Certificate of Authenticity

Yesterday I was scooting out of the boys' room, determined to get Camille in bed by 8:30.

I rounded the corner, turned back for the wet towel on the floor, hung it on the doorknob and only halfway listened as Jack went on about the Hank Aaron ball he basically cuddles at night. Didn't he understand I was in operation mode for Mission: Bedtime?

His question snapped me out of my hurry. "What does imperfect mean?"

It's not a word he knows to associate with a condition of life he's been increasingly learning since birth-- we all learn.

He undoubtedly knows imperfection, he just doesn't know to call it that.

That I turned back in the middle of my mission to help connect word with concept is truly a testament to how desperate I am to learn a little something myself. The little girl duckling follows me back to the foot of Jack's bed.

"Isn't it in-perfect. Like 'i' 'n' ?"

"No, it's 'i' 'm.' Im-perfect."

"Well, what is it?"

I see him pointing to his baseball's certificate of authenticity. "It means it isn't perfect. It has flaws."

"But it's real," he defends.

"Well of course it is, or you wouldn't have that certificate."

I surprise myself with the next bit and how deeply it resonates-- how I'm even making any sense because we're into baseball collectables territory and I'm very ignorant about most things sports and appraisal- related (here I make a note to pay less attention to the laundry and do more focusing on Pawn Stars during our nightly routine). Back to the thought that rested heavy.

"Don't fret over the label, though. Its imperfections give it its value."

We both think for a few seconds about the implications of that statement and the duckling chides, "Saaaadie."

It's bedtime, you might recall.

"Oh. Like these dents right here? And this scratch? Those are imperfections?"

"Yeah, those are from the ball getting hit-- without the hit it wouldn't be worth as much."

He completes the thought before I have the chance. "And perfect balls don't have any value because they haven't been played with." He's not using his interrogative inflection anymore because give a nine year old a bit of information to guide him in his ignorance and all of the sudden he's the expert and you're dismissed.

And if that dismissal wasn't sobering enough, then the quaint bedtime story with Camille about alligator-eating pythons surely did the trick.

I tucked them all in and tip-toed down the wooden stairs, thankful for 3 beating hearts in 3 cozy beds and the stillness of 9 p.m. on a school night. I perched myself on the couch to watch the Ranger game and got back to thinking of imperfect baseballs finding value and new life as prized possessions.

It's not fun to admit to flaws or enjoyable to take hits.

It's frustrating to think that even the best performance of the night-- the walk off grand slam in the bottom of the 11th-- will yield, in the end, a technically imperfect baseball.

Humbling, most of all, to accept that "perfect" has no value.

"On hearing this, Jesus said to them, 'It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.'" (Mark 2:17)

To the bruised (yes, even those struck from impossibly good performance)-- those willing to live with faults exposed in shadowbox, with admitted lack of face value, with the technical label of imperfect-- He stands ready with certificate of authenticity, with the worth of redemption, and with love enough to transform scuffed leather into prized possession.

Thank you, Lord.

Teachers

I've wanted to write this post for a while, I just haven't known what to say.

That, and I felt like I should have a plate of cookies and a dozen apples ready to take to a school before I get on here talking about teacher appreciation.

Except for that supposed obligation is exactly what's been plaguing me recently-- teacher appreciation isn't a parental potluck once (twice?) a year. It's not even best displayed by that really diligent mom that manages to get a schedule together to provide treats once a week out of true, honest appreciation for the work of teachers.

Teacher appreciation goes way deeper than that because, thankful as they are, parents only know so much of what goes down in the classrooms and corridors. Real, knowing gratitude-- or at least the potential for it-- lies in the students.

Sad, then, that the deeper the potential for gratitude, the subtler-- scarcer, even-- the expression becomes.

It only takes a moment, a little courage, perhaps a slight twinge of relatively fleeting awkwardness to say thank you in person. In a note. With a gesture. Something.

I mean, I know teachers aren't out there crying because the kid that listed "babysitting" as her favorite activity on the homecoming court questionnaire-- the one who reads political memoirs and wouldn't quit talking about last nights' Grey's Anatomy or 24, the one with the loud laugh who likes to answer questions and turn things in on time-- hasn't expressed her thanks. It's not like the college professors need a comparatively average student to affirm their skills so they can feel they've truly achieved something in their careers (after all, they're doing me the favor of an "a" when average technically merits "c") . There are awards and fancy dinners for that.

Right?

Besides, it's just sucking up to do anything more than shuffle on out the door, with maybe a nod or a "have a good weekend" thrown in once in a while for good measure. And plus, you'll never be the cool kid that makes it look natural to throw an arm around the teachers neck and share a joke, so why even try the whole likable/gracious/professional-but-familiar/student/teacher relationship thing? Especially if the only real reason you have to put forth the effort to create such a relationship is so that you can maybe utter the thanks that's been on the tip of your tongue without it being completely and totally weird for the both of you.

I don't know, maybe I'm the only one. It wouldn't surprise me. I've found I'm also pretty alone in the "would enjoy going back to high school" club. (It's not so lonely in the college category).

The main reason I would gladly return to both eras of education? The teachers.

It's not really that I'm itching to get back to essays and cramming. I'm not crazy nostalgic or disliking my current season of life to the point of wishing back the bad hair and teen drama. I'm just saying I wish I'd let more of the teachers know that they made the experience for me.

Other enjoyable aspects were certainly there and had the teachers been terrible, there would still be much fondness felt for my school days. Great teachers are just the icing on the cake.

I had great teachers.

Here's how I know: I still think about them.

(See, teacher appreciation apart from the cookies and potlucks borders on creepy-- I'm almost to the point of regretting starting this post-- too far in to turn back, folks!)

Leave it to Albert Einstein to say it less creepily: "The real difficulty, the difficulty which has baffled the sages of all times, is rather this: how can we make our teaching so potent in the motional life of man, that its influence should withstand the pressure of the elemental psychic forces in the individual?"

Good teachers keep you thinking. I really only think about the teachers who taught me things worth remembering. The great teachers taught me the stuff that became the funnel through which new information gets processed to memory. They taught me the stuff that continues to affect the decisions I make.

This isn't just a good sounding sentiment. It really happens.

-------------------------------------

Just today Big D texted me up about this program on freedom songs during the Civil Rights Movement and I thought back to the day I admitted my love of the genre to Dr. O'Donnell. He told me to pursue our subject (the Freedom Rides) through the avenue that interested me best, but to find a way to pursue it. A couple of months later, when I freelanced it to Jackson for an extrapost curricular function with Charlie and Lindsay, his e-mail surprised me. Entitled simply, "I hope..." it read:

"... others are getting as much from your adventure as I am (and that the three of you are getting as much as you are giving those of us following from home).

Exquisite writing by all 3 of you (glad to have Sadie's voice in the conversation too). Powerful. Compelling. Crisp.

Enjoy the next couple of days.

Can't imagine a more thrilling or awesome experience.

I can't wait till the next installment."

It was there before January, but Dr. O'Donnell cemented in me a forever love of the CRM because he made it more than okay to be passionate about it-- he expected it. Can't wait... Great teachers anticipate your work, however comparatively elementary it may be. He also brought donuts, so that didn't hurt.

------------------------------------

I texted Deirdre back and moved on to the next aisle of books at Barnes and Noble. There sat a book about the 1937 Ohio-Mississippi River Flood. Never mind that it probably does a fantastic job of totally picking apart my thesis about the 1927 Flood and its importance, my first thought was wondering if my thesis advisor, Dr. Rigelhaupt, has seen it yet. He helped me get a trip to Atlanta sponsored last year, where I got to roam a book exhibit amidst people who also find these types of books interesting. An enlightening experience, I tell you.

The only reason the Deans office approved the trip was because of Dr. Rigelhaupt's confidence in the oral history project I helped produce in 2009 (Christiane and Justin were also in the class). Great teachers give you assignments to be proud of and give you permission to be confident in the work you produce.

-------------------------------------

Mr. Anderson was my very first high school teacher and he was fresh off the plane (I mean, i's possible he drove, but there was no colloquial way to say that) from Chicago. He'd taught for a few years, been in the peace corps a few years, worked a few miscellaneous job a few years-- the man had stories. Being homeroom, our class had a few extra minutes together. Many days Mr. Anderson took those minutes to share one or two of those stories. On one particular day he told us a story, the moral of which was to wear our seatbelts. He added a superfluous detail about this girl who was "like a little sister."

Magdalen quickly corrected him, saying "like-a-little-sisters" were always potential love interests who get labeled as a little sister only because the guy is too scared to try out a romantic relationship. Insightful for a 9th grader, right? Mr. Anderson shook his head as if to say "where do they come up with this stuff," but Magdalen insisted he should call up this girl and declare his love and get her to Little Rock.

I didn't see or hear much from Mr. Anderson during the 10th grade, but I figure he must've done something of the sort re: Magdalen's advice because by the 11th grade (British Literature) he was proposing to Meg and telling us about it on a Monday morning, to Magdalen's tearful delight. She demanded that he admit she was right all along and also demanded a wedding invitation.

Great teachers share enough of their personal lives that you feel a personal connection to the material, as well. The background Mr. Anderson provided on Animal Farm first piqued my interest in Russia and history; he made the themes of Pride and Prejudice feel meaningful, not sappy; he got the complicated, controversial aspects of war across through poetry, despite the odds against any of us believing poetry relevant to our times.

--------------------------------------

Mrs. Swedenburg made us turn in current event reports every Friday. At first it didn't seem the most thrilling of ways to end the school week, scrounging around for a news article and scribbling something about its content and implications. In the end, the assignment had me enjoying staying informed and making historical connections to the now. She also taught me how to outline material effectively. Great teachers expose your passion and give you concrete ways to pursue it.

-------------------------------------

Mrs. Daniels taught me Trig/Stat. (a simple statement, but a true accomplishment, I assure you). Take away lesson: Great teachers demand respect for their time and their subject, regardless of your feelings for the material.

-------------------------------------

Mr. Spicer taught me American Literature and how to question things respectfully. He gave us time after chapel to agree or disagree with the message. He shared about his time with "less than exemplary" characters in a hippie band and methods of civil disobedience. He introduced the concept of living according to a standard while truly loving others who haven't asked for a similar standard. Put simply, he taught me intriguing Christianity. The kind that is real, personal and interesting while not immune to controversy and question-- the kind that is like Christ. Great teachers make you think about what you're learning.

--------------------------------------

I didn't learn much material in Mr. Sutterfield's worldview class, but I learned a lot from him. He had a farm and wrote articles to send to magazines and newspapers and liked to call birds and gave us a question of the day that seemed pointless but had the point of teaching us that the small things eventually add up to who you are. He asked things like how much we spent on clothes per year and what book we last read and if we deserved "A's" if "A" stood for truly extraordinary work and didn't that make us feel patronized a little? Great teachers live lives that make you think.

--------------------------------------

I had a mission to hug Dr. Poska on commencement day. Turns out, I don't even think she was there. I had literally zero interest in Spain and Latin America as I road tripped my way to college in Virginia. Amusing, then, that I spent the highest percentage of time with a singular teacher (4 semesters) with a scholar on the sexual habits of peasants in Early Modern Spain (she's a scholar on a lot more, of course, but that's the humdinger). She said things like "if you have to cry, seriously leave my office because I'm not a mother, not particularly motherly and I don't do tears." Not to me in particular, it was a general warning to the class.

By the 3rd semester she knew me well enough to call me out personally when addressing the class. "This assignment will take you 7-8 pages... Sadie will take about 14." Great teachers make you have something to say about subjects you don't care about. Or didn't care about. Her last words to me were in mock astonishment when I turned in my final exam: "you weren't last!" Great teachers get you to take your work-- not so much yourself-- seriously.

-------------------------------

Dr. Moon talks faster than any teacher I've ever known before or since. Her lectures pack a punch-- you can't get it all down with pen and paper, even my typed notes had holes. Great teachers don't waste your time.

In the upper level classes (I took 3 semesters with her), almost every meeting was a conversation of peers, led by peers (though moderated by Dr. Moon). She taught us how to skim a book for important information to discuss and skip the rest. Then we'd come to class and talk about the big important themes of consumerism or immigration as if we were suddenly experts from reading the one book. Great teachers make you feel informed enough to discuss and apply the information. Great teachers also make you learn from each other.

----------------------------------

Mrs. Tarpley taught me some French and made us suggest the grade we should receive each quarter, along with a statement on why we felt that grade was fair. Great teachers make you set your own bar and assess your work honestly. Madame also encouraged us to be creative and let us cook for points, which is always a win.

-------------------------------------

Dr. Tweedy taught me some African American Literature and the complicated thoughts and theories therein. He demanded good writing (and English style writing-- a true challenge to this history major) and full attention. You went to his class with your game face or you didn't go. He was so intimidating at first because he knows his stuff and he throws stuff out there just to make you mad so you respond with heart. But his door was open for clarification and debate and discussion and advice. Great teachers help.

-------------------------------------

All of these things stuck and I remember them on a regular basis. I maybe can't conjugate the verb 'connaitre' or name the great poets and their works (3 digit subtraction is even a little murky, I found out while checking the 9 year olds homework today), but I learned far more important things about loving people and having passion and being honest-- the stuff worth continuing to wrestle with.

I wasn't going to write this post because it comes across so sentimental and kind of cheesy when it's something very real to me, appreciation for teachers. I'd all but given up the daunting task of writing some things I was specifically thankful for because I knew I'd go all long winded on a topic that really isn't that interesting to people who didn't sit in those classes and build the admiration.

Then Queen Rania of Jordan tweeted that it's World Teachers' Day and my seemingly unprompted feelings of gratitude had an occasion for expression.

The challenge? Make the most of the occasion: thank a teacher.

Awards and fancy dinners-- pigs-in-a-blanket and chocolate chip cookies --don't say it like students can.

Oh! and here are pictures of some favorite school kids (past and present) for fun ;)

Bubble.

10 years ago I was an admittedly awkward but mostly carefree 7th grader.

My grades weren't fantastic, they weren't the worst.

I had a solid group of lunch friends, but few "spend-the-night" friends. I told my parents this didn't bother me because I enjoyed whatever time I got to spend with those friends and I didn't mind the occasional loneliness.

My biggest concern going into September 2001 was having just learned that my best friend-- the last of the "spend-the-night" ones-- was moving to Texas.

She and I had been in a season-- the typical one that elementary best friends go through as each meanders into adolescence-- where we kind of just needed a little space from each other. There was no ill will involved in this needed amount of distance, only a gradual realization that neither of us knew how to avoid or handle-- we were completely different. Even as we took breaks from seeing each other or used greater care with the depth of information shared, we knew we both cared deeply about each other and would emerge good, if not as similar as we thought, friends.

So on September 11, 2001, I was feeling guilty. Guilty that I'd been feeling the need for some time away from Allie and the insecurities she brought out in me and guilty that my conviction was being realized in such a huge, permanent way.

You know, they say be careful what you wish for.

I went from one moment just needing a little time, to the next moment trying to correct God-- "no not that much! I love her, she's my best friend!" I felt guilty because I at least got to keep my lunch friends and she was distraught over having to start completely over.

Her dad as the pastor of our nest egg of a church was all I'd really ever known. Her mom was my mom's best friend, and so my mom grieved. I'd grown increasingly close to her little sister, and was losing 2 friends, really.

On the morning of September 11th, I remember turning on the t.v. for the local news, per my usual morning routine, at 6:45 and getting lost in thoughts regarding my own personal bursted bubble. That was the last hour that burden would be defined as losing my 12 year old best friend to Texas.

The shrill hollers of Allie's mom running through our front door at about 8 a.m. were my first indication that I didn't know how heavy burden could be, nor did I know the true weight of grief.

Matt Lauer stood amongst some ancient ruins in some far off place when I heard someone come on and say that a plane hit the World Trade Center. In my naivety, believing that whatever was being said pertained to what I was seeing on the screen, my first thought was "well this place has been destroyed for years, anyway."

That's when Mrs. Alta Lynn came in screaming for everyone to gather around the t.v. I'd gone to complete the final steps of my morning routine once I gave up trying to figure out why I heard distressed broadcasts while Matt Lauer stood in a peaceful field somewhere. By the time I responded to Mrs. Alta Lynn's calls, they'd gotten live footage of the towers. I said out loud "Oh... that's the World Trade Center. What does it do?" The question lingered, void of answer.

We watched the second plane hit the south tower and the realization of terrorism strike Americans.

Suddenly, so much more was at stake than my own bubble.

I mourned as deeply as possible when you're thousands of miles away, sitting behind a screen and in the 7th grade. I was at a pretty impressionable age, and my worldview absolutely changed that day

I didn't have a new personal burden or profound grief beyond that with which I struggled while B.J., Robyn and Tom read off the school lunch menus before 7 a.m. on September 11. But I did realize how shallow that grief was in the scheme of things.

I certainly could not comprehend the depth of sadness, the devastating effect of trauma, the courage involved in placing one's self in harms way for others. But that day, I found out how much of that stuff-- sadness, devastation, trauma, courage-- is out there, how deep and heavy it can be.

10 years later and it still amazes me that people are willing to make those things a part of their daily lives. That people make livings out of encountering sorrow and bad guys and danger, in order that 12 year olds might have normal lives, with normal bubbles to be popped in normal ways.

So that 22 year olds and 42 year olds and 82 year olds can go to church and watch baseball and keep each other company at lunch and on couches, these people acquaint themselves with danger and pain.

They step outside of their own safety bubbles so we can keep ours.

That dedication, that service, that selflessness, that bravery--the entire response to 9-11 and the continued service of thousands of first responders-- makes me appreciate this bubble of life I've got and challenges me to make good use of it.

It's been bought with a price, after all.

(p.s.-- Allie, if you're reading, I love you.)

and because nothing says "I love you" like a Celine Dion video...

Two September Tuesdays

Well, the 9-11 10th Anniversary is less than one week away, and it's been on my mind a lot.

There was the shocking footage, the unfathomable chaos, and devastating stories. There weren't words adequate to describe America in those days, and the struggle for every individual American to decide what he or she felt towards that day in September was, for a time, a comforting commonality sweeping across the nation.

Like Diana's death, that day caught my young mind completely off guard (the nature of the event itself, of course, being unlike Diana's death in the scope of destruction). My historical curiosity piqued. Then a 7th grader, it was an exercise in removing myself from my own situation and learning the hurts, pains, hearts of other people. I wasn't simply removing myself from my own circumstance to attempt to fathom others' life at the time-- for the first time, I detached myself from the time period, as well. Many others did this, too, by considering what they would tell a future generation, making a point to remember details for posterity's sake. The absence of adequate words in the moment drew the attention of thousands to the future, when perhaps distance and time would afford us the perspective and absolution we desperately wished for as immediately as the first plane hit.

This mental distance from my own time and space offered the first real invitation I responded to with any amount of fervor to assess my life more objectively.

Enter Lisa Beamer.

The mention of her name elicits eye rolls from my family and friends because, it's true, I dove into learning her story and testimony in the year following 9-11. A lot of other people I don't know roll their eyes at the mention of her name for a completely different reason, believing hers to be a story of conservative propaganda, of taking advantage of an opportunity to profit from tragedy, of stealing the spotlight.

These accusations prompted Lisa to step out of the public eye once she'd gotten her story out there. For one, she had children to mother and a life with which to move forward. But also, she felt from the very start that she would only ever have but a moment in the scheme of things to speak up, believing God journeyed with her up until September 10th for such a time as September 11th. That time would inevitably pass, and her sensitivity to letting the Lord decide when to pull the plug kept her from being swallowed by the media attention or feeling compelled to give explanation for her life choices for years following her husbands death.

She never defended herself against personal attacks, because she was secure enough in knowing her heart, her intentions and her God.

She was an ordinary 32-year-old woman through which God had something to teach an ordinary 12-year-old girl.

Could he have chosen a different route for delivering the message? Sure. Lisa Beamer is no saint and, quite contrary to the belief of the eye-rolling folks who lived life around that 12 year old, I do not worship her.

There is an amount of patriotism that did get projected onto Todd and Lisa's story, which by consequence of my deep interest in her message, became a part of my persona. But truthfully, I didn't have a total devotion to all things America, or a love inherent for all things American. I had desperately begun an inquiry into what it meant to be American, and what it was about America that made it so.

More importantly, I began wondering what it truly meant to be in relationship with Christ. (And that quest will always be paramount to my interest in and love for America). In the aftermath of a day as humanizing, equalizing in terms of pointing to human fragility, what difference did it make to be Christian? We were all hurting, struggling, coming up with ways to emerge as unscathed as possible, and Christianity felt like just one of many ways that people were coping. What made it the best route? Why did I choose it for myself?

Across the country in a suburban home, a pregnant, grieving widow wrestled the same questions. No, her answers were not perfect, but she had the courage to deliver them as honestly as she knew how when the questions I posed privately to myself were asked of her very publicly by famous interviewers.

Her battle in the days following the attacks boiled down to one question-- do I believe God, or don't I?

As I began watching the specials on 9-11, I felt transported back to the time I stepped back from my own little life to answer that "simple" question, in light of recently learning how disappointing life could truly be. I looked on that time with great sentiment, like "oh yes, those were good months when my faith began becoming my own. It sure was good that Lisa spoke up back then."

I thought to do a simple google search to see if she, in all the 10 year anniversary hype, had any recent news coverage. I really had low hopes, as she's been retired from any public role for 8 years now.

Turns out, though, she felt compelled to speak to the Class of 2011. (read: me)

She felt compelled to speak in terms of the Rich Young Ruler.

10 years later, she still feels compelled to speak to dreamers who feel boxed in by ordinary.

And once again, God used Lisa Beamer to get a message across: He sees me. He knows my questions. He's not a God of good feeling sentiments. On the other end of the spectrum, He's not a God of rules and regulations.

The opportunities I yearn for, in which the contentedness and trust I currently hold will be tested, that I could know God as tried and true (that I could know my faith as better tried and true), will come.

At times I, paradoxically, fear those same opportunities.

And so the yearning (and simultaneous fear) are themselves a test to my contentedness and trust. He's being faithful, you see, while I'm waiting for Him to be faithful.

The thing about birthdays is that I really don't need the party. I mean, I love a good celebration and all, but a party about me gets stressful because I worry that everyone is having a good time. Usually I find that amount of worry worth it because most parties are about celebrating another person's life or a season in life and I enjoy doing what I can to urge people to enjoy those things. But it's awkward to have a party where I feel I should be encouraging people to enjoy me.

It's tricky though, because I like having a party. As in "Cooper, party of 15, your table is ready." I like having people together, sharing with each other. I like people feeling like they're in the company of truly listening ears. I like being that ear for people and I like having those ears.

I like words of affirmation. It's not about compliments. It's nice to hear "good job" once in a while. I used to think admitting that was selfish or needy attention-seeking. But hiding it is worse: it's pride, masked with false humility. So yes, I enjoy birthday gatherings with my family and friends where I am graciously reminded that I'm not failing at life. And then they are kind enough to offer examples of what they see me doing well.

Not because I don't have faults, but because once in a while a person needs to feel known.

Flaws in my life are glaringly obvious to me. As hard as they are to accept about ones self, I continue to ask the Lord to reveal my weaknesses, to provide wisdom enough to see those weaknesses in light of the strength of His redemption, and to bind myself with people who, though also flawed, can help balance it.

It is a lesson in grace to listen as people choose to affirm you when you know full well they've had plenty of experience with your faults.

Birthdays are for cherishing. And while the cherishing is in many ways undeserved, people still insist on taking at least one day to say your life means something.

I've had birthdays feeling so celebrated by people but still wondering if God saw. And if He saw me, what did He see? Could He, too, be so gracious as to affirm when He knows my faults best of all?

On this birthday, I understand just a little better.

It's not that He, in addition to the people on the facebook wall or stopping to chat at church or leaving me phone messages or sitting around the dinner table or cozied up on the couch at 3:30 a.m. could be so gracious.

It's that He especially is so gracious.

It's that He, even in the absence of those people's daily presence or encouragement, is so gracious.

It's that I can either believe He sees or I can believe He doesn't.

Then, once I choose to believe He sees, I can believe He operates with strict condemnation of weakness or with gracious redemption of weakness.

And then, I can choose be a condemner or a redeemer.

He brought me into the world on one Tuesday in September. He awoke in me a desire to see redemption in that world on another September Tuesday.

On my 22nd birthday, I praise the God Who presides over September Tuesdays.

The Crib {a tour of sorts}

(A Home Song, by Henry Van Dyke)

{that is my fireplace}

I read within a poet's book

A word that starred the page:

"Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage!"

Yes, that is true; and something more

You'll find, where'er you roam,

That marble floors and gilded walls

Can never make a home.

But every house where Love abides,

And Friendship is a guest,

Is surely home, and home sweet home

For there the heart can rest.

{because the house was clean and all the other Smith homes have gotten blog love but this one and, most importantly, because my generous sister invited me in to this home that she's invested time and money and love to create so I and others can find heart rest here}

{now if only she could get some pictures in all these frames... ;) }

{that's my job}

Today I Remember

In May I joined a couple of classmates and cool folks in Jackson for a 50th anniversary commemoration of the 1961 Freedom Rides.

{Oh look! It's Charles, Lindsay and me with Joan Mulholland!)

But, as today is the 48th anniversary of the 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, I will gladly leave reflections on the Freedom Rides themselves for future (well, and past) posts. I'll let the March get its due spotlight. It was, after all, a groundbreaking event.

I'll maintain, though, that while there were many singularly groundbreaking moments of the movement, no one moment stands alone.

(Anyone who tells you otherwise is just trying to sell you a book...I'm looking at you, Ray Arsenault, Eric Etheridge, Andy Lewis). (They've each admitted it, I'm not just taking cheap shots out of nowhere!)

{you, too, are now looking at Etheridge and Arsenault}

Even the March on Washington relied heavily on much precedent.

Especially the March on Washington relied on precedent, really. (The history major in me really wants to expound on this assertion, but I'm doing my best to keep it simple stupid [per the advice of the great Michael Scott}).

I went as far as to say that the 1927 Flood of the Mississippi River helped pave the way for the Civil Rights Movement Proper (largely considered as lasting 1955-1968) in my senior thesis, so I'm big on credit sharing.

The marketing people for all the MLK, Jr. specials around this time don't have the liberty of sharing credit, as they-- much like the authors mentioned above-- have persuasive theses to put out that must come across clear and concise if they have a chance at an audience.

I have no standard of the sort to keep up around here-- clear and concise flew out of the window forever ago. Just ask any one of my professors. Given the implied trade-off (re:audience), they might be the only people left to ask, and only because they were paid to stick around.

The advantage of lower standards, in this case, is the opportunity to celebrate someone other than King for the achievement that was the March on Washington. (Which is almost blasphemous for a girl that pledge allegiance to his dream every weekday of my elementary career).

Oh, yes, I'll let the March have the spotlight today. I won't make it share with the flood or the Freedom Rides or anything.

King? He's gonna have to share. I'm able to live with my blasphemous self only because I think if he was alive-- the responsibility of remembering his involvement in the CRM left a little less to the in-need-of-a-simple narrative media-- he'd be the first to offer a speech acknowledging the others who made his success possible.

This is not just the anniversary of the "I Have a Dream" speech, after all. (Though how do I love thee? Let me count the ways...)

Today I'm remembering-- in addition to King, Randolph, Lewis, Wilkins, Young-- James Farmer.

If that seems like a contrived effort on my part to find a common denominator between the Freedom Rides and the March to focus on, then

a. there might be a little truth behind your accusation

b. joke's on you.

It's entirely to James Farmer's credit that there is such a common denominator. He did all of the work involved in being linked so closely to two of the greatest Civil Rights initiatives.

All of that work and yet, unlike King, so little credit.

Why don't you hear about Farmer in discussions on the March? So glad you didn't ask asked.

In short, Farmer was out doing the work necessary for King's dream to become yours and my reality. (Not that King didn't put in his own elbow grease, and not that Farmer was the only one getting work done that day).

(That last parenthetical disclaimer is why I'll never sell books or television specials).

On August 28, 1963, James Farmer sat behind bars in Louisiana.

An unwavering believer in the nonviolence model of Mohandas Gandhi, Farmer was in Louisiana leading peaceful protests. There, state troopers went door to door hunting down Farmer. He only escaped the city of Plaquemine by the kindness of a funeral home director friend, who smuggled Farmer out of town in a hearse as the oft-described "larger than life," deep-voiced Civil Rights leader played dead in the back.

"I was meant to die that night," Farmer later said. "They were kicking open doors, beating up blacks in the streets, interrogating them with electric cattle prods."

Out of that town and away from the immediate danger of mob violence at dark (a mob led by no less than the state troopers), Farmer was soon arrested for disturbing the peace. It was not, given the Freedom Rides (this is a contrived insertion of the Freedom Rides) and decades of experience, his first charge for breach of peace.

He refused the insistent advice of friends and colleagues that he should bail out early, in order to appear at the March. On the principle of "jail, no bail," he stayed to watch the March behind bars.

Floyd McKissick, a Congress of Racial Equality colleague read Farmer's speech aloud at the March. The protests would not end, Farmer wrote, "until the dogs stop biting us in the South and the rats stop biting us in the North." It might have been less overt, but racism in the north was no less biting. The assertions surely lost something without Farmer's booming voice.

Ultimately, his decision to stick to his guns and hang on to his pride cost Farmer a lot of glory.

(Unless you consider a bust in the center of the University of Mary Washington Campus the pinnacle of glory, in which case, the man has it made. Still, I can hardly consider it a due memorial, considering that 70% of people who ask me where I went to school also ask me if I mean "Martha Washington.")

We use an expression a lot in our family when a member shortchanges another of due credit-- "gimme back the glory." The phrase is accompanied by a waiting, outstretched hand.

The problem as I see it is that there's not really any one person from whom Farmer supporters can request his glory be returned. I mean, can you really fault King supporters? Do you blame elementary textbooks for giving kids a simple rundown of the CRM that necessarily excludes hundreds of important leaders? I guess you could blame the way of the South in the 1960s, but that's (mostly) passed.

I'm not really sure who took the glory, thus it's hard to know who carries the responsibility of handing it back over.

But I do know that on this day I can begin to give James Leonard Farmer a bit of the glory he's due by remembering his sacrifice-- the burden he bore of continuing the work of the dream through a life that long outlasted King.

(source)

{Farmer's on the far right}

One day in our commemoration of the Freedom Rides (the day I was covered in buttons and making a fool of myself to get people to come to an event), I stopped to talk to Dr. O'Donnell and a guest, who'd worked years ago as a student aide to Farmer at UMW. I told that man that I felt a bit foolish, and that perhaps our remembrance of Farmer bordered on irreverent (you know, since we dress up his bust and pose for silly pictures and have a good giggle [learned that expression from Prince William... I told you I'd find a way to use it, Em!] with the thing).

He said not to sweat it, certain that Farmer would've liked the laughter.

So today I remember the man who made serious business his business. I remember the agitator, the rebel-rouser. The conscientious objector, the student and teacher of nonviolence. The professor who patiently spent his final years teaching at the small university where two college girls (and surely others) challenged the legitimacy of his recollections. "Do you think that ever really happened in this Christian nation," one posed casually to the other. The so-called Father of Affirmative Action. The Medal of Freedom recipient (certainly a more fitting dedication than UMW's humble bust). The part of the Big Four (or Six. You decide). The man with a thunderous voice and a roar of a laugh.

Today I remember the man who, in the end, would've liked the laughter.

If you click here, Deirdre will tell you more about "our" man, our collective ownership symbolized in the following picture by a bowl of buttons ;)

{Excerpts}

{not my fireplace}

It's just the kind of morning to curl up on the couch, stare at the fireplace, sip some tea and ponder some poetry.

I visited Fayetteville last week-- always a good time :) As Dad finished packing up for their weekend trip to Branson, I looked through She Walks in Beauty-- a poetry anthology edited by Caroline Kennedy to the theme of a woman's journey through life.

Poetry isn't something I usually put myself through read. I mean, I'm a life ponderer and all (hence, the blog) but poems just seem too... grown up? But the cover looked just like my mom, who has grown up around the same age as Caroline Kennedy, so I took the plunge and bought it for mothers day. She kindly displayed the book on an end table in our living room, so as I crunched on cereal, quite on autopilot, it's colors caught my eye once more. I was sort of in a trance as I skimmed line after line, as I'd gotten approximately 3 hours of sleep the night before. Sipping black tea at 1 a.m. has consequences, it turns out.

Later that day, I scribbled down a few of those lines that jumped off the page.

I felt like maybe they deserved a better home than the horrific resting place that is the bottom of my purse.

{From A Minor Bird, by Robert Frost}

The fault must partly have been in me.

The bird was not to blame for his key.

And of course there must be something wrong

in wanting to silence any song.

{From The Bacchae Chorus, by Euripedes}

In various ways, one man outraces another in the race for wealth and power. Ten thousand men have ten thousand hopes. A few bear fruit in happiness, the others go awry. But he who garners day by day the good of life, he is happiest. Blessed is he.

{From Going Blind, by Rainer Maria Rilke}

Her lighted eyes, which spoke of gladness, glistened with outward luster, as a pond is lit.

She followed slowly and it took much trying as though some obstacle still barred her stride.

And yet as if she on the farther side might

not be walking anymore but flying.

{From To Be of Use, by Marge Piercy}

I want to be with people who submerge

in the task, who go into the fields to harvest

and work in a row and pass bags along,

who are not parlor generals and field deserters,

but move in common rhythm

when the food must come in and the fire be put out.

...

But the thing worth doing well done

has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.

...

The pitcher cries for water to carry

and a person for work that is real.

{From Girlfriends, by Ellen Dore Watson}

I mean the ones who say the unwelcome

when it matters.

...

The lifers

who, even seven states away

are the porches

where we land.

{From Write It On Your Heart by Ralph Waldo Emerson}

Tomorrow is a new day,

begin it well and serenely

and with too high a spirit

to be cumbered with your

old nonsense.

{From Leisure, by WH Davis}

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

...

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,

we have no time to stand and stare.

{From The Waking, by Theodore Roethke}

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.

What falls away is always. And is near.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I learn by going where I have to go.

{From Leap Before You Look, by WH Auden}

The sense of danger must not disappear:

The way is certainly both short and steep,

However gradual it looks from here;

Look if you like, but you will have to leap.

...

Although I love you, you will have to leap;

Our dream of safety has to disappear.

{From PS Education, by Ellen Hagan}

Tell him, teach him to say, "I will look at you Rachael and I will see you" 1,000 times over.

Rachael, where Trinidad and Guyana meet. Tell her the truth, that you never knew where she was from until you asked, and when you finally asked, it was way later than you wanted.

{From She Walks in Beauty, by Caroline Kennedy} (alignment edited)

Sometimes we struggle

Sometimes we adapt

and at other times, we set a course for others to follow.

We are all leaders and followers in our own lives.

We are constantly learning from and teaching one another.

We learn, too, that the most important work

is not done by those who seem most important,

but by those who care the most.

...

Most of all I would like to thank my friends and family

who make me happy to get up every morning,

knowing I might get to talk to them that day.