Some Thoughts on Independence Day 2020

Some thoughts on this Independence Day. 

If you worship America, you'll be blind to its flaws. If you worship globalism, universalism, spiritualism, Eastern religion, or any other overarching belief system, such as the collectivist systems (communism, socialism, Marxism, or utopianism), you will only see America's flaws. Someone could recite the entirety of the founding documents, and you will yawn. If you only see America's flaws or believe that it is mostly a bad Nation the bad intentions and a bad future, then ask yourself what system your life teachers have taught you. I grew up in San Francisco in the 70s and 80s, and I am familiar with each of these systems. But the majority of Americans walking around have no idea that they're doing the bidding of some of these systems. 

Me too. I focus too much on defending America from other Americans. 

Even if you say, Kevin, I just believe in people, in goodness and not being a jerk, you probably embrace some combination of belief systems. It may be helpful to be conscious of it. 

God has one view of America, and that is it is a system of this world and nothing more nothing less. Many like to think of it as the best form of government we have, but the freedoms we enjoy as Americans are very rare in the history of the world. God is still the King.

Side note: when I am critical of movements and hashtags, it's because I'm seeing evidence of a belief system in action - some of which are antithetical to the very idea of freedom, liberty, and justice. 

Some of its participants have no idea  about it. But the leaders of some of these movements clearly understand what their intentions are. 

For these reasons, it is almost impossible to get people to understand when you say, "Naw, not for me. I'll continue to stand for what's right without confirming to pre-determined steps that 'prove you really care.' "

Many of us are "that guy." We will run the same race, standing for equity, excellence in equity, justice for all. We're in the marathon. We just refuse to wear the ribbon. 

Why? Because somebody told us that we have to. And that's not America. 

I'll meet you at the finish line, friends. When people will be judged by the content of their character.

Lost and Found

A MEDITATION ON ALL THAT'S LOST, SOME THAT'S FOUND.This is a staple remover. I was using it in my classroom a couple of weeks ago while I put up new student work. It disappeared and I gave up looking for it after about one minute. I knew it would show up at some point. Upon my first visit back to my classroom, after two-weeks, I was sitting down at my desk when I heard a sound from across the room. My staple remover had dropped from wherever it was hidden. Let things go. Let people go. If they're meant to be in your life, they will come back, just like the staple remover. People are like staple removers, but they are not staple removers. You may need to go looking for them, tell them you need them. Like a staple remover, they may never come back, but leave the door open anyway. It will make you happier and ready for when the new friend wants to enter your life. Sometimes we're talking about a job. Almost 10 years ago, I gave up on teaching after seeing how schools worked. I was okay with walking away from the profession, while not losing the passion of my calling. The staple remover dropped from across the room; I received the call and was offered a position which led to interviewing for a permanent position several months later. And so that staple remover has been in my hands for over five years.

"You've GOT to hear this one!"

DETAILS. 

My ears and my phone are the recipients of information that is hard to decipher because it comes at me in pieces. "Did you hear about that man that tried to mail himself?" "The kids down there are all holding hands and jumping off cliffs now. I can't believe it." Now the first example obviously doesn't mean that a man jumped into an envelope and the second one doesn't mean that all of them, whoever they are, are jumping off the cliff. But they're still like puzzle pieces that I'm forced to try to fit together. And the messages always come when I don't have the time to ask all the right questions. But they make me so curious that I have to ask. The man who tried to mail himself was actually Henry Box Brown who had himself shipped to the North during the 1800s because it was only there that, as African-American, he could be free. The second example is exaggeration based upon an incident in San Pedro in which a boyfriend and girlfriend committed suicide while in high school. That said, I have a friend who sends me messages late at night. 'I mean they're jumping all over her!" " They need to send her to the district office." To make sure this wasn't about a woman being stomped in the streets, I had to ask what she meant. "You didn't hear?! This dumb teacher gets in the face of some protesters and she's getting eaten alive on social media..." I'm supposed to follow every story on Facebook or channel 17 news? And I'm down for some drama, but for about 14 minutes in the middle of the day when I'm bored and transitioning from work to dinner. I guess I'm out of touch with current events, but I have methodically worked at being disengaged from the media since 2002. Knowing that some of the dramatic things I hear are nothing more than minor irritations or private mishaps, I've learned to go back to sleep when I get such messages. Yet, I often have to ask what my friend means. You think I would have learned by now that most of the events don't directly impact my life. Lately with riots and protests nationwide, I am affected at least by extension. I have another friend he shared certain things, all of them related to her personal experience. This particular friend has an expert sense of suspense, so I really enjoy listening to her explain exactly how she set fire to her boyfriend. I know the story ends well because he's still around and my friend has a smile on her face as she explains. It turns out it was a horrible mishap and not planned, thank goodness. The middle part of many of her stories tend to be hard to hear. The boyfriend was in the hospital for several days and had to have multiple skin grafts. I'd like to learn to tell stories like they do. So I'm rehearsing in my mind. Then I realized that I am already given to exaggeration. The effect is similar to that of a person who leaves out important details. "I was detained at the Canadian border," I'll explain. In reality, I was pulled aside and the airport because I failed to declare an apple. So they gave me a warning. It's not like I was trying to sneak across the border like some bounty hunter or fugitive who had just exposed the deep state. So I guess it serves me right for people send me jigsaw pieces: "A guy that I don't even know and I are about to get kicked out of college." I imagine a message will read. I won't be able to respond right away and forget about it. A week later I'll ask my friend, "Are you still in college?" ("Huh?") "I thought you were going to get kicked out." ("What you talking about? Oh, I know what you're talking about. No, just some dumb teacher thought that some guy and I were looking at each other's exams."). There you have it.

Faceless Facebook

Real life humor. I still have more than 20 friend requests I haven't responded to. In some cases I have searched in vain for what the person looks like or who we might know mutually. Ever notice how some people have a stuffed animal for their profile picture? Or maybe it's a video game Avatar. You look at their posts and every one of them is some sort of Candy Crush or online Slot Machine award they've won. Are they even aware that they have a Facebook page? It's quite funny. But I have to ask myself why a person is so secretive on Facebook. It's understandable that most of us don't like the way that we look. One of my favorite profile pictures is friend of a friend who has a collection of monkeys on top of a baby piano. Some are stuffed animals while others are toys. I searched through her profile because she liked a remark I made on my friends page and I'm delighted at how she's created other profile pictures from different animal themes and used as her profile picture. She might be 29 or 99, but does it really matter? I mean she's a stranger, so I think I understand now. We have a right to privacy until the time that somebody actually connects with us by "Friending." And it's kind of cool when you finally approve a friend request and you see that the person does have human pictures and posts on thought-provoking topics. They really do have hair, two eyes, and a mouth like a regular human and you find that they like to visit the beach with their family. You think back to a time when you were both in high school and barely knew one another. So it's weird in a sense. You know their name but you don't really know them. "Oh yeah', you say, "There's Linda Delvecchio." and she doesn't look a thing like you remember her in the yearbook photos or in your mind as you visualize her and her football player boyfriend sitting on top of the hood of his Camaro. The Letterman jacket with medals. And you see that she has grown children. Back to the anonymous friend request. Who is this person named "Po Po Chronic"? Is it a male or female? Is the person a saint or have they served jail time? Probably neither, but who wants to take a chance? Or the infamous "Bryan_mo_monye"? (I've changed the names slightly).

The Garden

The Garden

You cannot change the world

All you can do is be changed 

By another who opens your heart

Then you will realize you were born 

to reflect that gift

But every now and then,

Maybe once in a lifetime

Someone enters your life

And your heart, so like a guarded flower in the early morning,

Waits

Then some conflicting burst of sunlight

or gentle warming of sunrise

Opens up that heart like petals

One day the light shined.

Angel confronted me

I confronted him

And we were forever changed 

With each new day that I saw him or heard his voice, life was a peaceful garden.

In this garden of love and respect,

You will realize that the sun lives not for itself but to warm another

And the flower lives not for itself,

But to showcase the beauty of the sun.

You cannot change the world

All you can do is be changed 

By another who opens your heart

Then you will realize you were born 

to reflect that gift

And when your heart breaks

You will realize you were given a reason to live bigger than yourself

Angel,

Your sun has passed

And my petals have fallen

But your warmth will never leave my heart

Te quiero y t extrano, amigo

~Kevin Shah

Back to Writing

I'm back in a town called Writing. Imagine it's a ghost town like you see in the movies. The hero steps out of the car and carries a briefcase. He's wearing a white shirt which is stained with dust and coffee. In his briefcase, he has all his writings. Easily there are 1 million words or more.
Gone are the people he used to write to. Gone is the podium and microphone from which he would read. A lot has happened in 9 years since writing in this blog. He separated from his wife and lives alone in an apartment that is all too comfortable. What will happen when he opens up the briefcase and starts to read what he's written going back 15 years? Will it just be a pile of dust? Will he have actually been honest in any of his writings? For now, I'm going to carry my briefcase in this imaginary town and perhaps gather blank sheets of paper so I can write anew. This is such a page that you are reading. I'll be back with some good stuff eventually.

To Taste, To Savor (Vignette Writing Exercise)

“Want a glass of wine?” I told her to make it a small glass because I wasn’t sure if I would like Cabernet Sauvignon. It might be good for tasting and nothing more.
The spirit moved me. “Make it a glass.” I wanted to savor the sight of her pouring wine. Wine fell from the bottle the way dresses fell. I saw her sideways. The dark dress almost made her invisible in the dimmed house. She explained little things she had to do with her cell phone and her computer, almost like an apology. I savored the gravel of her voice. One glass of “cab” rounded it out to musky seduction.
“Here.” She smiled with that small mouth of hers. I detected lipstick. Or was it wine? My goblet was large like a bowl, gracious. Did I really care if I liked the taste or not? This time of night was kind for silk, for dancing, for putting down your wine glass so you could handle the vintage flavor of love with your trembling hands and lips.
Outside, the cats howled and hissed at each other. Things were harder and more immediate with cats. No wine, lipstick, songs, and dances. Flirtation of the eyes and the honesty of moaning were what we shared with cats.
“Do you have music?” I wanted blue noise and red movement. She turned on piano and bass with a needle that contained that old familiar scratching, the scratching of old movies, old record players, a scratching not unlike that of tired cats at the door. The rhythmic snare and voices took over.
The singer, as if watching our dance of seduction, asked, “How do you keep the music playing/How do you make it last?” I savored its gravity as I looked her in the eyes. Blue. She sat across from me in a chair stitched with a marriage of red and blue wool.
“What are you thinking?” She furrowed her brow above a knowing smile. Something in my face I suppose.
“Oh, I don’t know. I…” Honesty was too white for me. I wanted to savor black, red, and blue. I decided to bury white words with red touch, to answer without breaking the mood. “Come here.” Within, blue flames kindled. I could feel within my pulse the desire to be truthful with my heart.
She was silent. Then she rose to her feet, putting her glass down.
We held each other and became one, not the way red and white mix and create pink, but more like pink falling into pink. As she held me firmly, her forehead grazing my nose, we both understood the power of silence; a silence so loud and powerful that we never noticed the record needle skipping.

And when you pick up the needle and lower it again, where in a song does it end up?
I let go once and she held on. Sometimes it's good being a needle and a record stuck.