessness.

My insight tonight happened as a series of things came together. Thanks to a friend for kicking it off with your post earlier today. You wrote:

[The LEA] only wants to help those who are severe and not the ones who might fall through the cracks that have a chance to make it if they were given just a little bit of help.

While this wasn’t our experience, it did make me stop and ask of myself: Is it possible that my son’s severity is a gift?

It’s important to pay attention to that tickle as it moves up your spine.

When we speak of autism, we speak of it as a spectrum. There is a vast range of gift, talents, and abilities when it comes to the spectrum. There are those who are severely autistic. There are children and adults who’s autism is so severe that they will possibly never find a way to communicate with the world outside themselves. There are those who cannot speak, but learn other ways of communicating. There are people, who like our boy, don’t communicate clearly via speech at the beginning of their lives, but have the possibility of learning as they grow. And there are those who don’t seem to have a problem talking, but instead have difficulty recognizing non-verbal language or (well, this is the case with many who aren’t on the spectrum, too) nuance and sarcasm.

Frankly, I haven’t even begun to describe the range. Autism isn’t just a rainbow of visible light; it encompasses infrared and ultraviolet light as well. Sometimes you can see the disability. Sometimes you can’t.

And sometimes the disability that you can see is easier to deal with than the one you can’t.

We can see our boy’s disability and so can nearly everyone else who comes into contact with him. His disability is visible and audible; it isn’t hidden below the surface.

We don’t have to explain to those who interact with him that he isn’t being rude; he has an illness. We don’t have to defend his difficulty with making eye-contact, or his stimming, or his humming, or his bouncing. No one assumes that our boy is just misbehaving. And despite our struggles to understand him when he’s asking for things, or crying, or laughing, everyone knows that we’re telling the truth when we say that our child has a disability.

Sometimes severity drives a spike through my heart. When I know that my boy is screaming at me to get me to understand what he wants, what he needs, who he is, my life stops for a while.

But we find a way through. And the boy learns and talks, and life begins again.

But when I see my friends having to scream on behalf of their child, having to defend their child to others who think the kid is just bad, having to fight for just a little help with reading or writing or math; it’s then that I know, I see and I rage with them.

Sometimes severity is a gift.

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Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms in my life. I wouldn’t be the man that I am today without you. But as much as I love each of you, this one goes out to my mom, Evelyn.

Mom and the baby girl feeding fish.

Narrowing down all that you have taught me in our short time together is nearly impossible, mom. You taught me to climb trees. You taught me to make homemade biscuits (but mine were never very good). You taught me to pick up after myself (which, I still only do when you’re coming to town, by the way). You taught me to say thank you to everyone who does anything for me. Ever.

So coming up with just one thing, one best thing, that I learned from you mom is hard, but I think I’ve managed to narrow it down to at least two.

It’s funny that most of what we learn from our parents, we learn when they’re not trying to teach us anything at all. We learn it when we’re all just going about our business, dealing with our feeble attempts to just make it to the end of the day. (This is something that I try to remember with my own kids, but I usually screw it up.)

But since this is true, then the best thing I ever learned from my mom, I think I learned when we were all working together in The Sandwich Shop in the Mall.

For about six years or so (I can’t remember exactly; it was many miles ago) while I was in high school and college, mom and dad owned The Sandwich Shop in the Statesboro Mall. It was here that I think I learned my most important lessons from her during the times when she was too busy to actually try and teach me anything at all.

If you’ve ever owned a family business, you know that the vacations, holidays, and even just days off are far too rare. So you adjust to schedule, and push through. This was how we operated at the Sandwich Shop. Working until we could pull the gate closed at 9 when the mall closed, rushing home to make the chess squares for the next day, dragging in before opening the next morning to make the salads.

Food service, in other words. It was hard, but somehow, Mom, you always found a way to uncover the joy in making sandwiches, chili, salads, and of course, sweet tea.

And so the best thing I ever learned from you mom was two fold. First, you should always find a way to love the work you have to do. This, maybe more than anything else, has served me well as I also worked in jobs that weren’t always my first choice. Because of your leadership, I still found a way to love doing sleeve jobs on tuxes before prom, calling doctors about jobs in a telemarketing firm, selling software, staying up all night at children and youth lock-ins, struggling to meet a deadline for a grant, and grading endless stacks of 101 portfolios. If you could find joy in slicing tomatoes every morning, I can find it in a well-written sentence.

But the second thing that you taught me as we served food together was that a life of service to others is a life worth living. And that, Mommy, is the best thing you ever taught me. (So far.)

Happy Mother’s Day. I love you.

The post The Best Things Mom Taught Me appeared first on Geek Palaver.

When the mist breaks, when the canopy opens to the stars, when the smoke is blown away by a cool breeze, that’s when life begins. Those are the fleeting minutes that I hope to find. Those are the times that I fight for with my boy.

It’s the connection that keeps me awake when he’s in a talkative mood in the darkest hours of the night. It’s that clarity that I, and every autism parent I know, fights for every minute of every day and night. That’s what I constantly watch for so I don’t miss them because I know that they don’t happen nearly often enough. They don’t last nearly long enough.

And so I watch, staring into the dark, straining my eyes, wishing my hearing were better, praying for connection, fighting against the fog.

You see more than I . . .

The post Fighting Against the Fog appeared first on Geek Palaver.

Going . . .

I never wanted to become Polonius: spouting off advice to Laertes and Ophelia when all they wanted was to receive his blessing so they could leave. All I can say is that it started as sort of a joke, but I’ve since realized that it’s much more than a joke to my little girl. And it’s much more than that to me.

Every morning I have the distinct honor of taking my children to school. It’s a blessing that, despite having to circumnavigate two school’s car lines, I would never give up. It gives me just a little more time with both of them in the morning to remind them that I love them and to remind me that there are far more important things in life than papers to grade and bills to pay. Other than tucking them in at night, it is my favorite time of the day. Strange what having kids will do to you; I used to hate the morning commute.

Anyway, each morning I drop the girl off about a block away from school so she can walk in. She LOVES doing this, and it gives me a few more stolen seconds to hug and watch her grow.

And it breaks my heart fresh each morning when she turns to walk away. It’s the reverse of all those stupid car commercials that show the dad talking to a five-year old as she waits, somewhat patiently, behind the wheel for the keys so she can go out. When my girl turns away and starts walking, my seven-year old is suddenly seventeen, complete with a toss of her hair over her shoulder. And I’m left wondering where the time went. (Yep, I was once told by my college Drama professor that if he were to do a production of Hamlet that he would have to cast me in the lead. I was the definition of melancholy. At the time, I took it as a compliment rather than a curse. Strange kid was I.)

Anyway, back to Polonius. I decided one morning to offer my Ophelia (minus the insanity, that is) a bit of advice as she walked away in hopes that she would wait a little longer to turn her back on me and transform into a teenager that I’m having trouble connecting with. As she walked backwards away from me, I looked her in the eye and said, “Learn everything you can.” To which she replied, “Okay.”

Not wanting her to turn, I added, “Have fun!” As she takes another step away from me, she shouts with a grin, “Okay!”

Desperate to keep her eyes on mine a little longer, I reminder her to “tell Mrs. Wrenn thank you and give her BIG HUGS (thank you teletubbies!).” She’s so far down the sidewalk now that she has to shout, “Okay, dad!”

going . . .

“Be nice to your friends!” “Okay.”

“Be nicer to your not so friends!” “I will.”

Knowing now that I’ve got to cut the strings or I’ll be crying all the way to drop off the boy, I shout (to the great pleasure of those sleeping in the house we’re parked in front of I’m sure), “Always remember that I’m proud of you, and I love you!”

At this, she grins, and I die a little inside cause I know she’s about to turn, but before she does, she shouts, “I love you, too, Dad!”

And with that I climb back into the car with tears rolling down my cheeks anyway.

“Be nicer to your not so friends.” I came up with that, as with most things by my seat-pants flying, but other than our “I love yous,” I think it may be the most important of my proverbs. Yeah, I totally stole it from the Gospel of Matthew, but that’s okay, I always did think that Picasso was right about stealing. It’s the one thing that I try to remember myself through the day. And it’s the one thing that I forget the quickest. My memory really sucks.

Be nicer to your not so friends. If we love our children and our friends, what credit is that to us? Doesn’t everyone do the same? The truth is that if we really want to make the world a better place for our kids (and we do), then we’ve got to step up to the bullies and be nicer. We’ve got to step up to the despots and be nicer. We’ve got to reach across the aisle and be nicer. We’ve got to hold our arms open wide in one of my daughter’s patented “air hugs” and be nicer to those whom we don’t like, we don’t love, we can’t stand the sight of, we think even God hates.

We’ve got to be nicer to our not so friends in this world because it’s the only way that we’ll survive to see our little girls grow up into beautiful young women ready to change the world with their dreams. We have got to be nicer to the world.

To that young woman, my daughter, I have only this to add: No matter what people try to tell you, love will change the world.

And always remember that I’m proud to be your daddy.

. . .

The post From Polonius to Ophelia appeared first on Geek Palaver.

Updated Below:

When resources tighten, it is natural to want to look after the needs of those dearest to you first. Even if doing so means that others suffer. As a good friend wrote on one of his blog posts recently, Gandhi said, “If everyone cares enough and everyone shares enough, there will always be enough.”

I’d like to believe that Gandhi is correct, but my experience teaches me that humans are not, by nature, trusting of others. We don’t share very well or easily. We are self-centered. As a Psychologist Egoist might say, we are actually incapable of looking out for anyone else.  Adam Smith famously said, “It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own interest.” Their ideas are that humans behave most reliably when they are looking out for their own interests, when they are self-interested.

This idea doesn’t often sit well with students when I present it in class. We like to think that we often looking out for the best interest of others. In fact, looking out for the best interests of my child is looking out for the best interest of another. We see ourselves as a Gandhi rather than just another Smith. When I ask my students how they behave, they nearly always reply that they look out for others following Gandhi’s example. Yet, when I ask them how other people behave, they’re convinced that other people only look out for themselves.

Interesting isn’t it? We almost always think better of ourselves than we do others. (Which tends to support the idea that Adam Smith is right, I suppose.)

Well that’s enough philosophy for the moment. On to my point.

Resources are tightening in the Huntsville City School system, and people are starting to look after the needs of those dearest to them. Even if doing so means that others suffer.

On Thursday, March 17, 2011 at a Huntsville City School Board meeting, it came to light that there had been “talks” among Superintendent Dr. Ann Roy Moore, her staff, and the Alabama State Department of Education about what to do with the autistic students in the Huntsville City School system next year. There were “rumors” of a plan to move all of the autistic children in the school system to one school, specifically, the Academy for Academics and Arts. As Dr. Moore said, such a move was designed “to give the best services to our students that is possible.” Dr. Moore pointed out however that no decision had been made yet. You can read more about this meeting here. (Really. Go take a look. I’ll wait.)

I believe, along with numerous parents and children who attended the meeting, that this would be a bad idea. But that really isn’t why I’m writing.

I also have quite strong opinions about why our resources are tightening in the school system, but again, that really isn’t why I’m writing here.

I’m writing concerning the issue of inclusion that was raised in the article and specifically by some of those choosing to comment below the article.

Inclusion is the idea that whenever possible a child, in this case a child somewhere on the autism spectrum, benefits by being included in a non-autism classroom. The article refers to the two types of classrooms as “Special Education” classrooms and “Neuro-Typical” classrooms. In the comments, someone named, “woetoyou,” (ah, the joys of anonymity) asked why his “neuro-typical” child should be slowed down by the inclusion of a special needs student. Other brave posters named: “jabbajabba,” and “wareaglebuck” added their agreement to “woetoyou’s” concerns.

Yes, this is a ridiculously long introduction to my response to their concerns.

Why should inclusion matter to them? Since I don’t believe they’ll be convinced by Gandhi (or Jesus for that matter), let me try Smith. You should want your children included in my child’s classroom out of pure self-interest. You should want it because it is what is best for them.

1. All children, every single one of them, are special, and as such have special needs. Allowing your neuro-typical children to be included in a classroom with my “special needs” child will allow your children’s specialness to be seen and addressed by a teacher who is trained to identify and meet the special needs of all children.
2. If your children are included in my child’s classroom, your children will benefit from a lower student/teacher ratio.
3. If your children are included in my child’s classroom, your children will be free to learn in an environment that is accepting of differences: even theirs.
4. If your children are included in my child’s classroom, your children will be free to learn at their own pace. In the areas where they are strong, they will excel. In the areas where your children are weak, they will be aided. Some children instantly recognize a smile as a friendly greeting; others know how to solve advanced mathematical problems in their heads because numbers are simply alive to them. Being included helps all of our children learn from each other.
5. My child knows how to learn even though his skin feels as though it’s covered with ants. Your children know how to catch a ball.
6. My child knows how to walk without falling through a tsunami. Your children know how to make eye contact.
7. My child knows perseverance, strength, dedication, love, and how to laugh even when the world is determined to break him. Your children will need all of these skills to survive in this world because, you know what, this world is determined to break them, too. I don’t want that to happen to your children; my son can help.

If we work together, you and I, all of our children can benefit from each other. I care. I’m willing to share. There will be enough.

Having Fun at School

Update:

On Thursday, March 24, 2011 there will be a Making Connections Autism Spectrum Disorder Networking Group meeting from 11:00am – 1:00pm at Faith Presbyterian Church (Corner of Whitesburg and Airport Rd) to help answer questions concerning Individual Education Plans (IEPs), mitigation, etc. As the best approach to fighting against the segregation of our children is to make sure that the IEP requires inclusion, this should be a useful meeting to attend. Representatives from the Alabama Disabilities Advocacy Program (ADAP) will be present to answer questions and help guide parents through the IEP process.

The next Huntsville City Board Meeting will be held on Thursday, April 7, 2011 at 200 White Street.

The post All Children Have Special Needs appeared first on Geek Palaver.

My First Grade Teacher

Updated Below:

“Miss” Beaver always gave the best hugs.

First thing in the morning, after walking to Sallie Z. for first grade, she was there in her classroom finding ways of making puke-colored cinderblock interesting to a six-year olds. But mostly, she just always gave great hugs. When I was excited about getting an “E” (for Excellent) on a reading test, she gave me a hug. When I was sad about getting a “P” (for Poor) on a hand writing test, she was still quick to give me a hug and tell me I could do it.  (I’m sad to say, Miss Beaver, my handwriting would still likely get a “P,” but I’ll happily take a hug, any time.)

When I fell on the playground, when I was the last one to get picked for kickball (I still find it astonishingly hard to connect with that stupid ball: think Charlie and Lucy with a football), or when I just walked past her in the lunchroom even after I had moved all the way to third grade, Miss Beaver was still there giving out hugs.

Those hugs mattered.

They made the ecstasy of passing a math test real by making it a shared event. They cushioned the blow of bombing those spelling tests that somehow made me dread every single Friday. A six-year old shouldn’t have to dread Friday, but Miss Beaver made it bearable.

She is still my teacher today.

Most of what I know about interacting with children, about encouraging them when they fall or fail, about jumping up and down with them when they succeed, about reaching out to them arms and heart wide open to celebrate this wonderful existence, I learned from watching her teach me and my friends in her class. Her influence is still felt today, thirty-six years later.

You can’t test for influence. No score on a standardized test reveals the effectiveness of a teacher like her. And if we as a country finally decided to actually support public education on a level commensurable to it’s importance, we would have to multiple our teachers’ salaries by a factor of about a hundred.

Teaching matters.

Thank you to all my teachers: past, present, and future. Thank you “times infinity” to those who have and are now teaching my kids. We’ll never be able to repay you for your service to our kids and our country, but we can, at least, stand with you when others devalue your service for their own political gain.

Teaching matters, and anyone who claims otherwise really needs a hug.

Update:

Mrs. Ann Beaver Mons passed away on Monday, January 21, 2008 at the age of 61. Requiescat in Pace, and thank you for all the hugs. Love, Rusty.

The post Teaching Matters appeared first on Geek Palaver.

“We are always getting ready to live but never living.” –Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.” –Buddha

“Do not worry about tomorrow.” –Jesus

I really don’t do resolutions. Always thought they were just, as has been posted often online in the last two days, a clear road to hell. And yet, I do believe in change. I believe that perhaps the greatest gift that life offers us is the ability to become something other than what we have been in the past. So, in that vein, I can change my approach to resolutions even though I’ve spurned them in the past.

The boy loves Buzz and Woody; have I mentioned this? If not, here’s a good reminder:

Best Friends Forever

So, of course, we love Buzz and Woody, too. But perhaps my reason for loving these two T-O-Y-S isn’t as clear as it need be. It goes back to my own childhood, and like any child of the 70s toys came to life in the latter part of the decade with the advent of the Holy Trinity: Star Wars.

Truthfully, there isn’t much that I can say about Star Wars that hasn’t been said better by Kevin Smith, except perhaps that as someone who grew up in a small town, the movies we never as important as the toys. As hard as it is to image today, when Star Wars finally made it to the Boro in (I believe) 1978, I only saw it once in the theaters. I of course wanted to see it more, but dad thought it was silly to see a movie twice. So it didn’t happen. Remember this was about 10 years before the advent of a VCR (at least in our house); thus, the only way to see a movie twice was to convince your dad to pay for it twice. This was not something I was easily able to do.

Instead I read the novelization, the comics, and when I had saved enough money from my weekly allowance of a whopping $0.50, I would rush to Roses, or if I was lucky, Woolworths to buy one the Luke Skywalker action figures with the wrap-around sheet shirt, and yellow light saber with the tip that retracted.

Use the Force, Luke

This little toy, along with a Stormtrooper, Darth Vader, Han Solo, and Chewbacca, (No Leia, of course. These were “action figures” never “dolls.”) I recreated scenes from the movie, and wrote in my head, thousands of adventures for these guys. These toys, combined with a few pieces of twine, resulted in Luke invading Darth’s hideout behind the bed to wipe out the evil Sith Lord by swinging over the treacherous blades of death hanging from the ceiling. Han and Chewy were always there atop the encyclopedias waiting to rush in if Luke should get trapped by the Stormtrooper!

Watching the abandon with which Matthew plays with Buzz and Woody takes me back to those hours that I somehow put aside as I approached my teen years. Although I’m sure putting away childish things was a necessary part of growing up (there are many “geeks” who claim that the toys never go away, they just get more expensive), I’m worried that I also lost something when I did. And not just something that’s okay to lose. I think I lost that ability to be lost in the moment, to live in the now. And I want it back.

When we play, as children at least, everything else disappears. Our guilt over the past drops away. Our fear of the future fades into the background. There are no bills, or leaky faucets, or service engine lights.  The barrier of autism that separates me from my little boy disappears.

All that is left is the moment. The now. And such is a gift too precious to lose. It is all that we actually have.

So this year, because it’s all that I actually have any influence over, I’m going to play. I’m not going to dwell in the past. I’m going to not fear the multitude of futures that might be waiting. As Matthew walks down, grabs my hand and tugs me to where he’s playing, I’m gonna go. You wanna come play, too?

The post A Time to Play appeared first on Geek Palaver.

Emma sharing toys with her new baby brother.

As I suspect every parent (and frankly anyone over the age of about 10) can tell you, parenting is hard. When things go wrong with your kids, you may not admit it to others, but you know it’s entirely your fault. When things go right, again, you might take some credit publicly, but you know that you had nearly nothing to do with it.

Scilla and Charybdis.

At least that’s how it seems to me.

On Christmas Eve, I loaded up the Santa Tracking App thinking Emma would love it. She did. One of it’s features lets you send a selection of texts to Santa, and he’ll send a response. Unfortunately, “Bah Humbug” just happened to be one of the several texts that you could send to Santa. And it just happened to be one that Em decided to click on. The response was, “Looks like somebody wants a nice piece of coal for Christmas.”

She didn’t come talk to us about it, but it bothered her the rest of the night. Following our other traditions, Em wrote the letter you see below to Santa as she left him his milk and cookies before bed. She didn’t want Laurel to read it, but I did.

Emma's letter to Santa

The letter reads:

Dear Santa

I sorta a mistake You see I acenndenty (accidentally–she didn’t want our help with spelling) pressed bahum bug (bah humbug) by mistake and if  you forgive me I left you some cookies and milk if I’m still on the nice list I will believe in you forever and write on the back please

Emma.

Before she went to sleep, I talked to her about how since Santa knew EVERYTHING, he certainly knew when things were accidents. She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

See. The screw-up was entirely mine. I thought that a Santa tracker would be fun; it turned out to be frightening–at least to a girl who just turned seven and sometimes makes a mistake.

Then there’s the other side of the coin.

In a pre-Christmas visit, Nanny was hanging out with Emma. As adults often say, Nanny told Em that she loved her more than anything. Em, as kids often respond–and it strikes me that Christ reportedly asked Peter something similar, decided to test that love by asking if the love Nanny had for her was greater than the love she has for others.

“Do you love me more than Teresa?” she asks. “I think I love y’all in different ways.” Nanny responded.

“Do you love me more than Matthew?”

While Nanny was thinking of the best way to respond, Em freed her of the dilemma, by saying, “It’s okay if you love him more, Nanny. He needs it more than I do.”

At which point Nanny, I suspect, gave her a hug to hide the tears.

For myself, I’m glad that Em didn’t say it to me directly. I’m really not sure how I might have responded. I am, of course, amazingly proud of the fine young girl my daughter is becoming. I remember watching her play on a playground outside of a McD’s once with some older kids. She was easily half their age. At three, she was doing well to just keep up, but she had talked them into following her suggestions for what to play. (God, save her from politics. Please.)

But of course, once they realized that she was three, and it wasn’t cool to keep doing what a three-year old wanted, the older kids began to do their own thing. Em, deciding that she want to keep playing her own game, said that she would join them when she was done.

I remember thinking and saying to Laurel that if I had complete control over the design of our child, that I couldn’t imagine making her as amazing as she turned out.

But as proud as I am of her love for her little brother, her knowing that he needs more breaks my heart.

We’ve tried to be open with Em about Matthew’s autism, but who knows if we’re doing the right thing. It started when she was almost four years old, and she asked, “When is Matthew going to talk to me?”

After we could speak, we talked to her about autism, and how autistic children sometimes talk a little later than others. That doesn’t mean that he’s not smart, and we’re working with him to help him talk more.

After that, Em began keeping track of every word Matthew would say; telling us to put it on his list.

So knowing all of this, I guess it really shouldn’t surprise me that she would believe that it’s okay for him to be loved more. She certainly loves him more, and she, as all children do if we adults manage to not screw them up with our shortcomings and hatreds, shows us what love truly is. It’s realizing that others have needs that are at times greater than our own. But it’s more than just realizing it. It’s being willing to give up our wants, desires and even our needs to meet the needs of others. That’s what Christmas was and is all about.

I take and deserve no credit for this revelation. I’m learning from two great teachers. I just hope I somehow manage to not screw them up.

The post What Christmas is All About appeared first on Geek Palaver.

Because I’m cursed with introspection and curious (like my namesake) about how people change, I’ve often tried to nail down the start of my transformation from fundamentalist to whatever radical leftist label you want to assign to me today. (I choose Liberal, myself.) I think it began to happen my first semester in college at Georgia Southern.

______

My friends were surprised when I told them that I planned to live in the dorms at college. They thought I should just live at home.

I thought that going to school in my hometown was going to be bad enough. I couldn’t imagine living at home, too.

The change began with a prediction. “Russell, you know that your roommate will smoke, drink, cuss, and party all night long.” This was back in the 80s before we knew that second-hand smoke was bad for you.

After a brief pause, they added, “Yeah, or he’ll be gay.” We laughed because we knew these thing could never happen. I had, after all, requested a non-smoking roommate on my housing form. That, of course, would cover me. I moved into Lewis Hall on Friday, August 22, 1986.

I moved in early so I could attend Band Camp. As one of the two male members of the color guard, I needed the extra time to learn the routines. So for almost three weeks I had the most sought after possession on an over-crowded campus: a room of my own. Unfortunately, my solitude didn’t last long.

One evening after class, I returned home to find the other half of my little room occupied. The prediction proved prescient. My roommate arrived smoking, drinking, cussing, and partying all night long. He didn’t stay long; I’m sure he wanted to be rid of the wet blanket who prayed for him every night. My solitude returned, but it was even shorter this time.

______

I walked in one night while Seth was hanging a reproduction of Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte.

“Oh, uh, hi, I’m Russell.”

“Seth. How’s it going?”

“Good, so you’re the roommate. To tell the truth, I had gotten used to being here by myself, but I’m sure you’ll be an improvement over the last guy.”

Seth smiled and said, “Thanks for the warm welcome.”

“Sorry,” extending my hand at last, I added, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Same here.” We shook hands.

“So what’s this?” I asked, pointing to the art.

“You don’t know Seurat? This is Sunday Afternoon on the Island. Didn’t you see Farris Bueller’s Day Off?”

“Nope, I haven’t seen too many movies. This is cool though” I added.

“Yeah, I’ve always liked that the little girl in white is the only one looking out of the picture. Even though her mom’s there, she’s not watching her, and she’s not holding her hand. She’s not even under the parasol. She’s in the light. She’s pure. She’s free. There’s even been a musical written about it. It’s called, Sunday in the Park with George. The characters all come to life in the play.”

I looked at him with a what-have-I-walked-into-here expression on my face and struggled to come up with, “uh, You know my first name is George—you’ve thought a lot about this.”

“Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it?” He didn’t notice the expression on my face. “So, what’s your major?”

“English, I think; officially I’m still undecided, but freshman comp is great so far. How about you?”

“Theater.”

“Oh yeah, I didn’t know there was a theater major.”

“There isn’t.”

My expression from earlier seemed to freeze on my face for a while. “So,” I finally manage, “do you want to act?”

“Na, I’m a playwright. I’ve had a play produced off-Broadway.”

“Oh-Kay.” I looked back at the Seurat hoping for clarity; but the closer I looked, the less clear things became.

______

We actually got along. This surprised us both as I was a fundamentalist Southern Baptist and Seth a Catholic atheist. He was a writer; I wanted to be a writer. He didn’t seem to mind me too much whenever that astonished look fell off my face, and I wasn’t trying to save his soul.

“You’re not so bad,” Seth told me one night while he was writing. He liked to write lying on his stomach in bed with the light pulled down close. He always had a peaceful look on his face when he wrote. It was a look of contentment. It was a look of fulfillment. It was a look of love. I think it was the only time I really saw that look on his face the whole year.

“Gee, thanks. What a relief.”

“You’re just inexperienced.” He was right; I was, but I had intended it that way.

______

Seth continued to expose me to new things like Calvin and Hobbes— a comic strip about a boy and his loyal tiger. I surprised us both by laughing out loud at the scene of Calvin racing toward his doom in their red wagon. Seth suggested replacing the Bible verse I had posted on the door, and I agreed. That astonished look appeared on his face for a moment. Humor makes strange bed-fellows.

Approaching the Thanksgiving break, Seth received something that he was truly thankful for. “ELLE published my interview! They published it!” he shouted to no one in particular. He ran back to the room to make some calls. His mom needed to hear.

As he hung up, he tossed me a copy of the magazine and said, “Take a look at page 26.”

“What is this?”

“It’s a magazine, dumbass. Look at page 26!”

“What kind of magazine?” I asked looking at the cover with leery eyes.

“Fashion, now will you turn to page 26?”

“Fashion? Who reads fashion magazines?”

“Fine, if you’re not going to read it . . .”

“. . . Page 26, page 26 . . .”

That look became permanently etched on the stone that I call a face.

There, smiling back at me was Seth, with his blond hair and stock black turtleneck. Evidently, the play that he had written in high school and submitted to a contest for young playwrights had been produced “off-Broadway,” and ELLE had written a six-inch column about him. The first sentence was all I read. The rest, for me, was obliterated. “Seth, a resident of Savannah, GA., and an openly gay atheist, has already had a play produced off-Broadway.”

My roommate was gay.

“Hey man, this is great. Uh listen, uh—I’ve got to run. Band practice tonight.” I grabbed my rifle and flag and left. As the door shut, I thought I heard Seth say, “get me out of here!”

Christmas break came and went, and I took my time getting back. Dad and I had several arguments over my returning. In the end, my desire to be out of the house won out over dad’s fear of Seth’s orientation. When I did finally return one night, I walked in on Seth cutting pictures out of magazines. The pictures had the common theme of bare-chested men. He was taping them up on his side of the room in a mural. Seurat was still hanging, but its vivid color and light had been eclipsed. Seeing that look on my face again, Seth asks, “Too much?”

“No Seth, its fine.”

Art, beauty, and humor weren’t working their magic as often anymore. There was a serious undercurrent to everything between us. It was tense, and it was easier to stay away from each other.

The mural stayed up.

______

Seth was being noticed on campus. He was actively involved in the theater department and had an important role in the fall production of Merlin, a play about the life of Christopher Marlowe; and his poetry was being published in the student art magazine. He was also being noticed on the hall. Although Seth was a night owl, usually coming and going late at night, occasionally he would get cornered by the resident jocks living three doors down. They had noticed the Calvin and Hobbes cartoon that Seth had posted on our door; and, more importantly, they noticed the mural.

I came back to the room one rainy afternoon hoping, as usual, that Seth wouldn’t be there. As I approached the door, I noticed that something had changed. No longer was the Calvin and Hobbes strip on the door; or rather, it wasn’t facing the right way anymore. Someone, and I was certain it was the jocks three doors down, had turned the strip over and on the back written in large black, angry letters, “BURN IN HELL, FAGGOT.”

I stared at it for a minute. I stared at it for another. I was torn: I was frightened by the hatred in the message, but I still believed that my roommate would indeed do just that. Another minute passed, and I was still standing there. A volley had been fired. It wasn’t the first shot, and it wouldn’t be the last. The violence forces me to pick a side. Will I threaten or be threatened? I stood there, paralyzed. This was one of those irrevocable moments, but I didn’t know it then.

I left the message on the door and went inside the darkening room.

Seconds later there was a stillness outside the door. I wasn’t sure how I knew it, but I was certain that Seth was reading the note. There was laughter down the hall: humor’s dark side. The stillness was swallowed by the whirlwind a moment later. The war had come to our door. The door burst open. A backpack flew into the room. The shreds of the strip soon followed. Seth stood on his bed ripping down the mural. The whirlwind continued until it absorbed Sunday in the Park. The print became a projectile aimed at nothing—aimed at no one. Seth stood alone, fighting a battle he thought he’d left behind. Afraid to fight alongside him, I left to wander in the darkness outside our window.

______

Weeks passed and the quarter ended. We avoided each other more than ever. He had been staying with a friend; but after the last exam, we were together again packing up.

“Going home for the summer?” I asked.

“Na, New York.”

My look was back again, but it’s different this time. A small smile followed. “I hope it’s a good trip.”

“I think I’m going to stay.”

“I thought you might.”

“So, what about you?”

I walked over and took down Sunday in the Park. One night while he was out, I got tired of seeing it on the floor. It didn’t belong there, so I hung it back up. Our room needed its peacefulness. I looked at it again. I was too close. The light was still there, but that was all I could see. Maybe that was all I needed to see.

“Oh, I’ll be here reading, maybe doing a little writing if I can ever figure things out.” I handed the print to him. “Who knows . . . god knows I don’t.”

Seth looked at it: somehow, he always seemed to see things in it that I couldn’t.

With the light shining off the scene onto his face, Seth looked up at me and smiled.

We stood there and finished packing.

The post Birth of a Liberal appeared first on Geek Palaver.

My hometown has been on my mind a lot lately. It’s hard to say exactly why, but really, does it matter? That’s what hometowns are for: to remind us who we are, where we are from, where we might go to. Hometowns connect us to our families, our histories, our selves. And they remind us that we’re often WAY too big for our britches.

Hometowns have a way of reminding us of our childish ways. Like when we would drive by the brick wall fence at the end of Brannen Street, barking out the window so that Cujo would burst through the holes in the fence to eat the uninitiated rider in the back seat. Yes, this is the language of entertainment in my small hometown. In short, there wasn’t much to do.

I grew up in Statesboro, Georgia: a farming town that developed into a small college town when Erk Russell revived the football program at Georgia Southern in the 80s. “I’m going to the country . . . baby do you want to go?” The weeks were a holding pattern between Friday night football, Saturday football, and church all day Sunday.

Church actually filled much more of my time than just on Sunday. As difficult as it is to believe for many of my friends today, I was easily describable as a fundamentalist when I lived in Statesboro. Of course, I didn’t describe myself that way there. There I was just a “good kid.” It just so happened that being a good kid in the Boro, and especially at Eastern Heights Baptist Church, meant being a fundamentalist. I was well known for all the things that I did not do.  I didn’t smoke. I didn’t drink. I didn’t listen to rock (unless it was Christian Rock, and even that was . . . lets just say it was questionable.)

I was so well known as someone who didn’t do things, that on the rare occasion that I did do something, like say drop the F-bomb in choral rehearsal at school, others got in trouble instead of me. (Sorry about that Brian . . .)

Like Jenny Joseph, I saw my job as setting “a good example for the children” even though I was a child myself.

This was how I came to identify and understand myself. After years of being something of an outcast at school and especially on the sports fields of the Rec Center, I found a place where I belonged, and I threw myself into that identity with abandon. I had been the outsider, the alien, the stranger for so long that I didn’t notice when Eastern Heights’ pastor began a campaign of abuse against those who were different from us.

I am grateful to Eastern Heights Baptist Church for a great many things. They taught me that I was important and loved. As Bill Moyers says of his home Baptist church, they taught me everything that I knew about democracy and fairness. They taught me the importance of standing and speaking up for what I believe in. They encouraged me to sing, to preach, to read and study (the Bible anyway), and to love. This last was the most important, and it is why it took me so long to realize that that love they were preaching didn’t really apply to everyone.

In particular, it didn’t apply to the “homosexual perverts” that Rev. Don Roberts preached against so often that we never heard one noun without the other.

Because I was on the inside, I forgot what it was to be on the outside. Because they accepted me, I failed to notice the hatred and the venom being spewed in the name of Christ. I forgot that Jesus had spent his entire life reminding people that the outsiders, the least of these, were the ones that he had walked with, talked with, eaten with, and loved. And at no time did he call them names.

Look, my purpose here isn’t to say that Christians must view homosexuality as ordained by God. Rev. Roberts was free to believe that homosexuality is a sin. He was free to preach that homosexuality is a sin. Eastern Heights was free to teach that it is a sin. (For the record, since I didn’t choose to be straight—it’s just a part of who I am and who God made me to be; I don’t believe that people who are gay chose to be gay—it’s just a part of who they are and who God made them to be.) That’s not what this posting is about. What it is about is a reminder that the words and the language that we use matters.

It’s wrong to abuse people in the name of God, and we Christians should stop.

This is one reason why I am wearing purple tomorrow on 10/20/2010: to show that not all Christians hate those who are different. I ask that you join me in wearing purple as well. Even if it means that you’re going to wear something that you don’t normally wear. It’s good to remember to identify with the outsider. It’s good to put away childish ways. It’s good to remember who you are and to stand for justice and fairness. It’s good to stand with the least of these our brothers and sisters.

Tomorrow, when I am older, I shall wear purple.

The post “I Shall Wear Purple” appeared first on Geek Palaver.

Dr. Molly Marshall, formerly of The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary–now, happily, the President of Central Baptist Theological Seminary in Kansas, taught theology at Southern Seminary while I was there in the early 90s. She was the first female Associate Professor of Theology at Southern. I am still saddened to say that she is also, likely, the last. (If you’d like to read more about these events, take a look at Michael Westmoreland-White’s excellent posting. Michael was a grader for Molly at Southern. His tribute is well worth your time.)

Rather than rehash the evil that has commandeered the only Seminary that I ever thought I would attend, I would rather deal with a question that Dr. Marshall asked us once in her Intro to Christian Theology class. (Full disclosure: I still review my notes from those classes from time to time, and I’m still struggling to understand many of them. I’ve never worked harder in a class. For example, if someone on this Earth can explain for me what the phrase “the economy of God” means, I will be forever grateful.)

Near the end of a class one day, Dr. Marshall was talking about her experiences defending her Doctoral dissertation. As with any defense, she was nervous and frighten by what questions she might be asked. Those questions, I’m sure, covered in great detail the breath and depth of the study of God, but there was one, and frankly only one, that stuck with me. She said that she thought that she was handling the questions well until she came around to Dr. Dale Moody.

Dr. Moody was notorious for his ability to cut through bull shit, and he was old and wise enough that he was allowed to do so as he saw fit. When Dr. Moody’s opportunity came to speak, Dr. Marshall said that he looked at her and asked her one very simple question. “Ms. Marshall. Please tell me, what are people for?”

The power of a question shows up once again. Thanks Moishe. I can’t remember her answer. Somehow, I doubt that I even heard it as at the very moment that she repeated that question, I was off chasing after my own answer. (Which I’m certain was Dr. Marshall’s point.)

That’s the beauty of going to Seminary right after college. It takes a young 22 year old who just graduated from college many years to realize that he doesn’t know jack. Going to seminary hastens that realization along considerably.

So, what are people for? My first thought, as I was deep in existentialism at the time, was that people aren’t for anything at all. People exist. What we do with that existence is entirely, despairingly, our own choice. Our purpose, in short, is what we choose it to be. The crucial question then is how will I choose to live with those surrounding me?

I recall sharing with my best man and friend from seminary once that I needed to find a way of combining Existentialism and Liberation Theology. That’s my Holy Grail. It’s my Unifying theory. It’s the other question that keeps me awake at night. I think that maybe the question that Dr. Moody asked a nervous doctoral candidate is the beginning of understanding. (Questions are never endings.)

Funny that I didn’t begin to understand this until I became a parent.

I’ve never had anyone who needed me as much as Emma on the day that she came into this world. The only day that came close was when Matthew was born.

Today when I came home, they were on the trampoline together. Matthew bounces up to Emma and takes her hands. Round and round they go, until they fall down laughing in a heap. Together.

So, like the kids, we come round and round to the question, what are people for?

And like the kids, who despite all the barriers that autism throws up to separate them still find a way to laugh, to play, to dance, bounce and love, people are for each other.

When we choose to lay aside our isolation, when we choose to leap across the abyss that separates us from each other, when we choose to look out for more than our own self interests and grab the hand of our sister to go bounce, we simply know what people are for. People are for each other.

The post “What are people for?” appeared first on Geek Palaver.

As I leave Savannah on Highway 80, I pass the paper mill on the left. Similar to Butchertown in Louisville, whose smell in the summer contributes to the marked rise of vegetarians, the International Paper Mill forces me to reconsider ever putting anything on paper. Even veganism seems wise:  If eggs can smell that bad when they rot, they can’t be good to begin with. While hydrogen sulfide may not be officially hazardous in low doses, it’s disturbing how quickly it overpowers the sense of smell. Stay in the area overnight and, in the morning you wouldn’t know that you stank.

The water takes on the same flavor. I never knew that plain water could taste sweet until I moved out of the Southeast. This is why all the tea is sweetened, and everyone drinks coke. Join the community for a short while and your taste buds forget what good water tastes like. The images of sulfur and eternal heat that street preachers invoke come alive to those living near a Southern paper mill. Only there, it’s a dry heat.

Thankfully, I’m driving into the wind on my way East. Once I’ve reached the bridge onto Tybee Island, nothing but dampness comes through the windows and sunroof. It’s strange having to run the wipers when it’s not raining: The humidity never drops below ninety percent, even in the driest summer. Tybee means salt in the Native American Euchee language. Salt can purify and preserve, but it can also burn. I once heard that even people who cannot swim can float in the Dead Sea because of the high concentration of salt and minerals. The air on the island feels that way except, instead of supporting you, it crushes you. The saltiness of the wet air surrounds, envelops, encloses the night around you. During the day, the sun burns off some of the moisture; at night, it folds in on you.

Blue sky reaches out to the horizon and touches blue-green water. Moonlight washes away the vivid color of the day. White sand becomes light gray. Sky and water meld into pitch.  I learn what it is to be color-blind like dad. At night the beach isn’t about seeing and being seen. No seeing; no touching; no talking; no hearing other than the rush of the wind past your ears. Only smell and taste remain; even they fade in repetition.

Turning into the public parking lot a little too sharply, I flash back to driving lessons with dad as I hear his dreaded command, “Easy. EASY!” echo in my head. Officially, the beach closes at midnight, but the police never enforce this rule. I watch for the watchers anyway; at three hours after mid-night, it’s better to go unnoticed. I need to be alone.

I park as far away from the streetlight as possible. “Night Swimming” by R.E.M. is fading into the background: “you I thought I knew you / you I cannot judge / you I thought you knew me / this one laughing quietly underneath my breath / night swimming / deserves a quiet night.”[i] Knowing, judging, being known, needing escape I close the door and step into the wind. It’s always strong, especially at night; but tonight, it seems as if it has somewhere to go, and it’s insistent on getting there early. Dad’s shouting, “Hurry up, you’re making us late!” is blown away. I hope the wind continues to do this work.

Alone.

I leave my shoes, wallet, shirt, and all but the door key in the trunk. No sense in tempting anyone to steal my last ten until the end of the month. If it weren’t for the gas card, I couldn’t be here and I’d likely starve. Dad shakes his head, “You need to learn to manage your money better, boy.”

The asphalt is still warm, but the sand is cool. It’s even cooler than the air—drier anyway. It’s like someone left the air conditioning on with the door open. Somewhere, dad is shouting, “Close the door!” I realize the wind is letting me down. Thoughts keep intruding.  I pick up the pace to get to the wet sand so the wind will stop sandblasting my ankles, but it’s difficult running on a surface that gives way under every step. I turn south so the wind’s at my back. My hair streams out in front of me, pointing the way, forming blinders to everything around me. “Get a hair cut!” I head into the darkest part of the beach on its southern edge. This must be what a sensory deprivation chamber feels like. I can hear only the gentle breaking of the waves on the rocks. I can see only a few stars through the clouds. I can feel only the warm water splashing against my shins. I can smell only the brine in the air. I can taste only the salt on my lips.

I climb over the break, take off my shorts, and wade into the Atlantic. Isolated. Separated. Alone. Silent. Safe.

An hour and a half up I-16, the cancer is spreading. Three years ago it invaded his colon. They tried to isolate it. To separate it. To convince it to leave him alone and safe. It didn’t work.

Within a year he was back at the hospital with a shortness of breath, silencing him. As if he were trapped under water, his lungs couldn’t hold enough oxygen. The x-rays showed some spots: Little dark spots that seemed to be joining together in places. Forming communities. Staking claim to their territory. Climbing on up. They try again to isolate it and separate it.

A few weeks ago the left side of his body felt numb, and he had trouble walking. Stumbling into the neurologist’s office, he sees an MRI of his brain. The communities have taken up residence there now. Overcrowding will soon be a problem. The population control techniques have failed, and there’s no place left to be alone. There’s no room left.

One month from now, during a night much like tonight, the growth would finally stop. Dad would simply stop breathing: merciful separation. Tonight though, breathing is still important to me; and as I float on my back underneath the clouds, I add a few extra ounces of saline to the sea.

I swim back to the breakers, pull on my shorts, and walk north toward the lot. I feel cold as the wind dries me. The wind and the surf drown out most sound, but then I notice a gull calling out the morning. The brine leaves my lips chapped and my tongue feeling swollen. My nose clears, and I smell the dry morning air blowing in from the west. My hair, no longer providing the blinders, flails about behind me. Color returns, and I can see the light of a red morning ahead. Mourning ahead.

Before I get into the car, I try and knock off as much of the white sand as possible, but my efforts are futile. I carry the beach back home with me: little communities, refusing to let go.

Today, twelve years later, I never go to the beach alone, and I haven’t been to Tybee since that night. The night swimming is past, “replaced by everyday.”[ii] Laurel and I often go out at night for a walk on the beach, together. She never knew dad, but she was there for the funeral: drove down from Louisville just to be with me. That was when I knew.

Leaving the babies with her mom, we walk east on Orange Beach before midnight. I stop and look at the horizon where water and sky meet and merge into one. Laurel reaches out, takes my hand, and we merge as well. Laughing quietly underneath my breath, I whisper, “Good night.” My community has found me, known me, and I am not alone. We walk back to the condo to check on the kids. The night air swirls around and between us. Safe.

[ii] Ibid.

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Why does a great deli give away ice cream but not wifi?

Why does the same deli offer to carry food to two guys, but not to me and the girl?

Why can I write a new post on my iPhone, but I can’t respond to MrEd’s wise cracks about understanding inerrancy better than I do on it?

Why does the girl act tired at 6:30 but not at 11:30?

Why does coke taste so much better than pepsi?

Why do little old ladies like to give me the finger when I’m trying to help them?

Why are students surprised by their grades when they haven’t shown up enough for me to learn their names?

Why do I have so many books and so little time?

Why does the boy like to jump naked? (Okay, that one I kind of get . . .)

Why do smart dogs do stupid things?

Why do little girls and boys have to grow up?

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Ghost stories around a campfire. It all started with ghost stories around a campfire.

We were young, so it was just easier to re-tell the scenes from Friday the 13th, but they were still effective. Most of us hadn’t even seen the movie, but there was always that one kid whose parents would take him to the R-raters. The one kid who could spread the thirteen different ways a psychotic could kill you in the woods; supposing, of course, that you needed killing. My favorite was the arm coming out from under the cot, holding the head of the guy who just had the misfortune of having had pre-marital sex.

What idiot came up with idea of bed skirts? Didn’t they understand (as Stephen King said once) that the skirt makes a perfect hiding place for the boogie man (and a child’s imagination)?

Eventually we moved away from retelling the movie to simply chanting “che he he, ha ha ha.” Fear is more contagious than the flu.

Which left us, alone, in our tents, with only our imaginations and the sounds of the living, breathing, thinking world around us.

A place to tell stories. A place to let the imagination run wild. A place to indulge that little boy who wants a new toy. A place to put away childish things and think like a man (“or a woman if you are one”). That’s what the campfire was for me. That’s what Geek Palaver is for me now.

Yes, I am a geek, and I want to talk. Sometimes it will be useless chatter. Occasionally our palaver will be interesting and helpful. Rarely, the counsel might be inspiring, but we will have a place to discuss our opinions. To see the world as it is, and as we hope it will be.

Perhaps to discover our destiny: our ka.

Join us around the campfire as we bring the 19th century into the 21st.

This has all happened before, for Ka, is a wheel.

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