International Relations

The holiday season is approaching  upon us!
It is no secret that this season is my favorite, and I have very defined ideas of how
to make it successful. I start out with specific times that things can start, such as,
no holiday music prior to Thanksgiving day, and the tree goes up the morning of Black Friday, no sooner, no later. That night we take the students to see The Greeley Griswolds Christmas light display.

I have a list of movies we have to watch throughout the season, starting with "Black Adder's Christmas Carol", then "National Lampoons Christmas Vacation", followed by "The Christmas Story", "Santa Clause Is Comin' To Town", "Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer, and "It's A Wonderful Life."

The first Christmas songs I listen too are actually not Christmassy at all, "The Thanksgiving Song" by Adam Sandler, then his "Time For Hanukkah." After that we get rolling with "Run DMC's Christmas In Hollis." Once that is all done, my family is free to celebrate in the manner they see fit. It is not that I am a Yule-tide tyrant per se, it is just that they do not know what is best for them.

This year, we planned out our normal Thanksgiving menu, invited all our students, bought the food, had it all worked out. We always cook a turkey, roast a ham, have the normal veggies, some unusual but delicious side dishes, and top it off with one of my home made pumpkin cheesecakes. Seems pretty straight forward, and then I had to throw a wrench into the works.

I invited a Muslim refugee to celebrate with us. On the surface these seems pretty simple, but then I realized that I had to make sure we had foods the guy could eat. Scratch the ham. Hide the wine. Substitute with roast beef and sparkling cherry juice. Check. Read up on dietary law to be sure nothing we served had hidden non- Halal ingredients. Check. Back on track. One of my friends at church who knows my friend Mo, told me I should get some dates to serve to our guest as it was one of his favorites. They told me where to look, and make sure it was authentic an authentic Middle Eastern product, complete with Arabic writing on the package. No problem, I live near Greeley, which is like the freakin' cultural center of the universe, right?

It took some searching but I finally found a little African store stuck behind some of
the seediest real estate that can be seen for miles. The parking lot was actually a
field of potholes that were stitched together with barbwire, and watered down with
storm drainage to presumably help with the whole feng shui of the operation. I walk
into the front door of the tiny shop and get shocked stares from the three Somalian
store clerks. Apparently I was the first white guy who had ever crossed the threshold
and they assumed I was either too drunk to find my way into the bar entrance of the
bowling alley 100 feet away, or that I was there because I was up to no good.

Now, let me make it clear, I too am a little nervous as this is my first time entering
into an African store, if was an Asian store, I know how to act, but this was new
territory. I look at the guys, and blurt; "I am looking for dates! The first reaction was that they looked at each other in a rather frightened manner, and there was a short hushed exchange between them, then the guy closest to me stammered; "B-b-b-but we are men!?" I blurt "OK, whatever, but where can I find dates?" Stunned Silence. Store Clerk: "But Sir, there are no women here!" Me: " I don't care who brings it, I just want buy dates!" Horrified Silence. Store Clerk: We do not sell that here!
Me: "Look, I invited this guy Mohammed to my house for Thanksgiving, and my pastor said to offer him dates as a gift."

KAAABOOOOM!


You would have thought I just driven a train through a nitro-glycerine factory. The front man stammered  "Whaaaat????  I repeated it, My friend Mo, from the refugee center, He is coming to visit me and He likes to eat dates. Suddenly we had a meeting of the minds. The store clerk led me over to a long shelf with a huge selection of dates. (It might be interesting to know, that if I had just looked three feet in front of me, I would have seen this shelf!)

I picked out a nice box, then the clerk timidly asked if there was anything else and
proceeded to show me around. I walked up to the counter with the dates, some rice, East African bottled juices, and a huge sense of relief. The guys behind the counter were then a little more at ease, and started questioning me about the reason I was there. I explained that I was making friends with Mo, and wanted to make him feel welcome in my home. "Your HOME?" they asked. They had to hear it a couple of times, because they could not believe their ears. The owner then shook my hand and asked me to come again. Mission accomplished.


Thanksgiving week turned out to be a success, nothing burned, no major wars in the kitchen with me and Dessy, everyone got fed, had some nice conversations and a few students came by the next day for leftovers and putting up the Christmas tree.

(Over the week we had students and guests visit from Mexico, Norway, China, France Djbouti, and Thailand.)



So on to the next phase of the Holidays, dealing with my kids and Christmas presents.

Till next time, I leave you with my Thanksgiving poem.

Ode To Thanksgiving

      'Twas the morning of Thanksgiving,
      And all through my house.
      You can hear lots of screaming from me and my spouse.
      From inside the kitchen with groceries to spare.
      We argued and fought over how to prepare.

      The guests will be coming,
      Expecting our best.
      The food won't be ready
      And our house is a mess.


      When on top of the stove, the yams made a splatter,
      And my wife came a running, to see what was the matter.
      The potatoes were flying, as I started to mash,
      and fell on the floor, then tossed in the trash.

      The bread won't be made, cause I messed up the dough
      and the stuffing is runny, why I don't know.
      When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
      But a miniature wife, and I shuddered in fear


      With a gleam in her eyes, and armed with a stick,
      I knew in a moment it's my butt she would kick.
      She drew in a deep breath, I quivered in shame,
      She shouted , and heckled, then bellowed my name!

      Get out of my kitchen, you're just in the way.
      I can't stand your face for even one more day.
      Cut carrots,
      Chop Celery,
      Slice onion,  and ham.
      Make Gravy,
      Do it your way,
      I don't give a damn.


      As the yelling subsided, I wished I could die,
      My little boy shuddered and started to cry.
      Then mommy took over, I ran in fear,
      I hid in the basement and sipped on a beer.

      And then, in a twinkling, I heard a crash on the floor,
      Then wailing and crying and a slamming front door.
      I went to the kitchen to find no one there,
      The mess that had happened was too much to bear.


      I laughed when I saw it, the food on the shelf!
      We're out of time, I said to myself.
      I thought for a moment, "This isn't so bad,
      Let's go have dinner with my mom and my dad.


      We drove to their house, and told them the deal,
      and begged them to let us come in for a meal.
      Mom spoke not a word, Dad had a big smirk,
      And said to my face that I was a big jerk.

      He then thumbed his nose and slammed the door shut,
      I looked at Josh and Dessy and said "Now what?"
      She suddenly smiled, and said "I know a way!"
      And away we all went to the Country Buffet.

      We all ate our fill, for $ seven ninety nine,
      Then went back to the house for a cheap glass of wine.
      As we fell asleep on the sofa, a voice yelled out in the night,
     
      "Happy Thanksgiving to all to all, and to all a big fight!

A Different Take on Life

I want to tell a little bit about something that is close to my heart. I have always been a bit insecure, and down on myself. I  have almost always dealt with depression. I have never felt like I am a good catch, a good provider or a good father. I do not feel worthy of success, or the excitement that it could bring. I have preferred to stay in the background, opting to serve, rather than lead. I put up a wall of humor to mask the insecurities, and when that fails me I escalate to sarcasm or even anger at times, all to try and avoid letting my sensitivity drag me further into internal pain. I can be, and often am a real butthole. But the fact is, I do really care about what is going on around me both locally and globally.

Some of you may know that I have gotten involved with reaching out to the local university and am involved with a program called "Friendship Family". It is an offering to the international students, where a typical local family can be a sort of surrogate family to a young student, while they attend the University for the duration of their studies here. It has been a great experience for us. We hope that our students get as much out of it as we do. I fear they do not, as we really seem to be getting the better end of the deal. We have had students from China, Thailand, South Korea, United Kingdom, France, Czech Republic, Italy, Malaysia, and Mexico. It has been very rewarding. It is not just because college students are young and vibrant, full of hope, vibrant and attractive, (although that does not hurt.) They bring an exchange of ideas and culture to the table. Sometimes they make really good food for us too. We feel that we have some relationships that have transcended a casual friendship that will fade in time, to actually feeling like we have extended our family beyond our borders.

We also have had the privilege of getting to know other international families, some by virtue of me having and Indonesian National for a spouse, but others through the course of my life, where I had the chance to meet various residents from all over the Europe, Asia, South America etc. Even Canadians for crying out loud. For the most part, most of these interactions were casual, and never really developed into lasting friendships. (not talking about you, JØrgen)

The landscape around me is changing. What once was a town that only had either White or Hispanic people living here, has evolved into a city where over 12 languages are spoken. I found this graph for Greeley, Colorado, but it is actually unofficially estimated that there are over 30 distinct languages spoken here now.

So where am I going with all this? Surprisingly it is not about embracing diversity per se. It is not about preaching inclusion, or being a good ambassador for the sake of anything or anyone. It is not about stopping racism or evangelism or any of that. I cannot control that on a high level. I do not even really want to. I am focusing on what my heart is telling me right now.

For several years, I have wondered about the immigrants coming to the USA. I have had coworkers who were labeled as "Boat People" or Eastern Bloc escapees. It seemed easy to talk to them when there was common frames of reference, like our work environment. I often wonder about the people I see in the stores, individual who are very different than the locals. Obvious foreigners.
People who despite the wearing of western clothes, living in western homes, driving the same kinds of cars that the rest of us drive, BUT still stick out like sore thumbs. It is easy to understand the concept of sticking out. When I go to Indonesia, I am about a foot taller than everyone else, at least twice their body weight, and make enough social faux pas that I end up saying sorry, more than I would like.

Here in my homeland when crossing paths with someone that obviously is not from this continent, I have tried to be cordial and offer a smile, only to be glared at, or ignored. Initially it seemed best to just overlook it. Over and over again, then one day, I got a little indignant. While driving by a group of Somali kids who were playing in the street, I slowed down so as not to hit anyone with the car, and then smiled and waved. They all glared at me like I was the white devil. I stopped and rolled down the window and asked what was the reason for the looks, when my intention was to be sure they did not get run over. The oldest kid, maybe 15 looked at me with confusion and it was soon very clear that the looks were more of fear and apprehension. Their countenances changed when they realized that this big fat white guy was not angry with them, did not hate them and was doing something they had not seen here before which was treating them with some common courtesy. It was heart breaking to me. These kids have been treated like untouchables the entire time they have lived here. They are not accepted by the general population because they are "those damned job taking refugees, who are unfriendly, and want their religion to take over the world." As I drove off, a few of the kids even waved back.

So back to present day, and an experience I had this weekend. The family and I went to an International Cultural event, to see some of our students perform. While there I was looking at some of the vendor booths and there was one with a guy giving information about the Immigration and Refugee center, so I stopped to ask a couple of questions.The guy talked for about 20 minutes of the problems that many refugee immigrants have with trust and fear of violence, etc. He also mentioned how many people go to work, and and then go straight back home, only to repeat the routine daily, and he wondered out loud why anyone would really want to come here and face the lonely lifestyle. So at the end of the conversation, I asked if we could get coffee sometime, and gave him my email.

I got a message that night asking if we could get together for a cup of coffee the next day. We met. We talked for nearly 4 hours. We covered subjects that spanned perception of life, politics, religion, tragedy, fear and the human condition. But what really stood was the fact that he was lonely. He said so many refugees are afraid of what will happen to them here. it dawned on me that the sullen looks I had been seeing all this time were perceived with the mind of someone who had not been oppressed. I have no experience where my uncle may have gotten gunned down in the street by some dictators henchmen. Nor would I understand being so desperate that I had to leave my family behind, leave all I know and understand, just to find a place to maybe live in peace, perhaps even just TO LIVE at all.

So why am I telling this to you all? Maybe it is just a plea to think a little differently about those who live amongst us, who we think are so different than us. With very few exceptions, every last one of us are descendants if immigrants. My family emigrated from Belgium, Italy, Ireland and most recently, Indonesia. Hopefully we can all think beyond our comfort zones and reach out a little more. It is uncomfortable for sure. We risk rejection. but please, if this means anything at all to you, try. Try again. Keep trying until you succeed. Even if you never have talked to anyone different, you can. Think a little how a new kid feels in school. They are scared, and shy. Make friends with the new family in the neighborhood. Make them welcome. Sometimes it is a real leap of faith to be that bold. Sometimes it is just as simple as saying hi and introducing yourself and talking about nothing in particular at all. It may not seem like much, but it might make all the difference to a hurting heart.

Better yet, you might make a difference in your own heart.  

You just never know.

A story I like to tell from time to time involves a sort of serendipity if you will. In 2013, I was a victim of a resource action at the big tech company I was contracted to. It was not my performance, it was a business decision and about a thousand others got the axe that day as well.

I was not too worried at first, but the economy was bad and after 2 years, I was still looking for sustainable work. It was a terrible time for our family. We came so close to losing the house, and my 6 year old at the time was starting to have a lot of anxiety over whether or not we would be homeless.

One day in early fall, we attended a safety fair. It had trinkets for the kids, demonstrations of firemen putting out fires, huge military vehicles etc. My son and I were looking at the booths and I saw a woman giving out brochures for mental health services. My boy went over to see what free stuff was to be had and I asked about children's counseling. The woman explained available services, then stopped short and asked me how I was doing. She said I looked a really down. I explained my situation and how sad I was that my little boy was bearing the burden or fear, because I was not finding work. The woman then handed me a small stone.

It had a business logo on one side, and the word "HOPE" engraved on the other. She encouraged me to look at that stone, and not lose hope that things could and even would change.  I thanked her and when I got home, put it on my night stand. I would look at it each night and think about hanging on a little bit more.

A few more weeks  pass and each day I am literally hurling resumes out on the internet. I was too the point where I was no longer keeping track of who it was sent to, I just would tailor the resume and send it. I even joined a site where you could apply for several jobs at once.

I get a call, and was asked to interview. I went in thinking it was going to be another day of disappointment, but kept my chin up for the interview. I was shocked to get hired on the spot. I was sent over to H.R. the next day to file paperwork and get a badge. I went home, still not quite believing I had a job. I looked at the badge and realized the logo was the same as the emblem on the stone on my night stand. I trembled a little, because it was not something I engineered, it was just... I do not know, coincidence, divine intervention? I was not sure how to feel, but I took it.

Fast forward 2 more years.

I was in the headquarters building of the company, helping a director by fixing her computer issue. I looked at her and asked if she was the woman who was manning the booth, then told her the story of the stone. I thanked her for the hope she helped instill in me. She got a little teary eyed, and gave me a hug.

I got a letter from her today. She had been thinking a lot about what I said. I had caught her on a day where she had been struggling with a decision to retire,  because she had grown weary of having to solve issues that were not hers to own. She told me that I reminded her that everyone does what they can, and even a small statement can make a difference in someone's life. She ended saying that she was glad that I was here to help make that difference, every day.

She is still here. She has not resigned yet. She is still helping to run a business that helps so many people escape the terrible grip of depression, and addiction.

It humbles me. I did not say anything profound. I just thanked her for saying something to me, that despite being small, made a life changing difference to me.

You just never know.

The Christmas Blessing

Every year, the holiday season comes and goes, bringing joy, laughter, happiness and goodwill.
Just kidding, as Clark Griswald so aptly stated, "We are at the threshold of Hell!"
This year had to be different. I had to make sure that we broke with the striving to have a memorable season, and try and simplify so that we avoided the stress and disappointment of it all.
I wanted to have this:

NOT this:

Every year, I have a plan in my head, one that involves picture perfect moments in front of the tree, swigging homemade eggnog by a roaring fire while listening to the kids sweetly sing Christmas carols while our perfectly decorated home twinkles magically with the warm glow of beautiful, yet environmentally friendly, low carbon footprint, LED lights, (which we bought at 90% off the last couple of years at the department stores!) Yet every year, there is discord, and disagreement over what goes where, which decorations to use this time around, and of course the glorious decision on how much debt to start the New Year with.

So this year was to be different. I would make a less labor intensive plan to execute what would be our best season ever. I planned smaller, cheaper, with less workload. I did not overthink it all. I involved the kids more in the set up. I just about had it dialed in and perfect. ALMOST.

Things got off to a good start. I did not argue over the menu for the Thanksgiving meal. I let my wife dictate how much we really needed. I memorized the public service flyer in the crapper at work on how to manage holiday stress.

We, as a family planned simple, inexpensive and meaningful activities that would warm our cold, icy hearts and fill our heads with good memories for years to come. I talked to the kids about the real meaning of the season. Neither of them believes in Santa anymore, so I was straight with them over perceptions or misguided expectations for this Christmas. Josh went as far as to announce one day, that he did not care if he got any presents, because Jesus was the reason for the season. I could not have been more proud of my son at that point. It was a beautiful sentiment to me, and you should remember this part, as it is important later in this story.

Just a day after Thanksgiving, we had some of our students from China over to help put up the tree and decorate it. We explained to them the meaning of the nativity, and how some of the decorations we put up are really not related to our chosen faith, and are actually rooted in more pagan tradition. I am sure this was a great selling point in convincing them of the true meaning of Christmas, atheist's as they are. The kids began to practice their songs for their Christmas pageant at church, the outdoor lights on timers so they would be less bother, the front yard decorated conservatively, and  the backyard with pretty much every other string of lights, and illuminated plastic statue that we had.
The kids loved it, but the wife, meh, not so much.

I ordered simple, educational, yet meaningful presents for the kids. Amazon was helping take all the stress out of everything. I was avoiding the greed and avarice one experiences in the horrible bustle and rush of Black Friday at the mall.

Everything I did from Thanksgiving onward, I did with careful deliberation. I created scenarios on paper, ran statistical analysis on past Christmas's, did projections, you name it. I was not going to allow myself to do anything that would ruin it all at the last minute. I had a good plan. It was solid, it was smart, it was simple. If I had a whim to add something to the mix I could, at my leisure. We put the old Lionel train under the tree. The kids were loving it. I was happy. I thought it was perfect until...

T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the house...

We went to our church for our traditional finger food pot luck, then a candlelight service. It was beautiful. Afterwards we took our Thai and Chinese students around town to see the special Christmas light displays. I was living the dream. I had the quiet elation of one who had won the battle for sanity in a season of potential chaos. It felt so good.

Early Christmas morning, my kids woke me up asking if they could open the presents.
We watched them scamper around and they were so great. They loved the simple presents. We started preparing the big dinner for all our students and family who would spend the day with us.
My oldest child came up and reiterated how he was so glad that Christmas was about God, and not all about toys and Santa. I think I felt a hot tear run down my cheek and I gave him a hug. It was the best Christmas ever. But then, the doorbell rang.

In walks one of our students with a large box. The kids started dancing around and begging to see what was in it. As they unwrapped it with careful anticipation, I saw the lettering, it was a video game console, an Xbox One! I was floored. I told the student that it was too much and thanked him for such a thoughtful gesture. He smiled and them my oldest son, the one who was all about the baby Jesus and loving the simple things in life blurted; "Daddy, We knew a month ago we were getting this, and we had to keep the secret!"

BOOOM! 

The illusion of my wonderful meaningful Christmas exploded like a dynamite cigar. My moth dropped open at the realization that my kid, my precious understanding son, had totally played me.  I almost uttered the words in my still shocked brain, but I managed to keep my composure and smile at him. After all, I was trying to make it a good memory for all, right? I calmly walked back to the kitchen looking for the egg nog. I poured a large cup and lifted it to toast our happy family. I said some kind words to all and let them know how much they meant to me.

Now I want you to look at this final scene, and reframe this image of Christmas joy. Replace the words calmly walked with "stomped", egg nog with "bourbon" and kind words with "Josh you are a lying a-hole!" That was what was going through my head, anyway.

I understand now that I may be asking too much of my kids to get the whole true meaning thing. I know they did their best. They did make me proud as they performed their songs at church.
We enjoyed the time together, the students were happy to experience a holiday with an American family for the first time. But I guess what they say is true, if you fly too close to the fire, you might singe your wings.

Summer Vacation

When I was a young student, it seemed that there was nothing better in the world than summer vacation. Summers seemed forever back then. Endless days of playing barefoot outside, the sweet smell of afternoon rain on fresh cut grass, adventures that never seemed to end. It was a cascade of fun memories that live with me still, albeit the memories are grey and dusty at times. I remember the innocence of youth, the scrapes and bumps, the cuts and bruises. The trips to Disneyland, and DC. Visiting relatives and places with what my father thought we should become well acquainted.
Salt water taffy, and Philly cheese steaks to new Orleans beignets. Battleships to Mesa Verde.

Summer was such fun back then. I think mostly because our entertainment directors were so much better at it. My parents carefully planned out every detail, had a list of scheduled activities which we followed as best as we could.  One of the things I hoped for when I grew up was that I could give my kids the same enriching experiences. Alas, hopes are not always realized, let me explain...

Since the day we got married in 2006, I had kept promising my wife that we would be sure to visit her home country but life always seemed to get in the way. Finally, after 10 years we caught a break and started planning. Got passports for the kids, made reservations for hotels, flights and immunization shots. We made a plan, I would fly over with them, stay a week, then leave them there for 3 more weeks so the boys could really get to know their heritage and more importantly, their relatives.

As the day of our departure approached, I prepared a list of things to take. I sure was not going to make the mistakes I had made in the past, over packing, because I assumed that I could not buy anything but trinkets and diphtheria in a backward third world country. (Note to all of you; never get travel advice from anyone born in the depression era, or any company that sells travel accessories.) I was going minimalist, dressing for comfort, and the only thing I was taking beside some clothing were American smokes to give out to the locals, because I knew that would curry great favor and give me access to paths most tourists never get to see. I KNEW that.

The great day arrives, time for us to go. I was all excited that I was about to live the dream, see the sights as a seasoned visitor. I get up, load the van, put the kids in the car and calmly drive to the airport with time to spare. Because I am of course a seasoned traveler. I had mentioned that, right?

I wake up early to find my suitcase torn open, and my wife repacking it with gifts, kids stuff, and clothing. "HEY!" I calmly screamed at Dessy, "I had that packed and ready!"  Apparently, the kids had to have 50 changes of clothes each. Then at the last minute I decide to gift Indonesia with one of my famous home made cheesecakes, because it totally makes sense to fly a frozen cheesecake halfway around the world, right?

We finally board the plane and take off, first layover is in Tokyo. I tell Dessy, that we just HAD to try real sushi. We found a place and ordered a modest 2 caterpillar rolls and sodas and a beer. It was so exciting, but not because of the quality. It was the bill got my heart racing. I did the conversions and $100 USD!!! I later was told that the airport was the worst place other than a gas station in Kansas to buy sushi.

We re-boarded the plane and took off for Jakarta. Smooth flight, but just as the plane touched down a crosswind got us and we landed poorly. I looked at Dessy and her wide eyes and said; 'Well, at least you still get to be buried in Indonesia!" We made it to the gate and had a reunion with her family. It was so nice seeing the kids great their Opung mama for the first time. Dessy was tired but excited. Her family was mildly concerned over the cheesecake, as it was no longer frozen, a bit malformed and had an odd after taste of jet exhaust.

Now, it is important to understand that in some cultures, you follow certain rules, and one of those is to properly protect yourself from ingesting harmful bacteria. I knew how to do this because I am a seasoned traveler. I had mentioned that, right? WELL. I managed to spend the remaining 7 days doing the Bogor Bathroom tour. I could not go anywhere farther than five minutes away from a western toilet. It was awesome. I got to expose my bum to squatty potty's, and 30 other bathrooms ranging in luxuriousness from abandoned condemned septic tank to 5 star heated toilet seat with auto bidet. So there was that delightfulness. That, and how everyone seemed to know about the condition, because my wife FACEBOOKED IT!!! Initially I thought people must have known I was from Colorado, because no matter where I went, someone would invariably ask me "How's your Aspen?" Of course I may have understood the accent.

Dessy and the kids fared a little bit better. The kids decided to refuse any food that did not come in a McDonalds, Burger King, or Pizza Hut wrapper. At home they love to eat most Indonesian foods, but heck no, not at the source. They were spoiled terribly by relatives. They got to ride with auntie on a scooter (no helmets), and had so much fun that my youngest informed me on a call that he did not miss me, and wanted to stay and live with his grandmother and aunties. I won that battle though. I said, "Fine, I will give all your toys to the neighbor kids." He must have mulled that over, because a week later he said he might want to come home again someday.

We did get to see a couple of sights, the traditional markets, and some relatives. I tried to give out the cigarettes and found that in the ten years I had been gone, hardly anyone smoked anymore. Everyone wanted to be healthy. Figures. I had nothing to offer at that point.

One last note, I am eternally grateful to cousin Erina, her husband Arief and their son Owen, for watching over the family to make sure they were safe and sound. I hope that we get to go back in a couple of years, and hopefully will have learned some good lessons for the next trip.

Because, you know, WE are seasoned travelers.

The Hiatus

Today I realized that it has been nearly 2 years since I have posted. Please allow me to explain, while offering an apology to those of you who were interested in my stories.
The 2.5 year period that I was unemployed took the joy right out of life for me, and as a result, I just did not have the heart to continue fabricating the gross embellishments that I used to describe daily events. I feared that my words would become too dark, disturbing, or offensive. I elected to stop writing until I was on some happier ground. Sarcasm for me ceases to be funny, when I become embittered. Soon, you will start to see my musings again, and I hope you will enjoy them.

- Mark

Just Another Filthy, No Good, Drain On Society

I saw a posting on social media today, outlining how welfare and food stamps are not entitlements but rather, “handouts”. The comments following had a lot of hatred toward the poor. How we are all shysters, daily committing fraud against the hard working people. We are either illegal aliens, or lazy crack heads who are hell bent on getting everything for free, and loudly proclaiming our inalienable rights to a free ride.  It was the icing on the cake for another otherwise miserable day.

Let’s just back up a second here. I want to give another perspective.  Two years and three months ago today, I got a call from my employer letting me know I needed to clear out my desk and turn in my laptop, as my job had just been off shored. The economy was in the tank, and many people had already been on unemployment for over a year.  This made many of us less marketable, because employers had the advantage of a much larger hiring pool, and therefore wanted the best of the very best, no room for just really competent employees who wanted a mid career wage. 

We suffered a bit, adjusted our lifestyle a bit more, and got rid of any amenities we had left.  Yes, what we had left. You see; the lower middle class salary I once had prior to layoff, actually diminished by 35% over the course of 5 years due to cutbacks, and furloughs. Prior to getting let go from my assignment, our income was considered poverty level for a family of four. We were eligible for assistance, but tried to make it on our own.  Even after the layoff, we managed to keep from sinking by stretching tax returns, eating as much as we could from our garden, and using up our savings. 

Finally, we broke. It came down to either not feeding the kids, or swallowing our pride. We had to apply for food stamps. It was a great relief to know that our children would be able to not go hungry. I am very grateful for this assistance. However, there is a hidden cost to all of this. One they do not talk about in the seminars for the unemployed. It hits you in the face the first time you pull out that food stamp card. SHAME.  Raw, in your face, unabashed shame. You cannot hide it from the other shoppers, as it pops up on the cashier screen for everyone to see. Even the clerks change their behavior towards you when they see how you are paying for your groceries. They go from happy chatter, to stiff upper lip professional courtesy with you. You learn very quickly to avert your eyes so you cannot see the disgust they are barely masking. The people in line behind you look over your cart silently, and you feel that if there is anything but macaroni and cheap hamburger in your cart, you are committing a crime of some sort. I have even heard people complain that people on food stamps are not entitled to seafood, beef, or fresh vegetables. “Government cheese, peanut butter and skim milk should be all you get, you pathetic waste of a human!” 

It makes me wonder, is society really this callous? Do they really think that the majority of people who are on assistance are degenerate burdens on society? I wonder if they can understand that so many of us struggle minute to minute, day to day, week to week, with this poverty?  Each day, I feel the darkness taking a little bit more of my soul. The fear and shame of it all is crushing. My young children do not understand why they cannot have the same toys as other children. My seven year old has developed anxiety beyond what child should have to endure. Last week he mentioned that he wishes he had a good job so he could take us all out to get a burger or see a movie.  It tears me up inside. 

Each day, I wonder if this is the day we get a letter of foreclosure, or if the electricity will get shut off this month? Will we have running water in the morning? Will the phones get shut off just before I get a call for an interview? I lay awake all night, trying to convince myself that I need to keep pushing forward, because the kids need me, yet still wonder if maybe they would get better opportunities in life if I was not holding them back. 

It is peculiar to me, I hear these politicians, the same ones I voted for, issuing statements that America needs to stop coddling the lower class. Benefits need to be cut. Work, damn it or you deserve to starve. Contribute to society or get out. Last week, a commentator in the UK went as far as to advocate that older people, who are not self sustaining should be euthanized. I paid taxes for 35 years. I expect and hope to find work and pay taxes for at least another 20 years. But still, I am labeled as a drain on society, a burden that should be removed. 
 

I am sorry if this is over the top with maudlin, depressive overtones. I do not like feeling this way. A man wants to be able to provide for his family. He desires to make them proud, and have a comfortable, fulfilling life. It is hard not to give up and accept that I have nothing left of value to offer them, and have become a total failure. The heck of it is, I am sure that I am not alone in my thinking, How many other thousands are out there, men and women alike, who deal with this struggle? We want jobs, and not handouts. We do not want to be "a drain on society".

You know how I know you're not in college?

As I was driving up to my house today, I noticed a couple of young men canvassing the neighborhood putting out flyers. Sure enough, there was one wedged in my front door. I took it out and read it, only to find out that it was one of those college painter advertisements. It started out "Hi, My name is Billy Dumas, and I am a college student at the University of North Colorado, here in Greeley. I want to paint your house, yada, yada, yada. "

I have to admit, that my first inclination was to wonder if the boy was truly a college student, and next, if he was truly a painter. One, if he really was a college student, he would either be in class at 10 in the morning on a weekday or more likely he would still be sobering up from St. Patty's celebrations two days ago. (Seriously, I remember not seeing fellow students for a week after March 17th when I was at C.U. but admittedly we were sort of known to be a party school. )

I am on the board of directors for our neighborhood home owners association, and am always on the look out for abnormalities in our development. Not withstanding that I am really getting cagey not having employment for so long, and given the fact that our city prohibits door to door soliciting without a permit, I felt the need to explain to them why strangers should never touch my house.

My little 4 year old son Johnnie was all in for going to talk to the two guys, because even he wanted to see what I was about to come up with. I guess my son knows a good show when he sees one. He ran right out to the van, buckled in and yelled, "Let's get 'em daddy!" How could I say no to that cute little face?

With the flyer in hand, I found the two "students" 4 streets away, and I pulled up next to him. I said, "Excuse me, but which one of you is Billy?" One of the kids turned to me and responded, which unbeknownst to him, was sealing his fate.  I held up the flyer and pretended to read it. "So you are Billy Dumas (and I pronounced the 'mah' part as 'mass'), whats your partners name, Bobby Stoopedschitt? There was a glint of fear in his face, and suddenly I felt a rush of adrenaline, much like the feeling a deep sea fisherman gets when he hooks a trophy marlin. Time to start the trolling motor.

Billy stammered "H-h-h-how can I help you sir?" Well, young man, let me tell you how you can help me. Show me your permit for door to door sales that you got from the county clerk." He turned a little ashen and mumbled that he did not know he needed one. I raised my voice slightly and said; "Well now boy, you DO. I oughta call the police and have you fined for solicitation." He squirmed a little and squeaked "Doesn't that mean prostitution?" I knew now that I had three runners on base and was about to hit it out of the park. I barked loud enough for the mailman three houses over to hear, "Did you just ask me to pay for SEX??!!!" His buddy slowly started backing up, looking for safe passage out of this neighborhood. "Is that how you plan to get through college, sleeping your way to good grades? You had better figure out something, cause I know you not a very good painter!" Billy looked very confused at that statement, but I was about to cross home plate. "My house has a brand new paint job, are you even able to see that?" He started to wilt a little, and replied "Uhm, yeah, I saw that." to which I shot back "Oh yeah? What color is my house?" Again with the squirming. "Uhhh, gray maybe?", he guessed. "WRONG, it is puke green! Are you colorblind too?"

The poor kid had just about had all he could take. He looked desperate, like he wished he had studied harder in high school so he could have gotten better scholarships and not have to work during spring break. "Mister, I do not know what to say, what is it you want anyway?" I handed him back his flyer, and said; "I think I want some ice cream.", at which point my little boy squealed with delight and we drove off.

Teach Your Children Well

My first grader goes to a charter school that demands excellence from their students as well as their families. Academic rigor from the students, absolute surrender from their parents. Each month we are required to donate at least four hours of our time "volunteering" to help out in and around the school. Not that I am overtly complaining, mind you. I am grateful for the care that the staff shows to our little munchkins.

Today, I was scheduled to participate in a fatherly activity called "Watch D.O.G.S. It stands for Dad's of Great Students, although in my case it should be renamed to Father's Assisting The Academically Successful Student, or F.A.T. A.S.S. for short.: It amounts to me showing up in the early morning, working as a crossing guard, then providing security patrols to the campus and helping a little in the classroom and the cafeteria.

Now, when I signed up for a day to help, it was the first week of school, when it was warm, and I was not thinking of Colorado's convoluted weather patterns. The day I was scheduled finally arrived, and it was 5 below zero degrees. I rushed around trying to get the kid ready for school, and out the door we went, totally prepared to deal with the cold. I had warm ski gloves, a thermal carafe of extra stout coffee. I jumped in the car and hurried over to the school. Parked in a special designated spot just for the Watch D.O.G.S. volunteer. Josh came with me, because they like to take a picture of student and father for the "Wall of Fame", which turned out to be more of a pictorial line up to identify those who botched things up.

After I had parked, climbed out of the car, grabbed my gloves and coffee, I realized I had forgotten a coat. No worries, I thought to myself, I like the brisk weather. I walked up to the security door, and followed a set of cryptic entry instructions that were scrolling on an old style monochrome blue LCD and keypad next to the door. Nothing. No answer. I tried it again, and again. Josh looked at me with all the admiration of an awestruck child, and said, "Dad, no one ever has this problem!" then ran off to meet his crew on the playground. Five more tries, and finally someone buzzed me in. They gave me a safety vest, two pages of instructions, a STOP/SLOW sign on a stick, walkie talkie, and a metal whistle, and told me to go to my post.

I walked on over there, and cars were already dropping off kids. One stopped near me, rolled down their window, and asked why I had no coat, because it was 3 below zero. I answered that I was on a weight loss program, where I could freeze off the fat.  The twenty something mom, svelte, blond, buxom, and driving a Lexus looked me up and down and casually remarked that it was not working very well for me. A few minutes later, some kids show up needing to cross the parking street. I turn the sign to the stop position, and motioned for the kids to cross. A car was not paying attention and was moving toward the crosswalk, so I took grabbed the whistle, and blew it. There is a certain physical peculiarity that occurs when a piece of frozen metal touches skin. Much like the kid who touches his tongue to a frozen flag pole, my lips were glued to the whistle. To make matters worse, my nose was now running, so as I exhaled through the whistle, a bubble of steamy snot formed, then popped, followed by a faint toot of the whistle. It was so mesmerizing to the children that a crowd formed to watch, and 23 children ended up being tardy to class.

After the classes had started I was summoned to my son’s room to assist the teacher with filing of papers, passing out supplies to students, and other busy work. While I was cutting up construction paper for an art project, the teacher called up a student for show and tell. A little boy got up and showed his treasure, a dream catcher. Now, this kid was as fair skinned as an Irish choir boy, but he was telling how he believed in the protective powers of this Native American artifact, and how he and his father had gotten all the feathers dangling off of it by shooting a hawk with a .22 rifle. This captured my attention. Notwithstanding that hawks are an endangered species in Colorado, but that this kid was explaining how he hunted and expertly relieved a poor bird of its life spirit so that he could not have nightmares delivered to his slumber. After he got done with his presentation, the children were allowed a question and answer session. Most of the questions were what you expected, "How does it keep the nightmares out but let good dreams through?", or "What happens to the bad dreams when the catcher is full?" I raised my hand and the teacher said, "Go ahead, Mr. LeClere, ask away." It was a shame that no one had warned her ahead of time to not let me interact directly with the innocent hearts and minds of the children. "Yes, I do have a question. Aren't you a little bit too vanilla, to be acting like you have a tribal affiliation?" The teacher gasped and asked me to go see if I was needed elsewhere for a while.

I made my way to the cafeteria to help take out trash and monitor the playground. In the center of the lunchroom, there is a table with an ice bucket chilling squeeze bottles of mayo and ranch dressing. Apparently, when children balk over eating veggies, they are coaxed into eating them smothered in fat and cholesterol. This turned out to be a blast, because I asked the kids if they wanted ranch on all their foods, except the veggies. "Hi kid, howsa bout some ranch on the sammich?" The kid stammered. "But, it is peanut butter and jelly!" "Yeah, that’s what I am talking about, a PB,R&J sandwich was my favorite when I was a kid!" Blank, confused stares.  Another kid raised his hand, wanting to be excused to go to recess. I walked by, and he asked very politely, but I answered, "Pardon et moi, mais je n'est parle pas Anglais!" The kid next to him said,"What did he say?" and I replied in Spanish, "No habla ingles, soy no comprendo!" The third kid, looked at them and tried to gesture that he wanted to go outside, so I used sign language to ask him if he wanted to go outside.  I walked over to another table and saw a child whose Indonesian parents are friends of ours. The little girl beamed and said how I was her uncle. When the kids looked at me and commented I did not look like her, I told them I was a rare albino Indonesian, and was starting to tell them about how my tribe was famous for being warrior headhunters in the islands, when a woman introduced herself to me as the dean of students, and asked me to go empty the trash cans.

As I headed out the door to the back playground where the dumpsters were located, a kid lobbed a snowball at a window near my head. Out of nowhere, a short haired woman saw me and started yelling at the kid, "DID YOU THROW A SNOWBALL AT THE WINDOW? Why is my Watch D.O.G. out here? DID HE SEE WHICH ONE OF YOU KIDS THREW IT? ANSWER ME!!!" I was not interested in being part of this disciplinary process, and blurted; "Who are you, R.Lee effing Ermey, from the effing Marine Corps? Stunned silence. I made my way to the trash cans, and hid for a while.

Soon it was time for the kids to go home, and I took my place back in the crosswalk. I was not there 1 minute when the drill sergeant shows up and apparently I am in her spot. I politely ask, "What would you like me to do?" She glared at me and spit out; "I would LIKE you to die in a fire, but why don't you go to the other end of the parking lot and stay there?"

I walked away and started to make sure the kids got safely to their parents who were driving up single file to pick them up. I was getting along alright, when a quiet little boy walked up and stood near me, waiting for him mom. As it turned out, she was Deaf, and as she pulled up in her car, she signed a hello to him, and then flashed the "I Love You" sign to him. I looked at her, and signed right back, "Thank you, I love you too, hot stuff!" A look of embarrassed horror crossed her face and I think that she momentarily considered gunning her engine and running me over. I saw her sign to her child who immediately picked up a cell phone and started dialing. 2 minutes later, the assistant principal came out, and told me how my volunteer hours for today would count for the rest of the school year, and added that my son was remarkably well adjusted, given what they imagine his home environment must be.

I took it as a compliment.