Old Song

The other day I went on about a conversation from several years back that pushed me to think more about God.  It was sort of pivotal for me, helping me to come to grips with and think more deeply about our existence and our blessings.  

I wrote this song about six or eight months ago.  Going through my notebook the other day, I stopped and played it and thought how it connected to my last post.  It's not the most awesome song ever written, I'm not even sure that it is all that good, but it is sincere.

Yesterday we went to see a friend's newborn twins.  They were beautiful and sweet and sleepy and burpy.  They smiled and cried, stretched and squeaked.  I had not held a little one in a while and, of course, it was beautiful.  Their smell, their warmth, their newness was just so... God.  Holding them close and realizing their potential to change the world made me think back to our boys as babies.  I love the young men they have become, but I miss those little babies.

From the bright wildflowers

To the starry sky at night

To the sunset in the west 

And every beautiful sight

From the baby's first cry on entering this world

To the lovely musical laughter 

Of every boy and girl

(CHORUS)

God is there - He hears my prayer

And I am grateful - God is everywhere

From the burning fall colors

Filling up the trees

To the windsong whispering

As it rushes through the leaves

From the mockingbird's joy

Early in the dawn

To the twilight blue

And the mourning dove's sweet song

(CHORUS)

God is there - He hears my prayer

And I am grateful  - God is everywhere

(BRIDGE)

This old world keeps turning

And spinning round the sun

A plan of perfect motion

Until each year is done

Every wave upon the ocean

Every particle of sand

A gift come down from Heaven

Straight from God's own hand

(CHORUS)

God is there - He hears my prayer

And I am grateful - God is everywhere

From the colors of the desert

To the bright pastels of spring

To the sparkling crystal snow

And in every living thing

From the rain that falls onto the earth

To the rainbow after the storm

From the music of the waterfall

And the sun that keeps us warm

(CHORUS)

God is there - He hears my prayer

And I am grateful - God is everywhere

Am I Blessed Or Am I Lucky?

I am a lot of things. I am a dad, a husband, a teacher, a brother, a son. I am not a preaching man. I could never be. I’m not preaching here. Just telling a story.

Our lives are made of critical incidents, right? When you think back on the people and episodes in your life, there are some really big ones and some lesser ones, which make you who you are. These stories and events changed our worlds.

Among mine are… 

*Deciding to go to college, although it never felt like a choice, more like an assumption. Thanks, Mom and Dad. 

*Living in Wright Quad when I got to college, only because my high school girlfriend and one of my best friends were going to live there. My girlfriend immediately broke up with me, leaving me thinking that I should be living ANYWHERE else but that dorm. 

*Taking this Crafts and Design class where I met Heidi Mills (who lived in the afore mentioned dormitory), and we started walking home together from class, and we started sharing our stories, and we started dating, and we fell in love, and we made our lives together. 

*Moving to South Carolina because it was the first place Heidi got offered a job teaching at the university after receiving her doctorate. Within days she got other offers, but it was SC first so this is where we ended up. 

*Trying to have kids. Not being able to have kids. “The great science experiment” trying to get pregnant. Getting pregnant – identical twins. Heidi miscarrying. 

*Finally deciding to adopt. On that very day – that critical day we made the decision to adopt – our friend Amy connected us to a doctor, a birth mother. Six weeks later Devin came into our lives. 

*Nine months later getting pregnant with Colin.

Any and all of these critical incidents in my life could have gone another direction. Any small change could have altered everything that followed. My entire future may have evolved into something completely different over something really small. What if I worked in the steel mill the way my dad did and didn’t go to college? What if Heidi and I ended up in different sections of that art class and we didn't walk home together? What if Heidi got a job offer closer to home before getting the offer from USC? There are countless ways my life could have been different. But this path, this life led me here; to my people, to this area. Was I just lucky?

Several years ago, I went to a show with a couple of buddies. It was a Jack Johnson and Ben Harper concert. The concert was in Charleston at a baseball field. It was incredible. The weather was perfect; sunshine, skin temperature, low humidity. The music sublime. I mean Jack Johnson and Ben Harper, how could it not be? They even did a couple songs together. It was one of the best musical experiences ever for me.

My friends and I almost didn’t go. One of the guys wasn’t feeling well. We didn’t even know if there would be tickets still available. We took a chance and it worked out.

As we were leaving and sort of letting the event sink in, we were driving across a bridge and watched as the sunset filled the sky with brilliant light. Every sunset is special but this one, on the heels of such wonderful music seemed extra somehow. I said, without thinking it through very much, “You guys, are we blessed or what?”

Well, my buddy Dean said, “I’m guessing you mean lucky, as in, ‘Are we lucky, or what?’”

“Yeah. Sure. We are lucky. But I mean, to be in this place, that music, this sunset, all of it is just so… God. You know what I mean?”

“Not really,” Dean said. “It’s all chance.”

“What do you mean, chance?”

“I don’t really believe in a god, per se.”

“Per se,” I repeated.

“No, god is an invention of man.”

“Really,” I replied flatly.

“Sure, we are the products of evolution, natural selection, mutations. It’s all chance, man.”

“Chance. You think all of this is chance.” We looked out at the beautiful horizon. Beams of brightly colored light were spokes across the wheel of sky, the setting sun the hub. Where the sky was clear it was deep blue, almost indigo. “Tonight’s music? What we felt about the music? That’s just the result of evolution?”

Dean went back over what he knew about evolution. Mutations. Some mutations are favorable. Those organisms with the favorable mutations have a better chance of reproducing effectively and passing on their traits. Over millions of generations…

It was a pretty long recitation and I knew the information. I totally believe in evolution too. The question isn’t if evolution occurs. We know it does. That’s the fact part. The theory part of evolution is… how.

But that music. That couldn’t be merely passing on favorable mutations. That music was too much. Too beautiful to be just the result of chance.

The conversation was a long one. We were a couple of hours away from home and it lasted the whole way. Dean with his chance and mutation way of looking at how we turned out as humans.  

“What do you think happens to us when we die?” I asked.

His body was just meat, he said. “What happens to meat?”

I said, “Don’t forget the potatoes!” I’m sure it was sarcastic of me to coin his view of the universe and human change as meat and potatoes. But of course, I did.

I had no empirical evidence to the contrary but it just seemed logical to me that there had to be some guidance in the process. Some overarching hand.

My proof? Well, that was unclear. Because I do believe in evolution. But I don’t believe that I am where I am today just because of chance. Proof? I guess it comes down to love.

Could the accidental mutation of chromosomes which resulted in more positive outcomes for some members of the species and a quick end to others be responsible for the love I feel for Heidi Mills? For my boys? For my family and my students? I don’t think so. Could that feeling I get when I am kissed be the result of chance? Of meat and potatoes?

Love is the only proof that I need that this life isn’t just an accident. I see God in lots of things now. More proof that the universe wasn’t just a big mistake. God is in kindness, forgiveness, compassion. Yesterday was the fifteenth anniversary of the genocide in Rwanda. Way over a million people were killed in three months. Over ten thousand a day. Fifteen years later they have picked up the pieces after that terrible time. They are forgiving and being forgiven. That is God. That is my proof.

That ride home with those two friends was one of those pivotal, life changing episodes for me, one of those critical incidents. Honestly, I had been going to church for several years. I mostly did it for our boys so they could grow up in a church. I went to church because Heidi wanted to go. I went to church for the music and the fellowship. I went to church for the occasional sermon that moved me and made me think. I was on cruise control. I hadn’t given the existence of God a whole lot of thought. Like going to college, I was just operating under the assumption of God. Not the white-bearded God who sits on a throne in judgment, surrounded by cumulus clouds with an angry look on HIS face. Not the lightening-bolt-throwing-God. Just… God.

Talking to my atheist friend helped me fit together pieces that had been floating around in my mind for my whole life I guess. That simple experience helped me to clarify and distill a lot of basics. Proof? I had all the proof I needed that God exists. I just hadn’t put the pieces together for a while. I needed that conversation.

I am not a preaching man. I could never be. My friend didn’t change his mind about the existence of a god. Maybe I wasn’t convincing enough. I would never claim to know the specifics; I would never claim to know what God thinks. I don’t know, for example, why bad things happen to good people.

I can tell you what DID happen to me that day. My friend, who is as devout an atheist as anyone I know, helped me to understand that God does exist and that all of this isn’t just a big mistake. Ironic, huh?

I’ll end this post with the lyrics to a favorite song by a favorite singer/songwriter David Wilcox. In this tune, David fits together more “proof” that this life isn’t just a big mistake. “To have lips that smile as I swim your kiss…” "The fact that anyone could find their only one along this darkened path..." No, it is so much more than a Big Mistake. Am I lucky, or am I blessed?



Big Mistake – by David Wilcox

They taught us kids in school between the recess breaks
That the universe just sorta fell together like a Big Mistake
It started with a bang that sent the pieces flying
Then it cooled and twirled into dinosaurs and dandelions

It was a Big Mistake to have eyes that see
To have love like this inside of me
To have lips that smile as I swim your kiss
To have minds that will forever be every part of this
All the moonlight shrouded in the clouds above and
The autumn leaves and the falling love
The still reflection in the moonlit lake
All, they said, it was a big mistake, it was a big mistake

Now back to science class through the looking glass
We were magnifying little ancestors of our ancient past
Watch 'em break a couple chromosomes, wait a zillion years or so
And get an ostrich, a jellyfish, a kangaroo, and a Romeo


It was a Big Mistake to have eyes that see
To have love like this inside of me
To have lips that smile as I swim your kiss
To have minds that will forever be every part of this
All the moonlight shrouded in the clouds above and
The autumn leaves and the falling love
The still reflection in the moonlit lake
All, they said, it was a big mistake, it was a big mistake

The choreography of a coincidence
At the turning point there was eternity behind a moment's glance
It was for you and me the timing made us laugh
The fact that anyone could find their only one along this darkened path


It was a Big Mistake to have eyes that see
To have love like this inside of me
To have lips that smile as I swim your kiss
To have minds that will forever be every part of this
All the moonlight shrouded in the clouds above and
The autumn leaves and the falling love
The still reflection in the moonlit lake
All, they said, it was a big mistake, it was a big mistake

Jumping Eddie

“There’s no way you can do that without getting hurt,” I said.

“No, really, no problem,” Ed responded. We were on my back porch, my patio. Ed was sitting on his cool little bike with the banana seat. I think it was called a mustang. Like the horse. Like the car. Our patio was about three feet high, soft grass all around.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I sang out.

“What are you, scared?” said our buddy Milenki. Mike was always daring us to do nutty stuff. Most of the time we weren’t crazy enough to go through with it.

“Ed. It’s suicide.” I was trying to talk him out of it. “The best thing that would happen would be for you to land in the grass and the bike hit you right in the crotch.”

“Hmmm.” I couldn’t believe Ed was even considering it. Milenki never even took our dares unless they were easy or a sure thing.

“Don’t do it, man,” I said.

“Do it,” said Mike.

“Don’t, Ed.”

“Do it!”

“You’ll get hurt, Ed,” I said.

“I give you a dime,” said Mike. It was all he had. “Don’t be a chicken, Schutz.” Milenki was a relentless teaser. “You said you were gonna do it, now don’t punk out on us.”

I loved Ed’s new bike. It was a shimmering gold and it had, what we all wanted, a banana seat. It wasn’t a full sized bike. Not quite. But it was really cool to an eleven year old in 1968. It was tough, groovy, radical. It was far out, cool beans, righteous, awesome. I wish I had a bike as cool as Ed’s.

My own bike was a leftover from my big sister Ruthie. It was a girl’s bike and it was obvious. That’s the way it was in my family. If something wasn’t broken it was handed down. With seven children it had to be that way. Ed only had one brother and he was way older, seventeen I think. So Ed didn’t have-hand-me-downs.

So here was Ed on this late spring day. It was after school, almost dinner time. There were dinner smells wafting over from my neighbor’s house. Sausage? Syrup? Maybe the Kadars were having breakfast for dinner. Maybe it was the Grynovich family from across the street. We’d all be splitting in a little while. Then homework, then the late evening stuff. No TV for me on a school night. I loved this time with my friends.

The sky was deep blue, just a hint of breeze. The three of us were on the patio. Milenki was teasing Shutz. Taunting him into jumping off the patio. I was trying pretty hard to talk some reason into him, but it was clear that Mike was winning. Mike won most of the time.

“Bock! Bock! Bock!” Milenki did his terrible chicken imitation.

“I’ve made bigger jumps than this before,” Schutz said. And he had too. I had seen him jump really high on a wooden incline we had built in Maysack’s Woods.

“Right, Ed, but you were jumping off a ramp. This is straight down. If you land wrong you could get racked really bad. It might mean the end of the Schutz family name, if you know what I mean.” He knew what I meant.

“Bock! Bock! You little chicken,” Milenki mocked.

“What’ll you give me?” Ed Turned to Mike.

“You’ll prove what a man you are, Schutzie. We won’t think you’re a chicken Schutz any more. We won’t think you’re ‘Yellow Eddie’.”

“Don’t listen to him, Ed. You think he would do it? This could be bad.”

“I know I can do it.” He eyed the distance to the end of the patio, to the ground. He inched forward ands looked over the edge. “No prob. Really. I’ll do it for a quack, Milenki.” It was our lingo for a quarter.

Mike reached into his pockets. He had his house key. He was the only one of my friends who had a key to his house. He was a latch-key kid before I had ever heard the term. He also had a little super ball, the kind you could get from one of those machines for a nickel. He had a paper clip, pocket lint, a nickel and five pennies. That was it. “Like I said, alls I got is a dime, Eddie. Will ya do it for ten cents? I throw in the super ball.”

Ed thought about it. Back in the day you could get two pretty big candy bars for a dime. Or two big bags of Sugar Babies which were Ed’s favorite. “Okay, but you gotta pay me in advance.”

“Uh uh – after the jump,” Mike said. Ed nodded and backed up his bike to the wall. We watched as Ed did a couple of pop ups, yanking the handlebars up and letting the front tire bounce back down.

“Careful, Ed,” I said, as if that would change a thing. He’d probably be okay, but I was worried. I’d never do anything like that, dare or no dare, chicken sounds or no. I was never any good at balancing or jumping. I could barely ride my bike no handed. Most kids in my old neighborhood could pop up, cat walk, do wheelies. Not me. I was worried for Ed.

The time had come. Ed backed up as far as he could go. Melinki and I jumped onto the grass. Ed put his right foot on the pedal. The look on his face was a blend of determination and fear. The breeze blew back his hair as he launched himself forward. He only had about ten feet to accelerate. He pushed those pedals as hard as he could and pulled up those fancy upraised handlebars as he approached the end of the patio.

The front of the bike flew up about a foot. But Ed was not going fast enough. He hadn’t timed the pull just right. The bike came down on its new chain and shiny sprocket. Ed’s eyes were wide with surprise and shock. The high handlebars twisted sideways as the bike came to a sudden stop. He arced upward and forward, seemingly defying gravity.

Not a sound came out of Ed until he hit the grass. He did get his hands out in front of him but it didn’t help since he landed squarely on the top of his head. When he did, Ed squeaked. Not the high soft squeak of a rodent, rather the loud falsetto squeak of a preadolescent boy in pain and surprise. After landing head first in the grass, he tumbled loosely onto his side. Milenki and I knelt down next to him.

“Oh my God! I think I broke my neck!” Ed screamed. “Call my mom! Call My mom!”

“Okay, man. I’ll call her right now.” I raced inside passing Ed’s gleaming bike in the grass. Its shining handlebars had dug a deep divot into the soft grass of the backyard. Otherwise it looked in great shape. I doubted if Ed would be jumping his new bike anytime soon. I wondered whether or not Milenki would give over the dime. I doubted it.

Ed was writhing on the ground when I returned from the phone. Mike offered, “If you can move like that I don’t think you’re neck is broken, Ed.”

I don’t think it was much consolation.

Ed’s mom and dad were there within minutes. My mom came out too. She overheard my phone call to Ed’s folks. Ed’s parents knelt down next to him. He was really wailing then. It’s funny how things seem worse as soon as you see your mom. He had pretty much quieted down until he saw her and then he cried harder than ever.

We were all scared about moving him. What if he had broken something? We were always told never to move someone if you thought there was a broken neck involved. We wouldn’t want to make things worse.

Soon an orange and white ambulance came screaming down the street. The white clad EMT’s raced to our backyard with a stretcher. It was rigid. Maybe they call it a neck board. They fitted a neck brace onto Ed and carefully shifted him over the board where they strapped him down so he his neck and head wouldn’t budge.

Neighbors were standing around their porches whispering about what might be happening at the O’Keefe’s. Soon Ed was put into the back of the waiting ambulance. A bit of color had returned to his cheeks and he had stopped that pitiful wailing. His mom was holding his hand which would have seemed pretty sissified under other circumstances.

Ed’s mom was crying. His dad, who was much older than his mom, was stoic as the ambulance guys popped him into the back and clunked the doors shut. I figured that he probably wasn’t hurt that bad since the ambulance left at normal speed, the lights swirling but no siren. If they thought he had a broken neck, they would have raced out of there with the siren blaring.

The neighbors went back inside and closed their doors. The street became quiet again. Folks went back to their regular diner routines. Milenki and I were standing at the end of our driveway. Now it was the end of our play time. Now we were back to our school night routine. Moms and dads were turning into their driveways from work; laundry hung on clotheslines, Garrison’s Jack Russell terrier yapped, starlings gathered on the power lines and TV antennas.

We kicked a rock back and forth like we sometimes did. I felt a little guilty. I wasn’t the one who dared Ed to jump off the patio, but I couldn’t talk him out of it. As we turned to go in for the evening, home to dinner, homework, baths and bed, I had one question. “You give Schutzie his dime?”

“Sure,” he said. “You think I’m a cheapskate or something?”

Story

I’m going through a period in my life, maybe it’s a stage or a phase, where I am addicted to STORY. We all are to some degree, even if we don’t read much. I have certainly been a story addict all my life to a greater or lesser extent. This blog is evidence of that.

My notebooks are filled with bits and pieces, the flotsam and jetsam of a life. Lyrics, fiction, images, characters, poems, memoir, letters. I’ve got two or three classroom notebooks, my car notebook (I only write at traffic lights or when I step out of the car), my backpack notebook, the one by the bed, the old ones in my bag of music. There are drafts of songs in my guitar case, in file folders and cabinets and drawers. There are classroom anecdotes that I keep on clipboards and in student files.

Then there is what I read. There are chapter books and picture books I read aloud to my students. We ALWAYS have a book going. Sharing books with my students is probably the most meaningful thing I do as a teacher instructionally. I say it every time we begin a new chapter book. One of the very best parts of being a teacher is sharing my favorite books with my best friends. And I mean it. Sincerely. I don’t remember who shared Charlotte’s Web with me the first time or The Wizard of Oz or Number the Stars but whoever they were they were my most effective reading teachers. Those books – and many others, are what made me a reader. It wasn’t the hundreds of pages of phonics lessons endured over the years (thousands?), or the fill-in-the-blank comprehension questions to the stories we read in our readers, or the color-coded tiny SRA “stories” with the accompanying quizzes. It was the giver of those books who taught me how to read. It was E. B. White, L. Frank Baum and Lois Lowrey. If I can do anything for my students, it is to give the gift of story that someone gave to me, that someone gave to them, that someone gave to them as far back as humans existed.

A couple days ago Kendall Haven visited our school. He is a wonderful story-teller and writer. He said that humans come hard wired for story. It makes sense. Humans have been writing for what, a few thousand years? Some cultures didn’t develop written language until very recently. Until written language came along, all of our history and culture and religion and heritage were passed through the spoken word. Story.

I always have a big fat fiction book going. Now it is The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb. He wrote I Know This Much Is True – one of the best books I have ever read. I’m reading a fantastic non-fiction book by Greg Mortenson called Three Cups of Tea about his brave life helping to build schools in Pakistan where there were none. There are the blogs I read, the editorials I never miss (Nicholas Kristoff, Leonard Pitts). The newspaper.

In the car I’m stuck on books on tape or CD. I’m almost finished with To Kill a Mockingbird. Jem’s arm has been broken, Scout nearly killed in her chicken-wire-and-fabric ham costume by the dreaded Bob Ewell. The Sheriff, most often referred to as Mr. Heck Tate, is convincing Atticus that it would be a mistake to make a public spectacle out of how Ewell was killed (by Boo Radley, remember? Boo saved the kids’ from the murderous Ewell.). Wise little Scout explains that it would be wrong to bring attention to the shy, reclusive Boo Radley.

Atticus sat looking at the floor for a long time. Finally he raised his head. “Scout,” he said, “Mr. Ewell fell on his knife. Can you possibly understand?”

Atticus looked like he needed cheering up. I ran to him and hugged him and kissed him with all my might. “Yes sir, I understand,” I reassured him. Mr. Tate was right.”

Atticus disengaged himself and looked at me. “What do you mean?”

“Well it’d be sort of like shootin’ a mockingbird, wouldn’t it?”

Atticus put his face in my hair and rubbed it. When he got up and walked across the porch into the shadows, his youthful step had returned. Before he went inside the house, he stopped in front of Boo Radley. “Thank you for my children, Arthur,” he said.

It’s like all good books to me. There is this battle between wanting to finish – to know how it all ends up – and not wanting to finish because who knows when I’ll see these folks again? Atticus, the best father and friend a kid could have, and Jem and Scout who seem more real to me than some real people. I may never read that book again. I’ve read it several times with years between spacing out the readings. But I may never get back to Macomb County again. So many books – so little time, you know?

The older I get, the harder it is not to cry at good books. I’m not sure why. Maybe it is because I know more about life now, not that I am wise, just older. Maybe it is because the more of my days have passed, the more precious the remaining days become. For whatever reason, it’s difficult not to mist up especially when I read something tender aloud. Our old friend and professor, Jerry Harste, told us years ago – when I never cried at reading - that if you can’t cry, you can’t read. I am now finding the truth in that statement more than ever.

A couple of weeks ago I gave a copy of The Education of Little Tree to Teresa, our student teacher. It was to celebrate her completing her first week of student teaching. She’s really busy now. Completely busy. I didn’t know when she’d ever be able to read it. But it’s an important book, one every teacher should read. So I gave it to her. A time capsule of brilliant writing and insight, a few ounces of paper and ink that hold so much wisdom, life, sorrow, joy. Perhaps she’d read it years from now and think back on our classroom and our beautiful, brilliant kids. Maybe she’d be retired before she ever got around to reading it. You give a book. You never know. Maybe she’d never get around to reading it. So many books – so little time, right? Maybe she’d schlep it around for a few moves and finally sell it in a yard sale without ever having read it.

But she came in one morning this week and said that she’d read the first chapter. I waited. Anxious. Well, she’d loved it. I knew she would. Maybe she’ll think it is as important as I do. Maybe not. But for her there’ll be other important books. Ones she’ll give lovingly to her own child – waiting to be born, her students and her friends. I think so. I don’t know her that well, but I think she’s like that.

The Kigali Genocide Memorial

Earlier this week I was working with my teacher friend Tameka and her lovely class of fourth graders (my former second and third graders). We were practicing responding to writing prompts, the kind that the students had to face later in the week for the standardized tests. Tameka and I were coming up with practice prompts for the children so everyone would get in the habit of organizing their ideas with an outline or prewriting notes.

One of our prompts was, Think of someone who is a hero to you. Why is this person your hero? What did he or she do to make you think that way? (or something like that). We were pushing ourselves to respond quickly, to write fluently and clearly. We only wrote for about five minutes before we stopped writing and shared our ideas.

As with all writing assignments or simply free writing periods, I wrote along with the kids. Tameka wrote too. While I had no idea who I would write about when I sat down, my mind went quickly back to Rwanda, Africa. It was in Rwanda in the summer of 2007 that I encountered the bravest people I ever hope to meet.

I recorded most of this trip in a black and white composition book and nearly filled it. What started as a travel log became a long message to my wife, Heidi. When I got home, my good friend George thought I should post my journal entries on a blog. It took a while, but I did as George suggested on a blog called A White Boy In Rwanda.

When I was sitting in that fourth grade classroom a few days ago, my mind raced back to the weeks I spent in Rwanda with Immaculee Ilibagiza, Roger Remera, Bishop John Rucyahana and my many friends from the US. These brilliant people lost their families and their loved ones in the Rwandan Genocide now 15 years ago. Yet, they thrive. They forgive. They have moved on to do wonderful things. They must the bravest people I have ever known.

In the post that follows, I have drawn an excerpt from that notebook. I wrote it in a few scattered chunks over a couple of days. Late in the night, a night heavy with insomnia, and early the next morning. This followed a visit to the Kigali Genocide Memorial where there are the remains of 250,000 people. It is still almost impossible to imagine. During those 100 days well over 1,000,000 people were killed.

Immaculee and Roger took us to the memorial because they knew that we needed to see it, to experience it. This piece begins after we returned from the memorial and sort of rewinds to the experiences there.




Sunday 6/30/07 11:50 PM

Tim (Immaculee’s friend and agent) talked us into going swimming after dinner. Hilarious. He is such a salesman. The water was cold and we laughed until our faces hurt. Everyone came back, at least part way, from an emotionally wrenching day. I didn’t know what to expect from the Genocide Memorial. Thousands of innocent Rwandans in a mass grave. I took some pictures, just a little video but nothing will be able to describe the power, the sadness. Most of the visitors were Europeans, a few Rwandans, a few Americans besides us. One of the drivers was there in the room with the photographs staring at a picture of his own family.

Outside, large cement slabs – maybe ten yards by twenty yards, covering hundreds (thousands) of bodies each. A large black wall, not marble or obsidian, concrete. Black, stark, simple. Hundreds of names on small plaques were attached to the wall. So many of the ones buried there remain unidentified. A perpetual flame. Simple. There are several mass graves across Rwanda. Official graves. They are still finding bodies. There were some flowers. The black painted wall. A perpetual flame. Many names.

Inside a man told us in a very quiet voice a little about the genocide. He must have said the same things many times. He was reverent. When we entered the memorial we saw an enlarged photo of an unnamed Rwandan child. A boy. Maybe ten years old. It was ripped and scratched. Stained with blood. He was just a child. It was found in the pocket of an unidentified victim. His eyes were looking into the lens of the camera. Into our eyes. Just a child.

The guide left us there. As we walked through the maze of stone walls and rough cement or brick floors there were pictures showing the history of Rwanda from the early days before it was a colony throughout its history. Photos of leaders, ordinary people, military. Pictures showing the persecution of the Tutsis. The text was in Kinyrwanda, French and English. It was detailed, honest, brutal. The farther we went the quieter everyone became. We cried softly as we saw the horror of everyday people, simple good people, killed by their neighbors, coerced by their government, betrayed by their friends, their religious leaders. There were videos of survivors telling stories of what happened to their families. Too horrific to write now. Rape, physical torture, families made to watch their loved ones brutalized, killed. We cried. Occasionally we stopped to reflect, to talk softly, to pray, to cry.

Immaculee

Being there with Immaculee brought it to another level. Getting to know her and seeing her memories flash back was… I’m blocking here… incredible, unbelievably sad. It touched my soul in a way I didn’t know was possible, as nothing else could. Her anger and sadness were palpable. At the end of the self-tour were other rooms. One was very dark. For a while I was in there alone. The only sound was a silken voiced woman reading the names of those killed. There are well over a million names. I could hear my own breathing, feel my heart pounding. My sinuses were clogged from crying. My head was throbbing. I was numb.

One case held long bones from legs. Femurs. Stacks and rows of femurs. There were cases of skulls. Some little, some really tiny. Some with machete marks. Some cracked open as if hit with a heavy club. One case in this darkened room held what must have been found on the bodies of the victims. Photos, pocket knives, a simple wedding band, hair clips, an earring. Just the stuff of a human life. The musical names were being read one after another. It would take thousands of hours just to read them all. Darkness. Bones. Pocket stuff. Names. Tears.

Photographs

The next area was a small amphitheater. Survivors told their stories on large TV screens. Tiny alcoves with soft benches lay around the outside of the room. Cables with rings and clips held thousands of photographs. Tens of thousands? Some were blurry, taken with inexpensive cameras. Wedding pictures. Blank stares. Joyous expressions. Some were looking past the camera at the photographer with so much love in their eyes. Old men in their very best clothes. Young ones playing with simple toys. Messy hair. Patched pants. Blank stares. Some of the photographs were copies. Some were the actual photographs with the owners’ handwriting on the back. Someone’s birthday. Someone’s new coat. Someone at age four.

I wanted to see every face. My eyes were so blurred with a veil of tears that I could barely see at all. I sat alone in one of the corners. Alone with images of people just like Imaculee and just like Asha and just like Ali and Saniyo and Isha (our Somali Bantu friends - refugees from a Kenyan camp) and just like the Jews and the Gypsies and the Native Americans and like the women in Afghanistan under the Taliban and like the victims of genocide in Darfur, and those in refugee camps all over… And I was overwhelmed, Heidi. For a while I couldn’t breath. That was the room that affected me the most. Until I went upstairs. I thought I was overloaded then I walked up the stairs to a simple area devoted to the children.

The Children

There were large portraits of beautiful children (I know I’ve overused the word beautiful) from about two to ten years old. Simple statements in three languages were under their sweet faces… Favorite Animal: My cat, Favorite Food: Rice, Favorite Toy: The doll my sister and I share, Last Words: Why would you do that? You are my friend… All of these stories so terribly cut short. For the perpetrators these images must be ghosts.

Guilt

In a crazy way I feel guilty. I am blessed to live in a free country. A powerful country. A country which chooses war over engagement. My guilt is about why I/we didn’t care that much. It was played down in the news but we did hear it. The news that was reported to us was at best incorrect and insufficient and at worst an outright lie and a cover up. Was it the O. J. Simpson trial or some other mind numbing distracter that kept us from feeling the intensity of what was happening? Something, that while it was happening (and certainly before) could have been stopped. Guilt implies fault. Was it at least partially our fault? Could I/we have done anything at all to save a child with bright inquisitive eyes or an old woman who lived alone or Immaculee’s family or the Bishop’s niece?

Monday 7/1/07 7:30 AM

I’ll pick up from where I left off last night. The rooms with the large children’s pictures were so sad – only a word like sad can’t really describe it. No words really can. It was something like reading Left to Tell but so much more. Immaculee said some simple words along the way, words I wish I had written down. Among these words was the idea that unless we take what we know now and do what we can to change the world then our trip here will have been for nothing.

Kigali

The Kigali memorial is on the side of a hill. Looking down and across the valley you see very poor homes. Row on row, corrugated roofs packed tightly together. When we think of the poor in America it really isn’t like this. As we drove down the winding hill and through the streets people were everywhere. Women in brightly colored wraps carrying firewood on their heads, children in ragged clothes playing soccer with something – not a soccer ball. One old man with no eyes being lovingly led by a very little one, maybe five or six. Well dressed people too. Business suits, colorful shirts and blouses, high heels. Such a wide assortment. Just like everywhere I suppose. Most seem happy. That big old smile was everywhere. So many smiles here. Among the many unforgettable images that smile is the best.

Where I'm From II

A couple weeks ago I posted some poems.  First, George Ella Lyon's "Where I'm From".  I met her recently and was inspired by her piece to write my own.  I immediately shared George Ella's poem with my class.  They each wrote their own.  Soon, they will be up on our class' web page.  

Our student teacher Teresa, had the brilliant idea of passing around a digital recorder and recording us reading parts of our poems.  The little recorder went round and round and what came out of this sharing was amazing.  Some of it was funny, some touching, some revealing.  Somehow, that recording didn't work out but we'll do it again.  I can only imagine it will be better next time.  

So this post, this poem, is by guest bloggers, my second grade class.  What follows are little bits of everyone's poems sort of sewn together in a waterfall of words.  

Where I'm From

I am from pass down books from my family members

who all share a great bond of love with me.

I am from Charlotte and Columbia.  I am from after school snacks.

I am from finding small treasures like acorns and rocks.

When I was in my mamma's tummy she would sing to me.

I'm from spaghetti and baked potatoes 

and chocolate cake with milk.

I'm from my crib all soft and fluffy and

I'm from the wild wind blowing.

I'm from a family of rainbow flying high in the air.

I'm from sparkling stars swimming in the darkness.

I live in the country.  I really like my house.  It is big.

I'm from the care and love of sweet friendship.

I'm from playing outside in the soft brown dirt, 

from loving animals big and small.

I'm from jumping on my trampoline.

I'm from the people who live in peace.

I'm a freedom fighter, a peacekeeper, a gentleman.

I'm from a sweet mother.  I'm from a sweet and funny dad.

I'm from happiness late at night.

I'm from basketball and soccer and cheerleading.

I'm from my everlasting Father.  The beat of my heart.

I'm from my soft crib , I'm from my mom's hands.

I'm from writing and reading books.  

I'm from being a big brother at the age of 3 1/4.

I am from science, I am from wonder, I am from love.

I am from Myrtle Beach and Charleston.  I am from my cousins.

I am from reading about sharks and frogs and snakes.

I was born crying and scared.

I'm from games with my dad and cub scouts with my mom 

and wrestling with my brother.

I'm from speed zooming all around me.

I'm from the wildness jumping all inside me.

Running, playing, fun for all, for me, for you.

I'm from my imagination.  I'm from nature and animals.

My friends are nice.  I am lucky to have them.

I'm from the sweet soft baby skin and the family that looks after me.

From making new friends and helping others.

I'm from under the ground, I'm from Heaven, I'm from a dream.

I'm from beads in my hair.  

I am from the sweet flowers that grow in my yard.

I am one who frees the slaves, stops segregation and 

ends the war once and for all.

I am from the war for peace.

I'm from deep in the woods.  I'm from stick fights.

I'm from being a sister.  I'm from being friends.

The love of my family, the sports I play and the 

teachers that teach me.

I'm from the stroller to my first step.

I'm from writer's craft.

I'm from a voice calling out from the wilderness.

I am from the land of magic.

I am from, "Of course it is happening inside my head but 

why should that mean it isn't real?"

I am from riding my bike and exploring outside.

People said that I was sweet and precious but when I would cry

they said I roared like a lion.

I'm from a hospital to a house to a school

to a galaxy of aliens and monsters.

I'm from ideas dashing to my brain.

I'm from dirt in my hair.  I'm from Smarty Pants Land.

I'm from smiling every day.  I'm from singing like crazy.

I'm from having freedom to do whatever I want to do.

I'm from a heart of joy and love.

I'm from chasing my beloved dog.  

I'm from fights with cats to kissing them.

I'm from friends, without them I would die.

I'm from the sweet sour taste of oranges.

I'm from the glow of good, the glow of peace,

the glow of light, the glow of wonder, the glow of life.

I'm from finding shells on the beach with my family.

I'm from the smokey Tennessee mountains.

I'm from the dreams I see in my sleep.

I'm from learning new things every day.

I'm from ink on paper to the middle of the woods.

 I'm from hugs and smiles and singing.

But most importantly, I'm from God!

I am from being me! 

Thanks again, George Ella!

At the Restaurant

I’m sitting in this restaurant taking a break before our Friday movie night at school. Tonight it’s “The Incredible Mr. Limpett”. Don Knotts turns into a fish, works for the Allies during WWII and wins the war. The tarps are down on the floor at school, the DVD projector and speakers are set up.  I've got a few minutes to catch my breath before heading back.  Long week.

I’m by myself in a crowded place. It’s a perfect time for people watching. There are so many interesting faces, clothes, hair, accents.

It’s a Friday night so the place is hopping. This is a really large strip mall and there are many people walking around. Lots of folks just hanging out. I’m seated right by the window.  I've got my notebook open.

It’s warm for the first time in months so people are showing more skin than in a while. Earlier this week it was so cold that we had to take in plants from outside so they wouldn’t freeze. But now it’s balmy. There is a late afternoon breeze that is one of the first true harbingers of spring. It’s an hour before sunset so there’s this reddish orange glow that just makes people look… beautiful. Most folks just seem happier. It’ll get cold again, we know it, but for now it is the perfect time to get outside, to celebrate the weather, to go to the mall.

Girls wearing low risers (Is that the term? We used to call them hip huggers). Young guys with sagging pants, their hands reaching back to hoist them up like windshield wipers on intermittent. Young families with kids in tow or kids in strollers. Military men and women wearing the new sort of small-checked design camouflage fatigues. I guess they just haven’t had the chance to change from what they wear to work. They’re not camouflaged very well here.

Two lovely young African American teens with the most beautiful braids and twists. Those two care about hair. They are both smiling broadly. Beaming. A mom and daughter wearing matching cutoffs – probably for the first time in months. Their legs are pale. The young girl, maybe 12, has almost white blond hair. Long and straight. Bright blue eyes. Mom’s eyes are the exact same color. Her hair used to be authentic blond. You can tell. They make each other laugh. Then they tilt their heads together and the mom suddenly looks about twenty years younger.

The next pair that walks by has been fighting I think. Her head is down, her blackish-red hair covers her face. Low risers. Shoulders slumped in a shuffling sad walk. Sandals.  Her arms are crossed over her chest. She has a name tattooed on her sleeveless triceps. Adam. She looks like she might be crying. Adam (I presume) looks nonchalant, like he couldn’t care less, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. The young woman says something I can’t hear. He answers. I can’t hear him either, they’re on the other side of the glass. But I can read his lips easily. It isn’t pretty, what he says. They walk on by.

My attention is drawn to an older couple who walk in slowly and carefully. I’m not eavesdropping but I can hear. They are close to me. They approach the booth next door. “You always like a booth,” says he. They are holding hands.

“And you always let me have the booth,” she says. And I'm thinking, how many times have they said that? “Thank you, dear,” and it sounds like she says ‘dee–uh’ her voice is so soft, so southern.

They are old. Eightyish, maybe older. The woman has on rouge and lipstick and eye shadow. She is well put together. But she moves into the booth slowly. She has a limp too. Maybe a bum hip. Her man helps her as much as he can. And he is gentle. So gentle. He scoots into the booth across from her. Their eyes shine for each other. They put the little pager on the table between them, the one that buzzes and lights up when their food is ready.

Then it strikes me that this beautiful woman looks a lot like my Heidi – at least how Heidi might possibly look in 30 years. This gal has had her hair dyed, Heidi probably won’t do that, but her eyes are clear and she has that kind of natural beauty that one doesn’t outgrow. She has a beautiful presence as well. She doesn’t just look at her man when they talk, she looks into him. I know that look. I am in love with it. I have been for 33 years.

Their table buzzer goes off and sort of startles them both. He slides over to the edge of the booth and stands up slowly, a little creakily. He makes two trips and when he returns with both of their food trays, he slides back in. They get everything adjusted in front of them, drinks, silverware, sandwiches, napkins. Automatically, as if they have done this countless times, they reach their hands across the table and lace fingers. They bow their heads and close their eyes. They sigh identical long sighs. And I’m thinking, how many times have they sighed that sigh?

Man says, “Lord we thank thee for this day you have made. Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies and our souls. Lord, let us pause before we eat and think of ones in need of food and shelter and of love.” Pause. “And Lord thank you so much for the love of this beautiful woman.”

Eyes closed, they smile. Not so much at each other now. They’re smiling at God. And I’m thinking, how many times have they thanked God for each other?

Then they unlace their hands and look at each other with love. Quietly, slowly they begin to eat.

And I’m thinking how I forgot to bless my food – Hey, I am in a restaurant - Hey, this is a public place. But then I close my eyes and I sigh and I take a moment to give thanks once again for my Heidi. And I am grateful for that little moment. After a hectic day, a long week, it wasn’t just chance that led me to sit at that table, in that restaurant, with my notebook and eyes open. I am grateful.

I get up and bus my table and look back at the couple before leaving. They have eyes only for each other. It is so sweet, so God.

Then I head back to school and Don Knotts and "Mr. Limpett".