By gavatron, click for Flickr Photostream

The way we often view poverty is represented almost perfectly by the photograph above. It’s there, and we’re standing off, just watching it. We see it, and we move along. The man on the corner, making his cardboard plea for work or money or booze. The man sitting on the street, too tired to even ask, but with a tattered cup or swiss-cheese hat sitting there, screaming silently, “Please. Spare a dime, quarter, nickle. Anything.”

But what happens whenever it’s not just on the street, where you can pass by without thinking twice about it. Tonight, my wife and I decided to go out to the local installment of a major Tex-Mex restaurant chain for dinner. This restaurant is only a few minutes from our house, and when we eat out, it’s a frequent choice. Tonight, though, was a little different than most. Shortly after we were seated and received our never-ending bowl of chips and bowls of salsa, a man walked in who immediately drew gazes from every table there. He was seated nearby.

While no book should ever be judged by its cover, I will admit that I immediately made my assumptions about this camouflage clad, greasy-haired, clearly weathered hardback which sat nervously at the table. He fidgeted in his pockets, stood up and looked around every few minutes, and it seemed he felt as out of place as he looked. He ordered a glass of water, and began perusing the menu. As his eyes flitted across the brightly colored pages, I could see there were two distinct, radically different, reactions. My best guess is the first was a result of reading the item descriptions. It was pure ecstasy. The second was a result of seeing the prices. It was utter disappointment.

His roller coaster facial expressions weren’t, however, my first indication that this man would likely be going without dinner tonight. As soon as he was seated, he removed his coat, by pulling out his arms and letting it drop to the floor. He looked around to make sure no one who worked there was watching him, and he carefully slid the knife out of its paper napkin sheath. The drawstrings of the top of the coat had become knotted together, so it couldn’t be opened properly. He used the knife as a surgeon might, carefully trying to undo the knot without breaking either of the precious cotton-cord tendons. In the end, he just sawed through it, both because he was unable to break the knot, but also because the wait staff was beginning its parade. In a gesture which made clear his inability to pay for a meal, he carefully resheathed the knife, so the bundle looked as undisturbed as he could make it.

It was clear the wait staff was unsure how to handle the situation. There was a steady stream of aprons walking past his table, saying hello and asking if they could get him anything. He talked with any of them who would listen. I could only hear bits and pieces over the din of the restaurant, but I heard enough. He didn’t have much money. His mother recently died. How much just for a taco? In the midst of all this, he nervously nibbled at the basket of chips and salsa brought to him, and the look on his face said he was just waiting for someone to ask him to leave.

The manager walked by and said hello to the man. Her grey pantsuit sharply contrasted his black hoody beneath black shirt beneath newly-sutured camouflage. That was the end of his warmth, his meager meal, and his water, I thought. I felt sorry for him. While the low 40s may not be cold to some, for anyone around Texas it certainly is. For anyone who spends all day every day outside it is. She smiled and kept walking, then something amazing happened.

Another couple sat at the table just behind ours. Apparently, the man sitting there was just as nosy as I was. he got up, and got the manager. They were close enough to our table I could hear what he was saying. “Excuse me, miss. That man there at the end of the row. I want you to give him whatever he wants for dinner and put it on my bill.” The manager looked shocked. “That’s very, err, cool of you. Where are you sitting?” The man motioned to his table, they separated.

The parade of wait staff hadn’t ended, and one waiter was talking prices with the man, who was clearly on the verge of tears. The waiter told him he could get him just a taco, but it would be 4.95. The man pulled a fistfull of change and began counting it on the table. Both of them realized it wouldn’t be enough, and the man hung his head while the waiter said, let me just go check on something. Near the back, the manager had gathered the wait staff, spoke with them briefly, and they all went back to their sections, casting knowing glances at each other as they went. Shortly, our waiter went to the man’s table, and asked him what he’d like to eat. The man, clearly ashamed, admitted he couldn’t afford it, but the waiter told him not to worry about it, it had been taken care of. Anything there on the menu he could have.

Even in the soft light of the restaurant, the tear that began running down the man’s cheek was unmistakable. He ordered, and, like a child, asked if it would be okay if he got a coke, too. The waiter gave a jovial laugh and told him sure.

I kept an eye on the man throughout the rest of our meal, and I couldn’t quite place the emotion I saw on his face. It wasn’t exactly happiness; it was more akin to that deep joy you feel. Not the giddy pleasure, but that overwhelming feeling you get when everything finally seems like it’s on your side. The couple who offered to pay also had their left-overs boxed up and given to the man. They also made a deal with the waiter, that while they didn’t have cash, they’d make an extra-large tip if he could give the man some money on his way out. They just had one request. They wanted to know the man’s name.

The waiter was more than happy to oblige, and he went and sat down across from the man. They talked for several minutes, and he told how he had spent 8 years in prison, but he’s out now and has put away that lifestyle. He talked about how his mother recently died, after he’d been taking care of her. The waiter went to get him some more coke and make his rounds. He stopped at the other couple’s table, told them the man’s name was Doug.

Doug got the best meal he probably had in days. He was able to come in from the cold for a while, and he even got what was to him a delicacy, a coke. What a sight. I’m young, but I’ve managed to turn into quite the cynic, but despite all that, watching that couple give that man something he so obviously desired but couldn’t have got for himself made me realize a couple of things.

First, people aren’t just a complete loss. In these days of litigiousness and self-absorption, it was a refreshing to see someone who cared for another human being. Second, it showed me how even though I view a single meal at a restaurant as so insignificant, to someone, it’s a magic salve.

I didn’t see if the waiter actually passed on a portion of the tip like he said he would. Typically, I would be prone to believe he didn’t. But tonight? I’d be willing to bet he did.

Often, in class, we students would find ways to keep ourselves entertained. During Shakespeare, someone came up with the idea to play a game, seeing who could get him to say any of a given set or words. Each word had a different point value, with the top-most being “platypus.”

One day, nearing the end of the semester, I went to the professor and asked if I could lead the devotional thought that day. “Sure,” he said, “Any reason?” “Well, yes! Today is national platypus day!” Not wanting to look like he didn’t know already, “Oh, right! I must have forgot!”

We got to class, and he began by asking me to come to the front, and have everybody pay attention for today’s special “Platypus Day” devotional. The other players stared daggers at me, while I continued with the devo, sat down, and enjoyed my victory.

+100 points for me.

NYC Aquarium!

Weird fish!

Seahorses!

Fur Seal!

Sea Lion Show! His name is Osbourne

Dancing!

Jumping!

Face!

Cyclone! This was a ride at Astroland, near Coney Island.

Kristen, on an escalator at the MoMA!

The Iris Exhibit! This was a HUGE 3-walled video with relaxing images and sounds, with a HUGE eye-shaped couch in the middle. You were invited to sit down, lie down, stretch out, sing, dance, whatever.

Same exhibit.

These are the pictures. I hope you enjoyed them. All in all, the trip was great, also, in the future, expect a post about restaurants, and the Honeymoon Day 6 post.

Grey

Monochromatic amidst the chiaroscuro haze of time
Memories lost, found, forgotten, repressed, fade into
The background—grey.

Standing wondering staring into nothing,
Stumbling on memories, looking from afar;
The colors faded—grey.

A lifetime of struggle and heartache she’s faced—
Disappointment, pain, sadness, fear—
But none of it mattering now—grey.

Emptiness and loneliness leaving her feeling
Small, helpless, forgotten.
Wanting to fill the void—grey.

Slashing violently through the grey,
Glowing green and growing,
A swathe of color begins to shine

The heartache of the past further obscured,
Further separated, further healed.
Light breaks, contrasts sharpen

She sees herself mirrored,
Magnified, reflected back. All the memories,
All the history, all the haziness of time torn away

The void takes shape; the shape begins to fill,
As her heart is mended, slowly, and as the scabs
Fall away, she looks again—grey.

Grey changing, bubbling, mottled now with
Points of light, bright and clear
Her background begins to disentwine,

And the colors become clear,
Darks and lights, neons and mutes,
What’s clear is it’s no longer—grey.

She is who she is, her past
The palate from which her canvas
Is carefully colored

The streak of green keeps growing,
Glowing verdant against the colors
eschewing from the grey beyond.

Her heart thaws, warms, beats,
A fire, viridescent flame, emerald passion
Envelops her, born for the growing green form

Her prayers answered, no longer alone,
She begins to take heart, she embraces
The virid figure taking shape,

Turning the girl from grey to white—
All color encompassing, infinite possibility—
And the void is filled,

The background vivid and colorful,
Imprinting their hues on the girl,
But she’s encompassed them all,

Not despairing, but sublimating,
Taking advantage of the lessons learned
Looking forward, entwining fingers

With her emerald companion,
The world takes form and color,
And washed away is the—grey.

Story the first:
Today in my Marriage and the Family class (I am getting a minor in Psychology), we were talking about the roles of gender in the family. The questions were raised, as they always are, about what makes a person a man or a woman, apart from the obvious anatomical disparities. People began rattling off answers about how men are providers, stoic, leaders, etc. I’m sure you can name the stereotypes. For the women, answers such as home maker, mother, and the rest of those commonplaces were thrown around.

I sat quietly, listening. When the answers slowed down, I raised my hand to chip in my thoughts on gender (which you might remember). Basically, I think gender is overemphasized, and that in today’s increasingly androgynous world, gender lines are getting blurred, and I don’t see the big reason to worry about it. I pointed out that I am not particularly stereotypically masculine in a lot of ways, which has come up in previous discussions in the class.

Today, though, I guess the topic came up one too many times, and from behind me, I heard one of the guys say , “Fag.” Much muted sniggering followed. Typically, I’m not too phased by this sort of thing. I’m quite comfortable in both my masculinity and in my heterosexuality, so I don’t really have anything to hide, but being that I go to a Christian University, and given that this is an upper division course, I figured my thoughts and ideas would be met with a bit more decorum and respect. I would be lying if I told you that it didn’t sting a little.

Story the second:
Being that I go to a Christian school, we have mandatory chapels. Sometimes, these chapels are just onerous, but every now and then, we get a good speaker who really catches our attention. The speaker today was of the latter sort, and I was delighted when I heard he was speaking. He told us a modernized version of the Woman at the Well story. In the end, the woman in the modernized vesion was asked what she would want if she had three wishes. It ultimately came out that she wasn’t so much interested in money or being away from where she was so much as she was wanting forgiveness, a way to start over, and someone to love her.

The speaker concluded by challenging us to ask someone who looked down or alone what they’d want if they had three wishes, in an attempt to try to help them out a little bit. Later that day, as I was sitting on a bench outside, letting the sun wash over me, someone I had never seen before walks up to me, and with a half-smirk asks me what I’d want if I had three wishes. Apparently, I looked depressed.

I looked the person in the eye and said, “That’s not really a hard question for me. I’d like someone I love very much not to be sick. I’d like for the world to stop spiraling into war. And lastly, I’d like for every family who has lost someone in the war to get an answer for why they had to sacrifice a loved one.”

The person stammered for a minute, before I assured him (or her) that it was ok if no answer was coming. No one else seemed to have one. The person said thanks and walked off. A few minutes later, the person came back and sat down next to me. Apparently, this person had lost an uncle in Afghanistan a while back. I had no idea who I was talking to, but I just listened. I just sat there and absorbed every piece of information offered about her uncle, his unit, when he was supposed to come home. After a few minutes, the person looked up at me and said, “Thanks. I needed to get all of that out,” and left.

I don’t know who it was, and I don’t know if I will ever see him (or her) ever again, but that was a day that got better not because I was doing anything, but because I looked like I was in need of some cheering up.

Life’s funny that way. Sometimes you set out to help someone out, but you end up getting the help you need instead. Maybe we aren’t so screwed up after all.

I’ve got an idea that I’ll post about in a few days, after I let it roll around in my head, letting the gaps fill themselves in Katamari style. In the mean time, what are your stories of human kindness or of human cruelty that you’ve seen or experienced? Either post them in the comments, or leave a comment with a link to your own entry, and I’ll put them all together in a nice list and post it in a few days, after you’ve had some time to write your own stories.

So, here’s some photos with stories attached to them. Enjoy!

First and foremost, for those of you who want the penny-a-word version, the trip was great. So, if you want to stop there, you can, I guess, but remember: I know where you live. Is he kidding? I don’t know!

First off, despite how jokingly you’ve used the phrase “Africa is far away,” Africa really is far away. Total travel time was approximately 26 hours each way. On the way there, I was awake for most of that because, well, I’m fat, and I find airplanes to be exceedingly uncomfortable. It didn’t really help that I was all a-jitter for the adventure ahead of us. The weirdest thing on the flight from Dallas to Frankfurt had to be flying into the sunset, and a few hours later, flying into the sunrise. I mean, sure, I’ve stayed up all night, and I’ve even watched the sun rise, but doing so in a plane was just a little surreal, especially considering that “night” only lasted a couple of hours.

Anyway, in Frankfurt, three of us got bumped up to Lufthansa business class, which rocked. Seats that recline all the way back, choosing the movie or whatever to watch, ahh. Bliss. Truly.

When we finally landed in Addis, we were all tired, but we had to go through customs and get our visas and all that fun stuff, but that was all relatively smooth. When we got out of the airport, it had been just over 26 hours since we had all met in Dallas. What a day that had been, but we were able to have one final adventure that day, however. When we got to the hotel, we were met by, or I should say we interrupted, a grand gathering, about 30-40 men were crowded into the lobby of our hotel watching the soccer game on the 15 or 20 inch TV they had there. The rancor grew silent as we came trudging in, 7 white college students, each carrying two large bags (one of personal effects and one of supplies). Amid the stares, we were quickly funneled upstairs to our rooms, where we each collapsed for the night.

The real adventure would, like the rest of this story, have to wait until tomorrow.

NaBloPoMo Entry #7

The festivities started around 4:30, with some fun and games. A little pumpkin bowling, beanbag tossing, and some fishin’ for treats that kept the little ones busy while the rest of us milled about, chatting, enjoying the cool afternoon, and taking pictures of all the little ones running around having the time of their lives. I stole away from the group to snap a few pictures of the festivities.

First, there was some pumpkin bowling. Dr. Olson and her daughter-in-law, Krista, made these bowling pins to match the harvest motif, and I think they turned out pretty well.

and picking up the spare…

After the games were over,we ate some amazing food, and I was too busy eating to take many pictures, so we’ll skip ahead to the night events, which included pumpkin carving and bobbing for produce. I must admit, watching people bob for celery, oranges, pomegranate, grapes, and kiwi, in addition to the more traditional apples, was quite a sight. As they are wont, the younger boys were quite a bit more, umm, dedicated to the whole ordeal.

If you want to see some more pictures, or see bigger versions of any of these, just click the Steam-o-Lantern below.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

NaBloPoMo Post #1

Being relatively new to the classical music scene, I hadn’t ever heard the 9th, apart from “Ode to Joy.” Hearing that bit of music (in the original German, mind you) in the context of the symphony was astounding! Beethoven’s massive emotional shifts between movements was humorous, as the deep melancholy of the beginning of the ode gave way to the whimsy of the second movement. It can’t really be described, it has to be experienced.

But, the evening started out a little strangely. Liz, my date, ended up not getting back from her flight block until 6:40, a good 30 minutes after we were going to leave for dinner. She called, said that she was late, and insisted that I go ahead and go with the other couple that we were going to dinner with. I reluctantly agreed, and the three of us went off to dinner, and we picked her up on our wy back to the symphony. I was a little bummed about that one, but dinner was fun, still, and all was well.

After the symphony, we walked around, talking with some people that we knew who were there, and decided to go get some ice cream to top off the evening. As it turned out, several of our friends had decided the same thing, and we hung out with a bunch of them, eating ice cream and talking (though usually not at the same time).

In the end, we decided to make up the missed dinner some other time, and I’m looking forward to that, too.

Even if just for the night, all’s right with the world.

And there’s an awwwww picture after the cut.

So, I read fairly often. In fact, I compulsively buy and start reading books at least once a week. What that means, though, is that I end up being in the middle of about 700,000 different books at a time. Currently, I’m in the middle of Faust, The Dialogic Imagination, Till We Have Faces, Reading Lolita in Tehran, Wicked, Dark Tower Book 3, The Loom of Language, a couple of books I picked up at a conference last Spring, and several others that I’ve started over the years. Whenever I find one that really grabs my attention, though, I generally finish it quickly. For instance, I picked up Devil in the White City at the beginning of the summer and read it in 3 days.

I’ve fallen in love with Goethe’s Faust. I’m reading a translation by Walter Kaufman, and I have to say that I’m entranced every minute I’m reading. Here’s a little snippit:

Upon the mild light of the earthly sun
turn, bold, your back! And with undaunted daring
tear open the eternal portals
past which all creatures slink in silent dread.
The time has come to prove by deeds that mortals
have as much dignity as any god,
and not to tremble at that murky cave
where fantasy condemns itself to dwell
in agony. The passage brave
whose narrow mouth is lit by all the flames of hell;
and take this step with cheerful resolution,
though it involve the risk of utter dissolution.

How amazingly beautiful is that? I fully realize that the quote is about suicide, but the beauty lies in the description that absolutely anyone can grasp. Suicide is one of those things that most people just don’t understand, and to see such a description makes me realize that there are some people out there who really do understand.

I have had some not too happy moments in my past, and have, in the past, found myself in pretty self-destructive states–even suicidal. At this point in my life, it hasn’t really been an issue, but believe me when I say that after such an even, one never quite looks at the world the same way again. In fact, it’s the very reason I started reading outside of school again.

I find my release, my acceptance, my sense of security in literature. Literature reflects, to some degree, the culture from which it came, and because I sometimes have a tough time connecting with culture-at-large, I find that it’s much easier to connect to the culture as mirrored in books, music, movies, whatever. I look at them as concentrated culture. And through that little section of Faust I was able to see a concept, a situation, a state of being, that has transcended time and is just as gruesome today as it was in the 1800s. I see it in literature and I see it in life, and as a result, I reach catharsis.

Literature isn’t just about words or structures or interpretation. Literature is about transcending time to connect the world of the past with the world of the present and the world of the present with the world of the future, to show the people that, despite their statements about the quaintness of a given tool or course of action, the two worlds aren’t so different after all, and that’s why I love literature.

Like the weasel, love is wild. As a slightly overweight—soft I’ll say—male, the high school dating scene held a few challenges for me. But, as my grandfather always said, “Even a blind squirrel finds a nut every now and then.” Find a nut I did.

Her name was Samantha. Her shoulder-length downy hair culminated, as one would reasonably expect, at the top of her scalp. That scalp reached almost to a foot below my own. Her emerald eyes sparkled when she smiled, or should I say grinned? Her pale lips never quite made that inverted parabola; rather they curled inward at the ends much like the Grinch’s smile did. She was a very fine nut indeed.

Our love started simply enough. She and I had several classes together and got to know each other fairly well. I invited her to church several times. The two of us began to talk more and more often, and those first sprouts of a blossoming relationship began to spring from the topsoil of shared experiences. I have always been one for romance, hopeless though it may be, so rather than “asking her out” directly, I wrote a rather clever short story in which the main character was a bumbling oaf asking a beautiful princess to be his girlfriend. The ending was left intentionally blank, allowing for Samantha herself to pen the fate of that bumbling oaf. Later that day, I received my story back with a hug attached, and so it was that things became “official.”

Samantha and I (it was mostly me) were plagued with all the loveable awkwardness that young puppy love awards such star-crossed teenagers. In the age where girlfriends and boyfriends were required to hold hands, I was an odd duck because the very prospect filled me with such paralyzing fear that I was not the one to make such a brave move, but am I ever glad she was braver than I in that respect. The tight intertwining of fingers even now makes my fingers twitch in delight. Each of her fingers sat gracefully between each of mine; the slight pressure of the stretch our hands had to make to accommodate the foreign phalanges gave me then and gives me now that warm fuzzy feeling that crawls from the base of the spine into the base of the brain. That warm fuzzy clouds any and all sane judgment, so be wary.

Things could not have been better. About a month and a half after I timidly “asked her out,”—as was the custom of my peer group—, I spent the day at her house lounging around the pool. Both our sets of shoulders had been drawn taut and painted red by the day’s relentlessly beating rays. The sweltering Texas sun made the pool a welcome refreshment to quickly parching skin.

We laughed. We talked. I was totally enamored with this girl. For lunch, we made my favorite meal: a warm, gooey pot of macaroni and cheese. We ate; we laughed; we talked some more. As the sunlight quickly waned, she and I were sitting nervous hand in nervous hand in her room. She asked what my favorite part of the day had been. I thought hard, hands twitching, trying to decide which particular moment was the best part of what had already seemed to be a perfect day. Out my answer came thudding dully to the floor saturated with that sap only puppy love can produce: “Everything.”
She giggled and I felt my face begin to burn. Burning hotter than its sunburn should, that sudden rush of insecurity that threatens faintness washed over me. And then it passed. I returned the question expecting, hoping for that same sap I had just delivered when it happened.

“When I did this,” she said.

I can still feel her hands gently grasping the sides of and turning my unbelieving head. There were ten nearly imperceptible tingles as her fingers gently pushed causing minute movements in my hair. Then, as equally unfathomable as it was expected, the painful scrape of sunburned nose on sunburned nose. Then with the softest of touches, the lightest of brushes, her lips and mine did meet: warm, moist, the slightly ferrous taste that only a kiss can bring. Then it was over.

Her face was a new shade of red— red as the digital clock on the table across the room that read 9:18—we both giggled uncontrollably as that mind-numbing warm fuzzy filled both our brains. My face burned ever more fiercely with a new found modesty being simultaneously created and destroyed within me. That night, that week, that month, these last five years, I have carried the memory of the soft, moist, warm first kiss.

From that point onward things went well for us. We were young, and the longer we were together, the more and more that puppy love grew into a Dalmatian, then a St. Bernard.

First-love giddiness left my mind swimmy and after a year of our relationship she decided that it was time for our love to come to an end. I went from swimmy to sunk in a matter of seconds. Having been thoroughly crushed by the loss of my first love, I withdrew. The warm fuzzies had faded; rather, it was a cold prickly feeling snaking up my spine, wrapping itself ‘round my stomach, forcing its barbs deeply into each of my internal organs before bursting forth to the indescribable horror of those around me as the gore of my heart spilled forth from the gaping hole left in my chest.

Although that particular event was one of the more painful events in my short lifetime, it should be duly noted that broken hearts do mend. Immediately after she and I had parted ways, I felt as if I was swimming in tar. Every movement I made only served to stick me faster in the quagmire. The year following our breakup was a year of torture. The barbs of the cold prickly dug deeper and deeper as I struggled through the flypaper valley I had found myself in. I had some good friends who dug deeply in the muck and mire to rescue their quickly sinking buddy, and those friends will forever have a debt owed them.

I was young. She was young. Perhaps it was foolish to think of things beyond our ages, but I will never forget the tingles in my hair, the comfort of the pressure of another hand in my own, that warm, fuzzy, swimmy feeling that enveloped my brain. My first love will always and forever hold a place in my now mended heart. Other nuts are out there, scattered on the forest floor, and this blind squirrel will keep searching for the perfect nut for me.