We have entered the world of organized sports. Groups of kids signing up for games that are coached and refereed. My son is on a U-6 soccer team (six and under), they play three on three games and sub every five minutes. There is no goalie, no score keeper, and the games are loosely refereed. They practice once a week.
For a six year old, the game is an extension of school yard play. A collection of boys playing together at a common goal. Generating a little competition as boys are want to do but friends irregardless and smiles all round. I played soccer for a great deal of my school years and I loved it a great deal. The game has always been a source of enjoyment and fulfillment for me and win or lose playing soccer always makes me smile. In truth I was blessed with some pretty good coaches, not perfect, but they generally cultivated a love for the sport within teaching technique, tactics, positioning, etc. After watching three practices and one game as a father I can see within my son's small team some fathers doing their best to create a future of non-athletes.
There will be a lot of time, too much time, for serious competition. A time for scores to matter a bit more than they do now and the game is taken to a higher level. It won't be too long before my son comes home from practice pissed off at his coach or the other players or slams the door to his room after a tough loss in front of the home crowd. It won't belong before we are expected to take the game a little more serious. But for now, for a team of kindergartners, soccer is just a game. It is fun to be on the field, kicking the ball around, learning to dribble and pass and score goals. It is too fun to ruin with criticism and coaching from the sidelines by the parents.
I am doing my best to let my son figure out the game on his own. I show him things, we play soccer in the back yard (and the living room), and kick the ball around as the situation offers. At this age, he is quick to pick up tricks and flicks and the general ideas behind carrying the ball at your feet and for now I am content to let him figure it out on his own through play. Just playing. The kids on the field don't need any advice from their parents, just encouragement. It is easy to get exasperated, especially for parents who have a history with the sport but, parents, IT ISN'T ABOUT YOU RIGHT NOW! It is about your kids having fun and developing a lifestyle of exercise. Whether or not my son is the next Zinadine Zindane or Theirry Henry is not important to me, what is important is that he engages with the sport for as long as it makes him smile, in my case, despite the frustrations that arose, that has been always.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Heart of Recession
One of the hardest aspects of unemployment is dealing the lingering expectancy of prompt response to job inquiries and applications. I always come back to my email with the expectancy of response, that out of the 10 jobs I contacted last week or the six the week before or the forgotten number the week before that will reply to my resume/cover letter packet and offer the chance of an interview. But instead I'm left with an inbox full of junk mail and the latest sale at http://www.pricepoint.com/ and the nagging suggestion in the back of my mind that I'm being rejected...again.
Rejection is the feeling of being ignored, looked over, or failing to meet the qualifications. Rejection is looking for a job in a recovering economy where people are still making money, buying cars, building houses, creating industry, and going to war, but not hiring. It filters down like sifted flour and covers over life, everything I do has the flavor and texture of rejection because I am painfully conscious that everything I do now is because I can not find a job. Trying to fill the long days, while easy enough, is still dusted with the knowledge that tomorrow there is no work, nor the next day, nor the next and rent is paid and bills are paid by the grace of welfare (lets call it what it is) and rejection becomes a source of shame and frustration that infects the very core of being human.
Until you have lived this experience there are very few comparisons to be drawn, and, honestly, none that I can think of.
It is a pattern of ups and downs as I earnestly try to reinvent myself and my identity and cope with the struggles of poverty. Of all the consequences of poverty, in my opinion, the worst is the social feeling of shame. Standing in parks while the kids play, making small talk with other parents or friends at parties, the gross majority living a middle class life born out of hard work, discipline, and perseverance, will cast thoughtless judgement on the plight of the poor. Implying that the fault of the poor is on the shoulders of the poor and their eyes glaze over with a removed pity condemning them to the life they've "chosen".
The poor are not poor because that is the choice they've made. The poor are poor because they are poor.
Very few would choose this life.
But the social response to impoverished neighbors is to pile shame on their situation, albeit indirectly. Schools in low income neighborhoods are castigated as inferior and the result becomes an inferior school. The welfare they depend on is seen as something paid for by someone else (perhaps rightly so) in this regard it is always viewed as a hand out by those who don't need it and there for looked down on because someone else is "paying" the way. Society is framed with rags to riches stories of kings and queens of industry, art, and thought, clawing their way out of the holes into which they were born or cast by their boot straps and we are indoctrinated by the notion that hard work and sweat will see us into the American Dream, fenced in by white pickets, off street parking, two cars, an iPhone, and a blazing fast Internet connection. The fence is to keep people out and may as well be an erection of razor wire charged with electric currents and guarded like a prison because breaking into the American dream is like breaking out of a maximum security prison full of life sentences -- it can be done but no matter the work, sweat, and toil, unless their already there, most will never make it out.
This is my view from the depths of a recession, as my oldest son prepares for first grade in public schools, as unemployment insurance is paid each week and food stamps are filled each month. Rejected by the only profession I have (carpentry) and castigated--unintentionally--by the only society I know
Rejection is the feeling of being ignored, looked over, or failing to meet the qualifications. Rejection is looking for a job in a recovering economy where people are still making money, buying cars, building houses, creating industry, and going to war, but not hiring. It filters down like sifted flour and covers over life, everything I do has the flavor and texture of rejection because I am painfully conscious that everything I do now is because I can not find a job. Trying to fill the long days, while easy enough, is still dusted with the knowledge that tomorrow there is no work, nor the next day, nor the next and rent is paid and bills are paid by the grace of welfare (lets call it what it is) and rejection becomes a source of shame and frustration that infects the very core of being human.
Until you have lived this experience there are very few comparisons to be drawn, and, honestly, none that I can think of.
It is a pattern of ups and downs as I earnestly try to reinvent myself and my identity and cope with the struggles of poverty. Of all the consequences of poverty, in my opinion, the worst is the social feeling of shame. Standing in parks while the kids play, making small talk with other parents or friends at parties, the gross majority living a middle class life born out of hard work, discipline, and perseverance, will cast thoughtless judgement on the plight of the poor. Implying that the fault of the poor is on the shoulders of the poor and their eyes glaze over with a removed pity condemning them to the life they've "chosen".
The poor are not poor because that is the choice they've made. The poor are poor because they are poor.
Very few would choose this life.
But the social response to impoverished neighbors is to pile shame on their situation, albeit indirectly. Schools in low income neighborhoods are castigated as inferior and the result becomes an inferior school. The welfare they depend on is seen as something paid for by someone else (perhaps rightly so) in this regard it is always viewed as a hand out by those who don't need it and there for looked down on because someone else is "paying" the way. Society is framed with rags to riches stories of kings and queens of industry, art, and thought, clawing their way out of the holes into which they were born or cast by their boot straps and we are indoctrinated by the notion that hard work and sweat will see us into the American Dream, fenced in by white pickets, off street parking, two cars, an iPhone, and a blazing fast Internet connection. The fence is to keep people out and may as well be an erection of razor wire charged with electric currents and guarded like a prison because breaking into the American dream is like breaking out of a maximum security prison full of life sentences -- it can be done but no matter the work, sweat, and toil, unless their already there, most will never make it out.
This is my view from the depths of a recession, as my oldest son prepares for first grade in public schools, as unemployment insurance is paid each week and food stamps are filled each month. Rejected by the only profession I have (carpentry) and castigated--unintentionally--by the only society I know
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Welcom to My Future
I've been waiting for an event, novel, movie, experience, thought, or the perfect arrangement of the stars to write here again. None of that happened, although I have been reading some great novels, most recently I finished The Amazing Adventures of Kavelier and Clay by Micheal Chabon and enjoyed it a great deal. Currently I'm reading David Mitchell's first novel, Ghostwritten, and it is an engaging, compelling, read. On deck is Tinkers by Paul Harding and then I'm not sure what is after that, any suggestions? But my reading list is not the reason I've sat down here this morning.
Last year I turned 30, leaving the 20's behind me was at once the painful departure of the perception of youth and the relief to finally be 30. A relief I'm not sure if I can explain entirely except to say that turning 30 seems to have fit and make since to me. I was ready for that transition. I don't want to make to big a deal of it, because its not, really, but next week I will turn 31 and make the final step into my 30's, into permanent adulthood. Another year doesn't bother me, it won't change who I am in any measure. As long as I'm riding my mt. bike, staying fit age is not a worry. As it was in the run up to turning 30, I am once again struggling to find work, provide for my family, and define my identity.
To be constantly looking for work, in an economy that is as close to a black whole as I will ever, most likely, come, is an exercise in continuing futility and shame. It comes at a time when, I feel, I should have my proverbial shit together and be locked in the budding beginnings of a career. Yet I have been cut loose from the only profession I know (carpentry) and left high and dry by a company I expected a great deal more from -- more on so many levels. This is how I usher in my 30's, struggling to find my place in a world that seems to be crumbling around me. But for the grace of God and the love of my family I am propped up, given strength, and find something in the tank to go into the day with my head up looking for work.
So, next week I will turn 31, face another spring of unemployment, and work hard at writing, as I've been doing this winter. When I rise from the ashes and wreckage of being unemployed I will be a different than I was -- older and debatable wiser. So, welcome 31, welcome to the chaos and calamity and struggle, welcome to my life, my family, and my future.
Last year I turned 30, leaving the 20's behind me was at once the painful departure of the perception of youth and the relief to finally be 30. A relief I'm not sure if I can explain entirely except to say that turning 30 seems to have fit and make since to me. I was ready for that transition. I don't want to make to big a deal of it, because its not, really, but next week I will turn 31 and make the final step into my 30's, into permanent adulthood. Another year doesn't bother me, it won't change who I am in any measure. As long as I'm riding my mt. bike, staying fit age is not a worry. As it was in the run up to turning 30, I am once again struggling to find work, provide for my family, and define my identity.
To be constantly looking for work, in an economy that is as close to a black whole as I will ever, most likely, come, is an exercise in continuing futility and shame. It comes at a time when, I feel, I should have my proverbial shit together and be locked in the budding beginnings of a career. Yet I have been cut loose from the only profession I know (carpentry) and left high and dry by a company I expected a great deal more from -- more on so many levels. This is how I usher in my 30's, struggling to find my place in a world that seems to be crumbling around me. But for the grace of God and the love of my family I am propped up, given strength, and find something in the tank to go into the day with my head up looking for work.
So, next week I will turn 31, face another spring of unemployment, and work hard at writing, as I've been doing this winter. When I rise from the ashes and wreckage of being unemployed I will be a different than I was -- older and debatable wiser. So, welcome 31, welcome to the chaos and calamity and struggle, welcome to my life, my family, and my future.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Faith in God, Defeating Fear.
It is frustrating to live in a world of fear. As a rule I do not worry about the horrible things that can happen to people as they move through out their days and weeks and months and years but occasionally there is a catalyst to fear that works its way into the very fiber of my being. This fear is usually associated with the safety and security of my family.
In the face of being unemployed there is stress enough. The constant nagging that fires in my brain about living -- covering rent, putting food on the table, paying the bills, cloths on our backs -- is ever present. The fear aspect, the questions of what if it doesn't work out? can generally be laid to rest, or at least used as a spring board to success. This is fear I can control and do something about--exercise determination, discipline, and a solid work ethic at finding work to bring in cash and thus providing and exorcising the fear of failure and poverty. It is enough to combat these fears without letting the fears I can not control take hold on my life.
But recently a level 3 sex offender moved into our neighborhood--neighborhood nothing, onto our block sharing an alley. This has given rise to a whole new level of fear and anxiety. The safety of my wife and children suddenly becomes a direct focus of my life. My families safety is always one of my chief concerns but with a predator directly behind our house it suddenly becomes less of a warm concern and more of a burning fire of anger and a protective, defensive spirit. Recurring dreams of tearing him limb from limb haunt my dreams and the cold rush of anger fueled adrenaline pumps through my body at the very thought of seeing him much less catching him trying to interact with my children.
This is a stark reminder of the presence of evil -- for I can call him nothing less than embodying a spirit of evil to destroy of the innocence of children -- in our world. Evil we interact with and live beside and brush shoulders with on a daily basis and often ignorant of its physical manifestation. And suddenly my world is shrouded by fear and it is a fear for which I can do nothing but be diligent, protective, and wary. All I can do, suddenly, is trust that God will be the ultimate protector and provider. It is a lesson I am slow to learn and prone to forget but in the immediate context of my life it is all I have, all we have: faith in God.
I am not a man prone to talk of religion, despite my Christain faith, nor am I inclined to spiritual discipline, study, or bouts of quiet time and prayer. By and large I am content to offer to God what is God's and live my life as best I can, quietly and introverted by my nature. But today I am filled with the overwhelming sense of divine presence around the spirits of my family, as though a protective aura has settled up us. My prayers last night were that God would make our house a fortress of protection and today those prayers are realized.
In the face of being unemployed there is stress enough. The constant nagging that fires in my brain about living -- covering rent, putting food on the table, paying the bills, cloths on our backs -- is ever present. The fear aspect, the questions of what if it doesn't work out? can generally be laid to rest, or at least used as a spring board to success. This is fear I can control and do something about--exercise determination, discipline, and a solid work ethic at finding work to bring in cash and thus providing and exorcising the fear of failure and poverty. It is enough to combat these fears without letting the fears I can not control take hold on my life.
But recently a level 3 sex offender moved into our neighborhood--neighborhood nothing, onto our block sharing an alley. This has given rise to a whole new level of fear and anxiety. The safety of my wife and children suddenly becomes a direct focus of my life. My families safety is always one of my chief concerns but with a predator directly behind our house it suddenly becomes less of a warm concern and more of a burning fire of anger and a protective, defensive spirit. Recurring dreams of tearing him limb from limb haunt my dreams and the cold rush of anger fueled adrenaline pumps through my body at the very thought of seeing him much less catching him trying to interact with my children.
This is a stark reminder of the presence of evil -- for I can call him nothing less than embodying a spirit of evil to destroy of the innocence of children -- in our world. Evil we interact with and live beside and brush shoulders with on a daily basis and often ignorant of its physical manifestation. And suddenly my world is shrouded by fear and it is a fear for which I can do nothing but be diligent, protective, and wary. All I can do, suddenly, is trust that God will be the ultimate protector and provider. It is a lesson I am slow to learn and prone to forget but in the immediate context of my life it is all I have, all we have: faith in God.
I am not a man prone to talk of religion, despite my Christain faith, nor am I inclined to spiritual discipline, study, or bouts of quiet time and prayer. By and large I am content to offer to God what is God's and live my life as best I can, quietly and introverted by my nature. But today I am filled with the overwhelming sense of divine presence around the spirits of my family, as though a protective aura has settled up us. My prayers last night were that God would make our house a fortress of protection and today those prayers are realized.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Number9Dream, by David Mitchell
I wish I could understand, more clearly, the writings of David Mitchell. His novels span geography and time and explore deep rooted themes of friendship, loyalty, and family. He does not pull any punches and he is not afraid of letting the characters have their way. I've seen it written by writers on story telling that no character should be bigger than the story and I think that is true to Mitchell but he allows his characters to push the extreme limits of the stories he writes. His novels are sprawling post modern commentaries on everything. I am three novels deep into his repertoire. The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet, Cloud Atlas, and most recently Number9Dream.
Number9Dream, a Booker Prize Finalist, is set, for the most part, in Tokyo. A young boy, left by his mother with his twin sister, with relatives in a rural village, Yakushima, grows up feeling an orphan. Eiji Miyake and his sister Anju grow up, until Anju's untimely death, relying on one another for support, comfort, friendship, and family. Raised by relatives but never really belonging to a family. Abandoned by their mother, shunned by a father they had never met, their lives were wrapped in superstition and they were left to order the world as they saw fit based on their observations and experiences.
The novel opens in Tokyo with Eiji, close to his 20th birthday, staking out the only connection he has to the father he's never met, a lawyer in a law firm based in the Panopticon building. I don't know if it is a real place or not, Mitchell paints such a vivid image of Tokyo and captures the dream like qualities a city has on rural kids (I should know!). Immediately the story enters Eiji's fantastic imagination of daydreams as he infiltrates the law firm that connects him to his father. From there Mitchell takes readers on an amazing journey with Eiji Miyake as he finds his father, connects with is mother, and allows the memory of his twin sister to be laid finally be laid to rest.
Number9Dream is a powerfully written novel that is in equal parts thrilling, frightening, and tender. A post modern coming of age story told through dreams and imagination and pushed forward with Mitchell's direct and powerful prose. Perhaps not the best novel ever written but a damn fine one to add to your reading list.
The novel opens in Tokyo with Eiji, close to his 20th birthday, staking out the only connection he has to the father he's never met, a lawyer in a law firm based in the Panopticon building. I don't know if it is a real place or not, Mitchell paints such a vivid image of Tokyo and captures the dream like qualities a city has on rural kids (I should know!). Immediately the story enters Eiji's fantastic imagination of daydreams as he infiltrates the law firm that connects him to his father. From there Mitchell takes readers on an amazing journey with Eiji Miyake as he finds his father, connects with is mother, and allows the memory of his twin sister to be laid finally be laid to rest.
Number9Dream is a powerfully written novel that is in equal parts thrilling, frightening, and tender. A post modern coming of age story told through dreams and imagination and pushed forward with Mitchell's direct and powerful prose. Perhaps not the best novel ever written but a damn fine one to add to your reading list.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Cold Mountain
Cold Mountain, by Charles Frazier, is a epic saga based loosely on the Odyssey of Homer and set in the American south near the close of the Civil War. It follows Inman, a soldier in the Confederate army as he heals from a neck wound in an Army hospital, his brief struggle with whether to heal and go back to the fighting or to leave then and go home to the woman waiting for him, Ada. Inman chooses to go home, slowly makes his preparations for a long journey on foot and slips out of the hospital just before morning hoping to leave the war behind him forever.
Paralell to Inman's journey is a process of development that Ada undergoes on the small farm her, largely, city raised father had purchased in which to recover from consumption and live out his days preaching in a small, liberal, country church. At the beginning of Ada's journey she is alone after the death of her father and the farm was on the verge of crumbling under missuse and neglect. A young girl, Ruby, comes to her aid and with her direction and knowledge Ada finds the strength and energy to rebuild the neglected farm.
The novel is a story of two people struggling to survive for one another. Ada becomes the sustenance Inman relies on throughout his long adventure home. Inman, in turn, becomes part of the reason Ada survives and builds up the farm. A place for them to live out their lives together. She is afraid of being along as an old woman, a bitter spinster ripe with regret of losing the man she knew she could love.
Cold Mountain is in equal measures beautiful prose and grotesque humanity. As both characters face the consequence of war in remote areas they have to over come great obstacles in their quests for survial. Raiders, roving gangs paid to collect deserters, near-do-wells searching for hand outs. Inman faces both base humanity -- caring nothing for others and looking out for only themselves -- and the generosity of humble souls willing to share their meager belongings, maybe the last food they have in the cupboard.
It is a beautiful novel that captures the rich and compelling landscape of the south in all its variances and oddities. Frazier makes it accessible to all readers and draws us in to his story.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Honest Days Work for an Honest Days Wage
Job searching is a frustrating way to fill your day. In Bellingham, at least, it is an exercise in perseverance in the face of continued rejection, non-replies, and people out to hire skill for nothing. Additionally there is no cross over in this job market. Cross-over meaning, for my purposes today, the chance to take applicable skills from one profession and apply them to another. For every non-carpentry job in which I could utilize effectively and skillfully a lot of the logistics, organizing, project management, and customer skills I have developed and honed as a carpenter there is a focused professional right behind me or right in front of me with their resume, cover letter, and tie -- I don't even know how to tie a tie -- applying for the same job. But the truly frustrating thing about looking for jobs in Bellingham is the nature of potential employers trying to take advantage of desperate people by offering pathetic wages for skilled positions.
Since I was laid-off the first time, four years ago for the better part of a summer (and that has been the pattern since then) my wage has fluctuated dramatically in a negative fashion. And it is isn't just my wage but wages for nearly every job I see, employers demanding certifications, permits, licenses, and training but paying at an entry level wage.
It isn't right to take advantage of desperate people and no amount of social help (welfare) can replace the rich, accomplished feeling of an honest days work for an honest wage. Cliche, I know, and undoubtedly relative to people in different situations. But it is an arrogant, conceited, and selfish way of thinking to set low wages in the mindset that at least a job is being provided.
I believe we are people intended to work. As a husband and father a crucial role in my life is that of provider -- worker. When I have no work my identity is ripped apart, my sense of worth and responsibility is shattered, and my family suffers on a variety of levels not the least of which is sacrifices the material comforts that we grow so reliant on but the disruption of routine and schedule and focus day in and day out. I need to work, it fulfills my duty, my identity, and a key part of my intended purpose in this life but I will not be taken advantage of. Nor should anyone be expected to.
Skilled workers are skilled workers and should be paid accordingly. I do not see a great deal of difference between a highly skilled/accomplished waitperson and their carpentry counterpart or anyone in between (baristas, bartenders, plumbers, etc...) as all fill a key role we depend on a great deal. Good service should be rewarded with a living wage. The old adage "you get what you pay for" is proven again and again and again and we should all take notice.
Since I was laid-off the first time, four years ago for the better part of a summer (and that has been the pattern since then) my wage has fluctuated dramatically in a negative fashion. And it is isn't just my wage but wages for nearly every job I see, employers demanding certifications, permits, licenses, and training but paying at an entry level wage.
It isn't right to take advantage of desperate people and no amount of social help (welfare) can replace the rich, accomplished feeling of an honest days work for an honest wage. Cliche, I know, and undoubtedly relative to people in different situations. But it is an arrogant, conceited, and selfish way of thinking to set low wages in the mindset that at least a job is being provided.
I believe we are people intended to work. As a husband and father a crucial role in my life is that of provider -- worker. When I have no work my identity is ripped apart, my sense of worth and responsibility is shattered, and my family suffers on a variety of levels not the least of which is sacrifices the material comforts that we grow so reliant on but the disruption of routine and schedule and focus day in and day out. I need to work, it fulfills my duty, my identity, and a key part of my intended purpose in this life but I will not be taken advantage of. Nor should anyone be expected to.
Skilled workers are skilled workers and should be paid accordingly. I do not see a great deal of difference between a highly skilled/accomplished waitperson and their carpentry counterpart or anyone in between (baristas, bartenders, plumbers, etc...) as all fill a key role we depend on a great deal. Good service should be rewarded with a living wage. The old adage "you get what you pay for" is proven again and again and again and we should all take notice.
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