Requiem For Jeannie

Today I was told twice about a co-worker who had passed away. Her name is Jeannie, and the first time I was told it was a shock. The second time it was a poison dart.

Jeannie and I go back some 26 or 27 years at the Internal Revenue Service. We remembered the awful old days, and often talked about how we'd almost be glad to exchange our current workplace for that one again.

It seems odd to me, how much this is affecting me.

The first person to tell me is a mutual co-worker who was herself a bit stunned as she told me. No answers, no understanding. Just the stark reality of someone we knew for so long, now gone.

The second person was a woman who worked in the area Jeannie had worked in up until she retired a month ago or so. She came up to me at lunch and said “Jeannie used to come and talk to you, didn't she?”

That's when the sadness began to seep into my mind like a poison making its rounds in my bloodstream. This wasn't a mutual associate; here was this nice lady who recognised I must have meant something to her co-worker and wanted to make sure I knew something had happened.

I wondered about why, of all my acquaintances and co-workers we've lost in the last 10 years, why is this one so impactful?

At first I applied mindful acceptance to simply accept that this is indeed a real loss; understanding it would come on its own time.

It may simply be because of the long journey we both traveled, not together but forever connected.

When I first became a permanent federal employee, she already was one. It wasn't long, though, before I became her biggest foe.

I didn't mean to be, but I know it was my fault. I'm very much like my mom: on the job, you get in there and do what needs to be done. Sometimes that meant I jumped in when I saw need, without regard for anyone who I didn't realize was already on the case.

The moment it all really hit me was one morning I arrived at work and there was a unit that needed a work leader for the day. In my job, that means someone who manages the unit's work, while the supervisor manages the unit's people.

Me department manager asked me to go deal with it, so I headed off to do my thing: be visible, let folks know that I was there to perform the work leader duties, and just put them to ease.

It was at that moment that Jeannie stood up in the unit and started yelling at me. She had already been asked by the same department manager to be work leader. With angry tears rolling down her cheeks she confronted me: how I was always showing up and taking over, how I was always taking opportunities away from her, and so on.

I apologized and told her it was all hers. She had the assignment before me and I would leave. But it was too late, and from then on I was on her list.

(I felt awful and still do. I haven't really gotten much better about that “jumping in” thing, either. I've never meant to take over, but I know that's got to be how it looks. One day I won't be there anymore, so maybe I'll finally stop doing that.)

One day one of our managers sat us down in separate meetings and asked us if anything could be done to make it so we got along. The manager told me later that Jeannie thought about it for a long time before she finally said “No.”

Eventually she moved to another place in the building and really found some peace. In time, we began saying “hi” in the hallway. As she approached her retirement date, we would chat and laugh about the past, or shake our heads and lament the state of things in the present. She always ended with how much she looked forward to retiring and getting out of there.

In a way, I'm grateful. We patched things up and became just two federal employees again. But my wife reminded me of what I forgot, something I try to explain to others: we were always family. The IRS is a big family, part of the expanded federal employee family.

That's the thing: even when we were at odds, even when I was making a mess of things for her, in the end we were still family and we came to remember that before she left.

I'll mourn now, and I'll actually miss her. We had both traveled that long road, and we were able to bid each other farewell at the end.

Rest easy, Jeannie. You deserve it.

A tense discussion about grammar and usage

This meme was recently shared in a language and beginning writers group I participate in. It started a nice chat about the various forms of the word “tense” and how they're supposed to be used.

How do you know which form to use? Well, just like a knife can be a tool or a weapon, it's all in how you plan on using it.

So let's look into the uses of this word, and we'll finish up with a special use - the one that this meme’s pun hinges on.

Tension in many forms

To understand how these forms are used, we're going to watch a wrestling match.

Tense is an adjective. It can also be a verb.

The air in the arena is tense with anticipation. (Adjective, describing how the crowd in the arena felt)

Janice tries massaging her guy's back and sighs. “Your back feels really tense. You need to relax.” (Adjective, describing the subject’s back muscles)

Mike grunts. “What's the big deal?”

“You could get hurt if you tense your back when you fall.” (Verb, explaining what the subject might do with his back)

Tenses is a verb.

The bell rings, and Jim charges out of his corner.

Mike tenses his back to help him withstand Jim slamming into him. (Verb, explaining what the subject is currently doing with his back)

Tensed is an adjective. It can also be a verb.

Later that night, Mike watched the PPV replay. Janice was in complete Angry Mom mode.

“See? See how your back was tensed before he hit you and you fell backwards out of the ring?” (Adjective, describing the state of Mike's back when Jim came barreling in)

“I didn't think I tensed it that much.” (Verb, explaining what Mike didn't want to admit what he did with his back)

Tensing is a verb.

“Why were you still tensing your back when I told you what would happen?” (Verb, explaining what Mike was doing with his back despite warnings)

Tension is a noun.

Mike winced. “Well, I promise my back lost every bit of tension when I blacked out.” (Noun, because it's a thing his back had)

“Yeah, well the arena didn't. The tension was palpable.” (Noun, this time something the arena’s atmosphere had)

Janice rubbed the back of her neck. “My tension headache was pretty palpable too.” (This could be tricky, but it's used here as a Noun. Although some might consider “tension” to be an adjective, a modifier of the noun “headache,” this is a case where “tension headache” is considered a complete thing of its own)

Tensely is an adverb.

She rose tensely and left. (Adverb, describing how she rose)

Finally, we come to the special use where the words “tense” and “tenses” refer to the time modifier of all verbs.

The meme

We modify verbs in a lot of ways. One of those ways is modifying them for time. The time of the vowel’s happening is called its “tense.”

Past tense means the verb has already happened.

Present tense means the verb is happening right now.

Future tense means the verb hasn't happened yet.

There are even modifiers for the modifiers (perfect, imperfect, etc.). But that's a little deeper into the pool than I want to go today.

So this pun relies on a word which has different meanings in different contexts.

In this example, we’re inclined to read the sentence “It was tense” as if the word “tense” was an adjective describing the environment of the bar as a result of the three things entering, as in the environment inside the bar became “tense” or “uncomfortable.”

The pun comes into play because of the relationship the three subjects have in common: they are all “tenses” that verbs can have.

The past-tense verb “walked” might throw off readers who see a need to change the sentence “It was tense” to “It was tensed” in an effort to have verb-tense agreement, but since this context isn't using “tense” as a verb but instead uses it as an adjective, there is no need to end “tense” with a -d. The verb in the sentence is “was,” so the verb-tenses already agree.

So the word “tense” and its various derivatives can have many different uses based on the context. This pun just makes clear how English relies on more than just word definitions to determine proper understanding.

A Total Eclipse of the Feels

We're coming up on a rare sight for Missouri: a total eclipse.

Do you have your lens filter for your camera? Are your glasses or viewing method verified as safe? Do you have a viewing location picked out? Great!

Still, there's one more thing to consider:

The uncertainty of reaction.

I took physics in college. I know the Moon is slipping in between the earth and the sun for a little bit. It's not a monumental celestial moment. But I really don't know how I'll react to it.

While science may not have evidence that total eclipses have physiological impact, there's plenty of evidence that it can have a deep and profound impact on our emotions.

The emotional impact can vary. Some who've seen a total eclipse have stood in wonder and awe at our cosmos at that peak moment. Others have reported feeling connected to humanity, to the earth, to the universe. Unity, peace, belonging - the range is vast and varied.

I bring it up, though, because there can be unsettled emotional states too. Considering the volatile feelings running through the nation right now, fragile and weary emotions could be more susceptible to unexpected feelings brought on by the disappearance of the sun.

The reason total eclipses have been seen as ill omens and portents of doom might have something to do with how people and nature react to the sun playing Extreme Peek-a-boo.

If pets or children become agitated at this “unnatural” event, taking them indoors or just keeping them close can help.

If loved ones become afraid, it's quite okay. Consolation and closeness can help everyone pass through the event together.

If someone feels like crying, reassure them. The actual moment of complete eclipse is relatively brief, and crying has been a not uncommon reaction.

The point is, no one knows how they will react to a total eclipse until they experience it. And like all of life's experiences, the emotional component can be mixed and intense or barely registering.

Scientists have cried, adults have screamed, and children have thrilled to the deep wonder and joy of this human experience.

The human reaction varies by the person. Some will see it as anticlimactic or boring. Some might be overwhelmed and have to escape the experience. And still others might go in fearfully but come away from the experience with a sense of deep joy and contentment.

So just being aware that people may react in surprising ways can help you and yours experience this moment in time, fully and together. And with all of the division around us, this moment of unity and collective awe may be just what we need.

Of music and old farts

I love music.

I've heard that come out of many mouths, young and old. In fact, it may be a requirement of youth to embrace music. Love of music is universal.

Wanna know another universal?

Being all pissy about music.

My generation saw music democratized and then segregated. When I made it to Independence, Missouri (from Nevada, Missouri), it's my opinion that I arrived at popular music's nadir.

As the 1970s rolled into its Side 2, a local Kansas City station played popular music. KBEQ - Super Q! - played a song by ABBA, then something by Glen Campbell, then something by Kiss. Funk, pop, country, rock, singer-songwriter, folk things: if it was popular, it belonged to us, served up on one gleaming Frequency Modulated platter.

Eventually it was necessary to diversify, I guess. Nowadays you have stations based on genres, or even sub-genres. In Kansas City I can listen to a Saturday Night Fever track, then something by Slipknot, then Adele's latest, then something by Toby Keith, and an REO Speedwagon standard to wrap things up. Unfortunately, I have to spend a bunch of time punching buttons to achieve that kind of radio mix.

Then I read on Facebook some old fart's lament on the State of Modern Music and I wish they could get over themselves one day. But I know they can't, and that's a shame.

Pissy People

I was in Kansas City from 1965-1970 or so. I listened to Motown gold, hippy grooves, bubblegum pop, British Invasion hits, and psychedelic swirls.

From 1971-1974 or so I was on a farm. The Temptations were swapped for Tammy Wynette, Donovan for Dusty Springfield, the Beatles for Buck Owens, Chicago for Charlie Pride, hit charts for Hee Haw.

Got back to the city to see disco blossoming, arena rockers on the rise, country stars on pop charts, and I embraced this whole wild mix. With my well-travelled ears I would fall in love with pop, punk, disco, electronica, New Wave, hair metal, rowdy country and New Age artists. I love music.

And in the background, my constant companions are the pissy people who think their music is the best and the rest is crap.

The Beatles and the Stones were ridiculous because of their long hair. And the bloody hippies with their sitars and Woodstock and acid-drenched feedback. The country artists only sang about getting drunk and ruining your marriage because you were a rambler.

Rock artists could only make noise, metal artists were too chaotic or so gay only girls liked them, the pop of the 50s and 60s were just old people's tunes, and on and on until I covered my ears and walked away.

Music Snobbery For Dummies

To put a fine point on it, every generation loves their music and are dismissive if what came before and derisive of what came after. They point to whoever's popular at the moment, whoever is new on the scene, and they mock. They proclaim that real music is dead.

These people are ridiculous.

Some are snobby, turning their noses up at anything popular that their generation didn't make popular. Others are so detached they only listen to their stuff and point to what's on Hit Radio stations as proof of the apocalypse.

These people don't love music. They only love their stuff, and that's real square, baby.

So for all the people who say they love all kinds of music but prove they're really living in a cage, I have a few thoughts:

I have to steel myself when I ask someone what kind of music they like and they gush, "Oh I love all kinds of music! I have really diverse tastes!" Occasionally I'm actually surprised to find out they're telling the truth. Usually it boils down to a narrow band with some token offerings from other lanes of the musical highway. If you like rap, hip hop, a little bit of soul, some smooth R&B and three songs you heard accidentally while watching The Voice, and that's pretty much it - yeah, I'm not taking you seriously. You don't have to be a fan of every genre or even most genres, but "I love all kinds of different music" apparently doesn't mean what it should.

I have to steel myself when someone tells me they love an artist, because too often it boils down to a small fragment of that artist's catalog. Pink Floyd has, what, 15 studio albums? 15 albums, and I guarantee that almost anyone who tells me, "Oh, I love Pink Floyd!" really means they like a few select tracks off of Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here, and The Wall. They don't know the band had a wonderful album caled More, or a beautiful piece of art called Meddle. They don't know that there's a song called "The Hero's Return" that contains some transcendent guitar work by David Gilmour. I'm not saying they have to love a majority of the Floyd's work, but come on. A few songs from only 3 albums, and you love this band?

Another group that suffers from this same affliction are the folks who only love a band during the time one member was in it. Journey fans, I'm looking at you. "I love Journey" usually has a footnote: "Well, as long as Steve Perry is singing." I'm not saying you have to love things off their first three albums before Perry joined, or that you still have to follow their career. But if you're going to say "I love Journey" and you didn't even know they existed for three albums before Stevie joined, I view your great love for Journey with suspicion. Most people just love Journey With Steve Perry, and while that's great and fine, it's just not the same thing.

And I'll bet a ton of artists you love from the 50s through the 70s - artists you might magnify today as real musical talents - would have loved AutoTune.

Expand them there horizons!

Genesis existed before Phil Collins was their singer, and even before he joined as their drummer. REO Speedwagon had a fantastic first album before Kevin Cronin joined. Yes have a career that, at some point, included every musician in the galaxy. Kenny Rogers was in the psych/rock/pop band The First Edition long before he became The Gambler, and he didn't even sing all of their hits.

So when I ask you what kind of music you like, think for a minute before tossing out  the throwaway "I like all kinds."

Try to expand your musical experience. If you like Metallica, check out some Ennio Morricone soundtracks. If you like being bludgeoned by death metal, why not try a little Acid Mothers Temple? If you like harmonies, mix a little Boyz II Men with your Beach Boys.

And try to go a little easier on new artists. Maybe you think all new music sounds the same. Why not try seeking out new music somewhere other than Mix 93.3? There are so many new bands that you haven't stumbled across yet but who you might love!

Oh, and remember that generations before you made the same complaint about those songs and artists you embrace as "good music." Go apologize to your parents right now for the scorn you gave them for dismissing your music, because now you sound just like them. Remember that when your kids want you to hear the new song they love but you can't be bothered with it because it's so commercial and fake.

Don't be such a music snob, bagging on everything that isn't your awesome stuff. Be open to artists who are still trying to follow their muses.

I'm often a music snob myself. But at least when someone asks me what kind of music I like, and I say "I love all kinds of music," I mean it.

But not jazz. Jazz is weird.

On waking up, disturbed in verse

It was crisis time in the Dreamlands
A nightmare soup du jour
No monsters here
Just bundled fear
'Twas awful, to be sure.

My kids had all gone missing
I couldn't find my way
A massive cost
To being lost
Who's really missing- me or they?

I walked in on my true love
Engaged to someone else
I was no longer fun
She sounds another one
I rated no farewells.

My mom was coming back today
A trip on someone's dime
Despite my best wishes
The sinkful of dishes
Reminded me I'm out of time.

I woke up feeling out of sorts today
Bad night, deep fright, what can I say?

My sweetheart's still here holding me tight
My children are too, the sun shining bright

But my mom won't be coming home today.
It's been seven years since she went away.
I want to call her on the phone
Tell her that I feel alone
But my service doesn't cover Heaven's Way.

No Soldier Left Behind?

Veteran homelessness is an American shame.

The United States military has a common belief: no soldier will be left behind, particularly if they fall into an enemy’s hands.

Unfortunately many soldiers return from their tours of duty and fall immediately into the hands of a growing enemy: poverty and homelessness.

On Veteran’s Day 2015 my Facebook feed was awash with praise for America’s defenders, as it should be.

But there was a new meme being slung around, slamming the Obama Administration for taking in refugees but not helping America’s homeless veterans.

One administration after another has come and gone without making any impact on the ranks of homeless veterans. Obama, Bush, Clinton, another Bush, it just keeps going back that way.

Let’s be straight here: unless something unlikely happens, the government won’t be helping much.

That makes it our problem then, doesn’t it?

Instead of whining about the problem, blaming this president or that political party, what are you doing to help? You specifically, what are you doing? Anything?

I don’t mean liking and sharing memes – the modern bumper stickers – that someone else posted on social media. That takes zero effort and makes zero difference.  Here’s what Facebook social concern looks like:

“I care, so I ‘liked’ a meme someone else wrote.”

“Yeah, well I care twice as much as that. I care so much that I shared a meme someone else wrote to my page.”

You can pretend you’re making a difference by “calling attention to the issue”, making people aware of an American tragedy.

We’re already aware, thanks. We know that it’s America’s Vietnam, a quagmire that drags these men and women helplessly down.

But standing at the edge of a quicksand pit and reading the warning signs aloud to everyone isn’t helping. Throw a rope to the folks who are sinking! Chop down a limb and offer it. Get on your knees, thrust your hand into the watery doom, and start lifting!

You can’t proclaim the shame and then say you don’t know how to help. You just can’t. But if that’s still the case, allow me to make a few suggestions.

1.       Google. Search online for agencies that help provide shelter or services for veterans in need. They’ll tell you what you can do. If they need toiletries, canned food, maybe even volunteers, you can make a difference by providing for their needs.

2.       Check your pockets and purse. You say you don’t have even enough money for your stuff, let alone extra to donate? It doesn’t have to be a lot. You can set aside your change over the course of a month and donate it. Set aside a jar and add $1 per week – you could have a $52 donation this time next year.

3.       Think outside the box. My cell phone service gave me credits for being a long-standing customer. I went to the landing page, selected which agency supports veterans, and redeemed my credits to help them.

4.       Use your workplace’s outreach. When our local Heart of America Stand Down program listed a thank-you to the businesses which support veterans’ services, the Kansas City IRS campus (my employer) was #3 on the list.  IRS employees support local veterans by donating groceries and money to those in need. But it’s not about who does more or does it better – it’s about all of us taking the opportunity to get out there and make a difference!

5.       Re-think your excuses. Your donation would be too small to really do any good, so why bother? Isn’t that the same excuse people use for not voting and stuff? Except that, in this case, nobody’s donation can negate yours. Even one dollar you put towards taking care of veterans is one dollar they didn’t have yesterday. Even a drop in the bucket beats a totally dry bucket.

6.       Buy a box of greeting cards and get personal. Could you grab some seasonal gift cards after the holidays and send a card to a homeless veteran who feels abandoned and alone? Write a sincere letter stating how you feel about their service and their value as an American and a human being.

7.       Be productive in your complaints. Email the White House. Write your Congressperson. Send a daily e-mail to your mayor. Complain to someone who can act on your outrage instead of just people who can like and share it.

This is just a small list of things we can all do. You don’t have to solve everyone’s problems, but you do have to look past the overwhelming problem and resolve to do one good thing for one person. Then you’re actually helping.

A final note to everyone who whined that we can’t help outsiders until the government gets busy helping the Americans in need first:

Stop whining about a problem and then complaining that someone else isn’t fixing it! If you haven’t done anything to help but are happy to blame someone else, you’re part of the problem, straight up.

So the kid thinks he's a writer, huh?

Today I submitted a non-fiction piece to a magazine, and it made me nervous.

I’m not nervous that they won’t like it. I’ve had some rejections and they really didn’t hurt like I thought they would. I’m not nervous that it’ll be accepted and become huge and consuming. It’s just the very fact that I submitted it, and it makes me think, “Who in the world are you, thinking that anyone wants to read what you’ve got to say? Your ego is astounding!”

It’s funny to me. I used to write for a local Christian magazine in High School and things I said generated a lot of heat, which was great. Heat meant interest, and that meant discussion and consideration. It meant my words and ideas had impact.

I wrote articles with the Yahoo Contributor Network before it went bye-bye. I’d write a piece, then paste it into their submission form, then edit the thing like nine times before hitting the Submit button.

Even posting something in my own blog makes me nervous. Maybe anxious is a better word, or thrilled. A tremor of energy runs through my whole body over the notion that I’m putting something out there for people to read and consider. Even a Facebook post, if it’s something I really feel deeply about, makes me jittery as I’m touching the screen of my phone over that Post button.

If I write a technical analysis at work I feel that dizzy excitement at the moment I send it off to be seen. I don’t worry so much over the actual content (some, but I have a fair amount of confidence in my knowledge and ability to communicate it) as I get the shivers at the notion of putting it out there to be seen, consumed.

I can hold forth on some topic at length, to the point where my girlfriend needs to remind me, “David – short version.” I am thrilled about communication and dialogue. I love to teach, I love to speak in front of people (which gives me the exact same kind of nervous thrill when I step onstage as well as when I step off).

I still feel like I’m a little kid, writing my story in Bible as Literature class in Middle School that the teacher asked to keep to show other classes. I’m still the kid in Grade School who stood alone, stage center, singing a part in the Bicentennial production Let George Do It. Just this week I had the same shivers from teaching a short class at work as I had as a singing Thomas Jefferson in 1976. I am nervous and excited and never feel like I deserve to be there, even as I know I wouldn’t be there if I hadn’t earned it.

I think I will never be comfortable with the idea that folks want to read or hear what I have to say. I will never be comfortable about how people where I work are happy to help me solve some problem that resides outside my job description, even if they work in an area where distrust of other work areas runs high. From a clerk pushing a cart to the Submission Processing Director, I am never afraid to approach people and communicate.

Yet the hyper-awareness of what I’m doing, what I’m saying, the fact that it’s stepping out sometimes where no one else can or will – I feel like a little kid again. I’m comfortable saying and doing at the time, but before and after the fact it dawns on me that I’m making an impact on other people. My eyes are wide with wonder every time.

Maybe this publication will pass on my offering, and that’s cool. I will shop it around elsewhere, or even fall back on using it for my occasional blog. But no matter what, when it gets placed in front of someone and has some impact, inside of me there’s a little kid going, “Wwwwwowwwww.”

A plea for reason in an age of conspiracy

1999.

Y2K was in every conversation, every nightmare.

Aircraft were going to fall out of the sky. Banks were going to lose all of their financial records. Social infrastructure would collapse within minutes after midnight. The end of the world was nigh, and as one of Jehovah’s Witnesses I got to hear all about that angle.

I tried to explain that computers didn’t really care if their internal clocks were reset. Every time a CMOS battery went belly up your computer thought it was 1980 anyway. Some financial transactions were vulnerable, but Microsoft was working around the clock (so to speak) to make sure their operating system was okay with the Big Change. Apple users sat back and chuckled, because their computers were fine with the Y2K change right out of the box.

“Things are going to be fine” I told people as the Date of Doom neared to a month away. I was assured that things would in fact not be fine.

“Our Elders told us how to survive when everything collapses.”

I lost the arguments, I lost the war. People wanted to believe the worst, so they did. Day after day that ticked by after January 1, 2000 should have helped people have a healthy skepticism about doomsday predictions. Instead, a bit less than 2 years later planes did indeed crash (into the World Trade Center towers, the Pentagon, a field) and it seems that in 2014 America is more paranoid than ever.

I wrote an article for Yahoo Voices (now defunct) concerning Catastrophilia, a love of bad news or disasters. It’s what drives people to stay glued to their televisions for up-to-the-second updates about something that scares them. They can’t look away, even though hour after hour of coverage may be anchors simply repeating themselves without an iota of new information.

Then the speculation begins. If anything can make a true crisis worse it’s misinformation being handed to you with promises that it’s THE TRUTH and assertions that you can’t trust any other information provider but me or us because all the others are lying to you.

Welcome to the world of brainwashing 3.0.

What is brainwashing anyway?

You can look up all the definitions and examples of “brainwashing” in all of its variations, and you’ll see huge disagreements. Basically it needs to involve pain or threat to really be called brainwashing, while the social pressures and mind-redirecting methods used to control how and what people think are sometimes called the same thing.

I object to the ridiculous bullying that is being used by fringe groups today.

“You are being lied to by your government and the media!” Actually that’s very true at times. Okay so far.

“You need to think for yourself! Arm yourself with knowledge!” Very nice, you’re speaking my language. I’m just about to raise my fist and chant for solidarity.

“Avoid all of these other information streams and tune in to mine, because I’m fighting the lies and I’ll tell you the straight truth!”

Wait what?

The pet term being used by these social bullies is “sheeple” in reference to people who just uncritically believe whatever the authorities, officials, major media, or others tell them.

But the people who are arrogantly proclaiming me to be a sheep if I don’t believe their severely subjective view of the world are just as deluded as the people they oppose.

I don’t like judging, but I’m not fond of being judged either. Although it may result in a Moebius Strip of endless judgment, since I’ve born the weight of their judgment recently, I’m now free to fire back.

This is my salvo.

If you tell me that I need to limit my media or information intake to only the networks or groups you approve of so that I can hear the real truth, you’re part of the problem.

If you judge people as blind sheep because they don’t accept and agree with your version of The Truth then you’re just as big a hypocrite as the system you oppose.

If you only fact-check stories you hear by researching only the information outlets “you can trust” then you’re ensuring you take in an inbred view of the world custom-designed to control your thinking, and you are railing against one cage while you intentionally remain in another one.

If you tell me that I’m too stupid or brain-numb to see the way things really are around me, because you’ve had your eyes opened and want to rescue the world from their slumber, I’d suggest you lay off the Matrix marathons and expand your conspiratorial sphere a little to include views that don’t add up to yours.

If you think I’m an idiot for believing what I believe about FEMA, or the Government, or the police, or the World Bank, or the UN, or the plethora of other things that are heralds of our demise? All I can say is “Kettle? Pot calling on line two.”

Whatever floats your goat

I won’t convince people to stop believing in FEMA concentration camps, Goliath-sized metal coffins (for mass burials or to prevent the zombies from getting out, I haven’t decided which), bar-code tattoos and computer chip implants and chem.-trails and whatever else they want to believe.

And I don’t want to try. I don’t care what you believe. You can believe your neighbor is Bigfoot if you want (please get better photos!), or that aliens are watching your house (again – get those cameras ready!) – more power to you. Ebola, Islam, Gay people, zombies, or whatever other thing is about to wipe out civilization? Whatever you say, dude.

You can also believe that there’s no such thing as police brutality or racism or electronic surveillance invading your privacy if you want – I’m not going to lose sleep over what you believe.

But when you start looking down on me from your lofty throne, as one who has Finally Had His Eyes Opened To The Truth looks down onto me and the other poor, deluded, unwashed masses who “believe whatever they’re fed”, we will have problems.

I choose to believe my version of reality, and you are choosing to believe yours. Fine. This is America, the land where I’m free to believe as my heart and mind direct. I don’t want to judge anyone for their views.

But this time? You started it.

Dissatisfaction Guaranteed

I wondered about all the news of defection to IS(IS)(IL) by Westerners, and looking around at other movements in the western world I think I figured out something:

People are joining themselves to groups with whom they share something – not a shared value system necessarily, but a shared dissatisfaction over life in the west.

If you look around America and Europe today, you see folks looking for something. The American Dream sounded great when you were just getting out of World War II, or coming to the Land of Freedom from somewhere that was ruled by autocrats and poverty. Nowadays you look around and you just don’t see it panning out like it was supposed to.

“Like it was supposed to.” That’s a sentence that has Unfulfilled Expectations written all over it.

We expected stuff growing up in America. We were indoctrinated with the basic Life Script that went kind of like this:

·         you graduated High School

·         you got a job

·         you entered a career

·         you dated

·         you got married

·         you bought a house

·         you had children

·         you retired with your spouse and occasionally watched the grandchildren

·         and finally you died at a ripe old age , fulfilled and successful. You won the game!

If you didn’t successfully complete this game, you were somehow a failure. You got divorced, you got laid off from your job, you couldn’t have children, you couldn’t afford a good house, your child turned out to be gay or selfish and therefore uninterested in providing you with grandchildren, whatever it was that caused your particular train to derail.

If some event came along to make sure you didn’t pass Go and collect your $200, even if it completely wasn’t your fault or within your control, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were somehow a loser. You didn’t make it to the end of the game by following the Script, and you felt disenchanted, disenfranchised, dissatisfied.

Resentment set in. You were upset that your life didn’t work out the way it was supposed to. It wasn’t fair, because you did everything you were supposed to. You played your role in the Script to a T, and still you failed! How could that be?

It was my ex’s fault. It was my religion’s fault. It was my government’s fault. It was the Illuminati’s fault. It was white people’s fault. It was black people’s fault. It was the Mexicans!

It’s always someone else’s fault, because if I can find someone else to blame then I can get some relief from the voices in my head that whisper day and night, reminding me that I’m a loser. See, it was someone else’s fault that I didn’t win.

Now I personally don’t subscribe to the Victim Mentality that gives people a false sense of relief over their lives not working out the way they wanted them too. It’s an illusion, a sleight of hand that distracts us from the real issue.

No, the real issue isn’t that in the end I’m still a loser. The real issue is that I built my expectations on an outmoded rulebook, and those expectations just couldn’t be realistically met.

The Life Script itself is a lie.

By having expectations of life as if Eisenhower was still president and the WASP nuclear family was the norm, we are setting ourselves up for dissatisfaction. We can’t be happy with who we are, or how our life is, because we are still dragging out this archaic yardstick to measure the validity of our lives.

Once upon a time the Life Script worked. Everyone had their role and followed it, so that most of the time everything worked out fine. Today people romanticize The Old Days to the point of fetish. “Back in my day” was a phrase that made children roll their eyes, and here we are decades later, the children all grown and using the same tired expression.

“Life was so much better back when we spanked, or when we had strong unions, or when we had good men leading this country… wait, don’t you roll your eyes at me! We played outside, we didn’t have cable TV or video games… I said don’t roll your eyes! And stop texting when I’m lecturing you!”

Then black people, and women, and folks with mental illness, and Liberals, and ecologists, and gay people, and religious reformers all started making noise and stirring up CHANGE! Oh no! That’s not in the script! Why are they messing up everything with their improvising?

Well, they’re messing everything up for me, anyway. I’m sticking to the script, and they aren’t. If things are awful, then it’s the fault of the black people, the women, the Liberals, the Conservatives, etc.

So people begin looking for something to provide their lives with direction since they’ve been deprived of the guaranteed Life, Liberty, and Pursuit of Happiness they used to believe in.

Dave Barry once wrote how shocked he was hearing young people in the 1990s complaining how they wished that their generation could have a Vietnam. Christopher Titus said people were looking for that galvanizing moment that brought back that sense of community and America we heard so much about. Yet war after war, the coalescing hasn’t occurred. So now folks are following the tune of other pipers.

Perhaps it’s some militia that wants the United States government overthrown. Maybe it’s some Islamic movement that wants to force everyone to convert to their particular flavor and will kill anyone who refuses. It could be a religious group that purports to be the True Religion and is therefore no part of this crumbling world.

In whatever case, there is a lure to join with zealots, extremists, or “visionaries.” At least they are offering a new Script to replace our severely flawed one.

Therefore a person who hooks up with an extreme agenda may not be fully on board with every tenet and rule of the new group, but at least they have found family, community, support, fellow feeling over the same dissatisfactions, and direction in life. They find identity where they didn’t perceive one before. They are now someone, part of a movement that has purpose, living a life that has a real goal and therefore now means something.

That also means that the old system is kind of the enemy now. They let us down, so they have to go. We’ll rebuild everything to our better specifications.

Man has been trying that for about as long as there has been Man. Every political, religious, or ideological uprising has been reactionary to the failure of whatever was in place at the time.

I think that simply waging war against extremist forces is a faulty half-measure. It drives folks into holes and restores the temporary illusion of security, but it also reinforces their view of the world and galvanizes their resolve to make the old world pay.

What we’ve been lacking is a concrete movement to ensure our children have identity of self. Not everyone lacks that, but as I watch people streaming to the Middle East while their friends and families say “I don’t understand it! He wasn’t like that a year ago! She was always such a loving Christian!” I can’t help but wonder why they didn’t just look at this extreme group of self-proclaimed Islamic champions and just go “Yeah, right. NOT!”

I guess it’s because someone got dissatisfied with things in America as it is today. Crime, sex, greed, impurity and immorality wasn't supposed to be the stage where we played our parts in the Script. I think dissatisfaction is pretty much guaranteed.

And as long as no one helps these people find their way in the New America with realistic expectations, groups standing for something that resonates with the disenfranchised will continue to draw them. And it will just leave the Script Players over here blaming yet another group for their unhappiness.

Door To Door Adventures

From 1993-2008 roughly, I was one of Jehovah’s Witnesses.

I don’t regret the time I spent there, because I was able to grow spiritually and socially, not to mention having the opportunity to travel around to local congregations and hone my speaking skills.

I also don’t regret leaving, because it was necessary for my emotional and spiritual health.

I steadfastly refuse to be a hater. The Society is what it is, and you can love it or hate it all you want but it’s still simply what it is: a church which sits outside the mainstream. It’s no more or less than that in my opinion.

How did I get out? Seriously, I simply stopped going. There were issues which influenced my need to leave while I was still capable of avoiding deep resentment. But they were the same basic kinds of issues I encountered among Baptists growing up in my family, so it’s not like these were special problems.

Although folks can tell you glowing or harrowing experiences they had either in or out of the organization, I’d like to share a few of my own. Some make me cringe, some make me smile.

Views of Field Service

I went preaching from door to door. It’s part of the package. You accepted it as part of the deal when you got baptized.

Here’s a secret: a lot of Witnesses really don’t enjoy the door to door work. Sometimes we’d hit a neighborhood and people found a multitude of reasons to stay in the car, or chose only to take a couple of houses which were clearly not inhabited at the moment. As long as you got to claim the 2 hours on your ministry log, it was all good in their minds.

I often hopped out of the car to catch someone just leaving, or started talking to folks on a bus, whatever. It was all about connecting with folks to share my beliefs.

Some see it as rude, and I do agree it’s a tad intrusive to just start preaching to folks uninvited at their home. But you would be surprised at how common the behavior really is.

Do you know how many Evangelical Christians hurl their beliefs into every conversation you can have with them? I didn’t ask you about your beliefs. I asked how you were, you said you were blessed, and then I got to hear praises. I just wanted you to ring up my purchase at Walmart so I could go home.

Do you know how many people shove their religious, political, ideological, and cultural beliefs on me on Facebook? I didn’t ask you how you felt about immigration, prayer in schools, Gay Marriage, or some political movement. But boy, I sure get to hear alllllll about it, don’t I? Sometimes by you holding colorful placards and shouting at me at stoplights.

I’m just saying that this nation has become all about shoving “my” opinions and beliefs into people’s lives at any convenient opportunity, uninvited and often unappreciated.

Door to door ministry ought to be a pretty standard event then, you’d think.

Experiences

·         I went to a house where a man was working on repairing his roof. I knocked on the door, in case someone in the house wasn’t quite as busy. A little boy came up and asked who I was. I introduced myself and the gentleman who was with me and asked if we could talk to his mom or someone since his dad was busy.

 

The little boy said that no one else was home but I could talk to his dad. He led us to the side of the house where a chain link fence and gate set off the back yard. As he put his hand on the gate latch, two very large dogs began a full-ahead sprint towards the same gate. A Chow and a Doberman Pinscher at full run. As I’m watching these two horses running towards me, I hear the boy simply mention:

 

“Be careful with the dogs. They’re mean.”

 

With that, the gate opened.

 

Things went into slow motion at that point, like I was in a movie.

 

My fellow preacher became one of the X-Men and teleported back to the car. I’d never imagined a person could relocate so instantly.

 

These two dogs cleared the gate without even slowing down. They would be on me before I could take another breath. So I simply said to myself, “Well, if I’m going to go, I’m going out nicely.” I believe I saw the man on the roof, gleefully getting ready to watch a reenactment of the Roman Coliseum.

 

I dropped my literature bag and put my hands out to the two dogs. “Hi guys!”

 

I was suddenly wearing two incredibly happy dogs.

 

“Hi! How are you? Who are you? Doesn’t matter, can we lick your face and demand that you pet us?”

 

Those two dogs just lavished affection on me. The boy stood and watched. The father on the roof threw his hammer on the ground and demanded angrily that I get the heck off his property (as it were).

 

Man he was angry. And frustrated. And disappointed. But his dogs had a great visit.

 

·         I went to one door where the house was set off from the street a little bit and obscured by trees. The gentleman came to the door and asked what I wanted. I skipped the basic intro we were using that morning and just told him we were in the neighborhood sharing the Bible with folks. He said that was cool, then something dawned on him. He asked that we excuse him, that he would be right back.

 

As we waited, he returned with a hunting rifle mounted with a beautifully shiny new scope.

 

He cocked it (or whatever the “correct term” is for getting ammunition in place to fire) and pointed it at us, then told us it would be a real good idea if we left immediately. I agreed.

 

The elder with me decided this would be a good time to start arguing with the man. No, seriously.

 

I walked back to the car and left them to their devices. I remember raised voices, but no report from the rifle. We left, and I wondered about all the criticism I had received over the years about just leaving when people told me to leave. If this elder was any indication of what was expected of me, I was in for a lot more criticism.

 

Today when people talk about being oppressed for their religion, I ask them if they’ve been face to face with a hunting rifle because of it. That’s 100% right there.

 

·         I knocked on one door and a young mother came to the door, followed by her toddler daughter. I started to explain why I was there, and the mother’s face just screwed up into this vicious scowl. She let me know how terrible I was, locked her front door, and slammed it in my face as hard as she could. It shook the front porch.

 

Unfortunately it also caught her little girl’s fingers, who had wandered to the door to see what was going on and had put her hand inside the door jamb to hang on to.

 

The screams of that little girl still make me shudder, some 10 years later. The mother couldn’t pry her out of the door, so it took a moment for her to get the door unlocked. She opened the door back up, thrust her daughter backwards into the living room, relocked the front door, then slammed it with undiminished anger.

 

I know she didn’t mean to hurt her daughter, and I pray the little girl’s hand ended up okay. But it does go to show how much hatred ordinary people can muster. It’s one reason I try to be very conciliatory when talking religion, politics, or other heated issues.

 

·         Once a woman came to the door while on the phone. We often met folks at the door while they were on the phone, and I never stayed. On rare occasions I slipped them a quick tract, but I never wanted to take up their busy time.

 

This lady opened the door, told the person on the phone to hang on a minute, and asked me, “What do you need? I’m on the phone here.”

 

I started to apologize for bothering her but I was interrupted.

 

By her phone ringing.

 

The look on her face…. The sheer disgust and defeat of pretending to be on the phone to cut a door visitor short, then having that very phone betray you by ringing when it was supposed to already be engaged. Her whole body just kind of sagged.

 

I smiled and said “You probably ought to answer that. Have a nice day,” then went on my way.

 

·         I got a couple of young men at one door who spooked my ministry partner for the day. These two came up grinning. I explained why we were there, and they informed me that they were worshipers of the devil. Their walls did indeed had an upside down cross on it, which they pointed out and asked me what I thought.

 

I shrugged. “Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t venerate the cross, so you can hang it upside down, sideways, or anything else and it doesn’t bother me.”

 

They slammed the door on me.

 

Rats. I was so sure I had some interest there.

 

·         Since we were there to discuss our religious views, a lot of Witnesses translated that as “We’re here to talk to you. So just be quiet about your beliefs and listen to us.”

 

I always found that unpalatable and ridiculous, so when I encountered someone who wanted to share their views I was usually ready to listen. An exchange of views was always a plus in my ministry.

 

One time this older gentleman invited me and the young lady with me in to have a chat. It turned out that he believed that his church – a small personal affair – was presided over by a blood descendant of Aaron, and their little group was the re-established Aaronic priesthood.

 

The sister I was with had enough of this guy’s explanations shortly before we even walked into his house, but I was intrigued. I asked questions, I shared verses, we discussed why I had some reservations about his claims.

 

He agrees that there was no explanation that would be sufficient to someone who didn’t believe it, but there it was.

 

I had never heard of this group, but it was the most fascinating visit I’d had in months.

 

The sister avoided me for some time after that call, simply because she had to sit there in disgust while I asked someone else about their beliefs.

 

That’s me.

 

·         Some householders were well known to Witnesses who worked certain neighborhoods often. My car group one day consisted of me, my wife, and two young women who knew of this house where a theologian lived.

 

These two girls suggested that they would take one side of the street, and maybe I could start with this big house on the edge of a cul-de-sac. It was a total set-up. The guy who lived there had taught religious studies and enjoyed twisting religious folks in knots with his reasoning powers and huge leading questions. He had humiliated a few witnesses over the years, and these two wanted to see me get my turn.

 

I had a wonderful time. He pitched, I batted. I pitched, he batted. He won some, I won some. At some point my wife wandered off bored, so it had just been him and me wandering about in some serious theological forest.

 

 I had just responded to one of his contentions about God’s willingness to just let his own son die, and he seemed like he was done. I waited a moment and then told him it was his turn. He smiled at me and we agreed we were both pretty tired.

 

My car group was standing nearby. They had finished the whole street and ended up just standing there listening. He told me “I’ll bet if you came back, I could turn you away from your belief system.” I smiled and replied, “I’ll bet you couldn’t.”

 

Back in the car, with a half hour behind us, the two girls wanted to know how badly he trounced me. I reported that I had stumped him as often as he stumped me, AND that I had placed a tract and a booklet with the guy, which he accepted.

 

They wouldn’t look at me the rest of the week, they were so mad.

 

·         For some, a person’s self-confidence is seen as pride and arrogance. I was often viewed as arrogant and haughty, which hurt. I was energized and loved interacting with people, and I was always prepared for almost anything I encountered (including the rifle; I was fully prepared to leave).

 

But sometimes my fellow Witnesses assumed many things about me which simply weren’t true, all because I sometimes triggered their own issues. One of these came out when we left Independence, Missouri to help out in a little town in northern Kansas called Troy.

 

The sister who was driving us gave me a very serious series of cautions and admonitions. Why? Because we were going into a rural setting, and in her opinion I was too “City” and would have to seriously change my way of talking and dealing with people if I was going to talk to anyone.

 

I was raised on a farm in the rural locale called Nevada, Missouri. Granted I’m very “City” but that doesn’t mean I can’t talk to folks. She had her doubts. That was a painful thing to sit there and take. It still rankles.

 

We got out there, and I spent quite awhile at one farm. I got out of the car and walked up to a farmer who was wearing overalls and had been out with this huge power mower. I exchanged pleasantries, and he mentioned that his mower was all clogged up and jammed, maybe with a chunk of wood preventing the blade from spinning.

 

I put my bag down, and in my suit I got in there, helped him tip the mower over and together we spent awhile cleaning out his mower. We just chatted about stuff and life out on the farm. If he talked about problems with keeping two bulls apart or foxes from going after his chickens, I was right there with him. I didn’t say a thing about religion, because I wasn’t there anymore to preach: I was there to connect with people.

 

Covered in wet grass and rotten wood bits, we got his mower back up and running. Finally he mentioned that I was pretty dressed up to be doing stuff like that. Why was I there? I explained that I was there talking to folks about the Bible and asked if he was interested. He laughed. “No.” I smiled and shook his hand, and went on back to our meet-up place. It was my best call all day.

 

The sister still concluded I had probably messed everything up because there’s no way I could identify with common folks. She actually told me that. I still hurt from those words. I probably shouldn’t, but I do.

 

·         Once we were walking along a street and a woman in her car was approaching. She came quickly to a stop and rolled down her window to yell to us.

 

“Are you preachers?”

 

Usually this is a hint we were in for some grief, but that’s part of the job. “Yes ma’am, we are.”

 

She parked her car on the shoulder and ran across the street to us with her young teenage daughter. She actually had a favor to ask us.

 

They had just seen an auto accident, and apparently it freaked them out by triggering a bit of post-trauma from a severe accident they had been involved in a year or so before. They were both in tears, and asked if we would lead them in prayer.

 

Now I don’t know why the others with me were skeptical, or why they suddenly didn’t want to get involved. But a person in need had approached me for help; how was I going to say no?

 

It didn’t matter what their religion was, or what ours was. I led our little group in a prayer to God about His love, how He cares for those who feel sadness and fear, how He wants joy for us and grants strength to overcome the obstacles in life.

 

When I was done, she and her daughter thanked me gratefully through tears for doing that. I’m sure I never saw them again, and I didn’t try to chat. It was her need, and once we helped it would have been wrong to try and use that as an opportunity.

 

A lot of my fellow Witnesses disagreed and probably still would, but that was my position. Helping people was and is the true Christian service.

 

·         One last anecdote for now: The question of who goes to Heaven is a pretty gritty question sometimes. Many churches believe it’s their members and no others. Some believe it’s their members and anyone who agrees with them. Of course for Witnesses it got hung up on their position that Revelation’s report of 144,000 in Heaven was a literal number, and that caused some real debates at the door.

 

I accepted the teaching as being theirs, but I never insisted on it. I knew that to disagree was nearly a disfellowshipping offence, but I just never cared for it. This was my position going to this one door.

 

The gentleman who opened it had been schooled by his church on things to say to Witnesses at your door. Many churches in the world offer that little service to their members. Kind of a flow chart: if the Witness says that, then you say this, and follow the line of reasoning.

 

He launched right off.  “Hey, if I’m not one of the 144,000, does that mean I’m not going to Heaven?”

 

I was mad, not because he was confrontational, but because he sounded so well rehearsed that it made me realize he could only parrot what he had been told to say.

 

“Do I look like God?” I blustered back at him. “Who goes to Heaven is up to God, not you, not me, not any human. He’ll let Jesus do the judging and make the call in the future, but it’s not my call.”

 

He was floored. That did not go AT ALL the way his church said it would. He literally could not get a work to escape his open mouth.

 

Another person sitting nearby in the living room came to his rescue and tried to patch things up by leading the discussion to the next level, since I wasn’t playing by the rules.

 

“Well, you assert that Revelation makes it clear that the number 144,000 is literal.”

 

“A Bible book that is full of symbols says 144,000. But the ultimate decision is not up to any one of us. If God wants exactly 144,000 in Heaven, that’s how many will be there. If He wants exactly 1 person in Heaven, that’s how many will be there. If he wants everyone except exactly one person in Heaven, that’s what He’ll have. It’s up to him.”

 

I wished them a good day and walked away. The silence behind me was palpable, but then so was my disgust. I wished one of the “normal” Witnesses had gone to that door, because it would have been a perfectly matched yell-fest. I wanted to be reasonable, and that was becoming increasingly difficult for me, whether within the congregation or outside it.

 

In all, there were many great experiences and many terrible ones. But I went to the houses because I believed that’s what I should do. When I found it was no longer in line with my inner self, I stopped that along with everything else.

I had to leave after 15 years for my own sanity, and I can’t bring myself to ever go back. But really? I don’t regret the experience, not for a minute.

Hey, you know something that freaks Witnesses out today, though? Coming to my door.

That’s a party.