A Fight Worth Fighting

This week at school, we had an incident...a cutoff jeans wearin', Confederate flag wavin', line-crossin' incident.

For context, a few years back, some young men at BHS, dissatisfied with the prescribed spirit day themes and gluttonous for attention (positive OR negative), decided to buck the system and stage their own spirit day, an anti-spirit day of sorts. Dubbed "White Trash Wednesday," the day was marked by a small contingent of young guys attempting to look as stereotypically backwoods as they could. Flannel shirts without sleeves, cutoff jeans, muck boots, a healthy dose of orange hunting gear; all standard apparel for the day.

In its inception, this move was laughed off as a simple boneheaded joke; boys will be boys, right? Unfortunately, our parents, staff, and students couldn't see exactly where this was headed.

In the years to come, the shorts got shorter, midriffs began to be common, the redneck sterotyping became more crude, and--this I consider the saddest part--the stars and bars of the Confederate flag became a unifying symbol for participants. In addition, the revelry spread beyond a few young men with country in their blood and expanded to include females ready and willing to join in the counter-festivities, too often sporting outfits that looked like they'd come from the female wardrobe of the Dukes of Hazard set.

With our hesitance to truly confront the issue for so long being a primary culprit, what started as a silly, one-off gag grew into a perennial problem at the high school. However, this year, the line had to be drawn; this yearly non-school-sanctioned distraction needed to end.

I'll spare you the long form of the story, but I can assure you our administration handled the issue courteously and firmly. Students were simply told (a week in advance), those dressed in a manner that fit the WTW mold would be asked to return home, change, and head back. No harm, no foul; do what you want before school, just make sure you're out of costume and ready to go when school fires up at 8:10.

Most students obliged, others balked; some students walked away, some flipped administrators the bird as they did so. I've been in public education for 9 years now, so I'm no stranger to such disrespectful actions. However, for one student, it didn't stop there.

One young student, a kid I've had in class and grown to appreciate, made the decision to turn the moment into a statement. Coming back into school in full WTW regalia, and with Confederate flag flying, he essentially attempted to play the part of the martyr by riling other students up against the administration he felt was denying him the "right" to do whatever he wanted while at school.

And that's the hill he chose to stand--and earn a lengthy suspension--upon.

So here is what struck me in the wake of the incident. Somewhere in this young man's poor choice, there is actually a desirable behavior. We should not want our kids to be so passive that they stand for nothing; we should want them to dig their heels in against greed, prejudice, injustice, and the like...this particular young man's furor and indignance, if funneled in the right direction, could strike a meaningful blow against bullying, poverty, violence, or a number of other social ills.

He simply doesn't know what battle is worth fighting.

And when I thought about this for a while, I kept coming back to the same questions. Why can't he see how trite and silly his kicking and screaming is? Why can't he just trust that we have his best interests at heart and know when to push and when to be at peace? Why would he, and I'm not exaggerating, put his very future at risk just for the right to thumb his nose at a high school administration?

When I ask these questions, God tends to answer in ways that I don't always like, though in ways I very much need to hear.

Maybe I wouldn't see this so clearly if I were not a father, but it is not lost on me that children learn by watching those ahead of them. They are emulators who often take their cues from those ahead of them. Thus, the battles they fight are most likely not that dissimilar from those they've seen fought by adults.

And what types of grandiose stands do adults take? We fight to make sure our kid gets the lion's share of playing time in youth sports. We fight to dupe people into thinking we don't buy Apple products largely because they're in vogue. We fight to make sure our church appears "cool." We fight to convince people Tim Tebow is a legitimate quarterback. We wage wars over things that DO NOT MATTER, and by doing so, we train those behind us to do the same, leaving them to repeat a cycle of futility.

I work among kids and hear what bothers them. There are certainly those kids who want to stand up for something real, something vital; those who honestly want their efforts and labors to make the world a better place. Those, however, are often rare among their peers. It is far more common to find a high schooler railing against a school disciplinary procedure than to find one railing against bullying. It is easier to find a student crying to the heavens about the tardy policy than to find one crying over the fact that some kids in the lunch hall won't get a meal outside of BHS all week.

But who has taught them any better? Have I taught them and helped them believe that there are real battles that need to be fought? Have I modeled for them what it looks like to be righteously indignant when a fellow human's basic dignities are stripped away? Have I shown them what it looks like to draw a line in the sand when a person denigrates another human with a racist/sexist joke?

I know there have been times that I have, but to my own shame, I cannot tell you with any level of certainty that those instances outnumber the times I have not.

Yet this is our duty to our young people, to both tell and to show them which battles must be fought and which are of no consequence. The world will not teach them to fight poverty; it will teach them to fight for material possessions. The world won't teach them to stand against oppression; it will teach them to stand against replacement NFL referees. The world won't teach them to be their brother's keeper; it will teach them a million ways to rob people of their dignity.

For this reason, it is my prayer that God would grant us the urgency, willingness, and boldness necessary to teach young people by entering, ourselves, into battles of eternal significance, such as prescribed in Psalms 82:3-4 or Proverbs 29:7, so that we all--old and young alike--would not waste our lives on futile fights of no lasting consequence.

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An Interview With My Daughter

It's Sunday, so in honor of Meet The Press, I decided to stage my own hard-hitting, no-holds-barred interview with a noted public figure. Luckily, I had just such a person directly across the table from me at breakfast. It took a bit of time to pry her away from her important task of making indentations in the table with a ballpoint pen, but I eventually got my interview. The transcript of this potentially award-winning journalistic masterpiece follows below:

What are you singing?

"I dunno."

What is your favorite song?

"I dunno. I wike the Rapunzel song."

Where are we going today?

"Church. Rams and Jett going to DJ's housh."

Who do we learn about at church?

"Jesus. Do we say stupid?

No, we don't say that, it's not really nice. Would Jesus want us to say "stupid" to others?

"No 'cause he don't want to. (begins singing ABC's and a song about squirrels)

What do you want to do after church?

"I dunno. I want to get a snack because I'm so hungry."

Hey, Parker?

"I wuv joo."

...Interview over. Is it acceptable to hug the interviewee?

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Gray Morning Musings

Morning cold painted on an easel of clouds,

soundtracked by applauding raindrops.

A warm sweatshirt,

A cup of cheap coffee,

Elliot Smith on repeat;

Today I reject fluorescent lighting

and a million other falsehoods.

I've heard others accuse gray of being uncertain,

a lack of commitment to day or night...

and I disagree.

Some days the sun sells lies

as cheaply as does darkness.

On a frigid, colorless, rain-soaked day,

the mind is laundered, washed, cleaned;

synapses slowed, it once again takes notice

of simple blessings...

A warm sweatshirt,

A cup of cheap coffee,

Elliot Smith on repeat.

My Li'l Lady

Here's a piece I did for my daughter during the Ozarks Writing Project Summer Institute in June. It's one of my favorite pieces I did, but I hadn't shared it here because you really have to see her dancing to believe it. As luck would have it, my wife caught a pretty good sampling of her dance moves yesterday in the kitchen, and these moves were too good not to be shared.



Tiny Dancer

Little gal, you had me at hello. You came into this world and put the stranglehold on your father's heart before you or he even knew what had happened. Perhaps it is more fitting to say that you became part of my heart, inseparable and imperative. I know this because when I heard you whimper or cry in the night those first few months, I was up and ready to do whatever it took to reassure you that you were cared for and loved.

Time has flown since your infant days, and it grows more evident each passing day that you are mine and I am undoubtedly yours. No longer a baby, you're now a three-year-old, long-haired fairy with feisty opinions on fashion and an insatiable appetite for all things princess-related. Still, despite the overabundance of pink clothes and Tinkerbell paraphernalia, you gladly oblige your dada by returning my "M-I-Z" with the proper "Z-O-U," giving life to my slim hopes that, like your precious jewel of a mother, you'll care about football.

But that's about me, isn't it? Can I tell you, little lady, the things you do that I love most?

I love when you cock your head, bat your eyes, and melt my heart with your full-toothed grins. I love when you bull your way up onto my lap, forcing your brothers aside and claiming me as your own. I love when you instruct me on how a lady sits and ask me to follow your lead. I love when you ask for a stuffed animal before bed...and then another...and then another...and then ten more so that you're eventually sleeping with a plush zoo.

But here's what I love most. Sometimes you dance. And, trust me, your dancing is like nothing I've ever seen. Your movements are an eclectic mix: one cup Charleston, a dash of Mambo, a pinch of Ballet, a dollop or so of what the kids call the Stanky Leg for pizzazz, and a hearty measure of epileptic seizure...the perfect recipe. You gyrate, flail, spin until dizziness nearly brings you to the floor, and occasionally call to mind the Seinfeld episode where Elaine dances at the wedding (you don't get that allusion now, but we'll watch reruns).

The best part, though, comes in the middle. You typically close your eyes while dancing, but inevitably, you will pause, turn towards me, and, as if only to warm my heart, gaze back at me with an approval-seeking grin. And I want so badly for you to know that I do approve. I passionately and wholeheartedly approve of you in every way imaginable.

The truth is, sweetheart, that your dad has a Father, too, and I only wish I could dance recklessly about with my eyes closed, only opening them to check for Fatherly approval. Sadly, I spend too much time scared of what I might not see if I closed my eyes. Eyes wide open, I fearfully scan the room to gauge the disapproval my measured steps are receiving from the wallflowers who don't even have the guts to look a young girl in the eyes at the punch bowl and too cool to step on the dance floor. I'm nothing like you; you who is without pretense and has no knowledge of posturing.

I have a lot to learn from you, princess.

You're too young to make a promise, but I want you to make it anyway. Promise me you'll keep dancing. When you find out the world can be a scary place, dance. When you find out that friends are only human, dance. When people try to tell you your self-worth is determined by their asinine judgements, dance. When some young boy breaks your heart (likely causing me to do something that will offer me opportunity to start a prison ministry from the inside), just keep dancing. And if, for a moment, you open those big, beautiful brown eyes, promise that you'll glance at me for approval because God knows I approve of you; completely and without reservation.

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