My sister Maggie and I were talking the other day about the time (many years ago) when Dad was working on his Masters degree. He was working full time, raising a family full time, cutting wood full time, helping people full time, and "doing a Masters" (which of course made no sense to us at the time). We recalled talking about this ubiquitous "Masters" quite a bit...and particularly during family prayer. "Bless Dad and his Masters." "Help Dad finish his Masters." We walked the journey with Dad...not because we had any idea where he was going, but because we sensed it was important. He wasn't doing the Masters for a green jacket (sports reference, check!), but rather so that he could spot human disorders from a mile away; and then walk the mile to correctly assess the malady in person, and offer some kind of counsel. Buddha and his tree. Joseph and the upstate forest. Mohammad and his cave. Jesus in the wilderness. Abraham and an altar. Dad and the mentally ill. Maggie and I were also reflecting on another result of Dad actually completing his Masters: we had nothing else to pray about as children. "Ummm...hi God. Yeah, so...Dad got his Masters. Thanks for that. So...should I get a Masters, God?" Such were the effects of the Masters. And it remains part of our family. Years after successfully defending his thesis, it's not really over.
It's been two weeks since I began my own educational journey with kids (and patiently supportive Lori) in tow. The reflection on Dad's Masters has been fun to think about, because like me when I was the perceiving child, our kids have no idea what's really going on. There was the countdown to my last day of real work (kid translation: "Daddy will now be at home all day!"). Moving my office from the nice almost-corner office with big windows and a modern desk to the basement of the same building in a cinder-blocked office with no windows and an office mate (kid translation: "Now we don't have to walk up any stairs to your office!"). And then talking to them about becoming a Doctor (kid translation: "You are going to help sick people!?" Not really. "You are going to be a scientist like Cory?!" Not exactly.). I'm walking the fine line between distinction and disappointment.
Our kids get that this is important, but like the kid version of me with my Dad, they don't know why. My hope is that, like the kid version of me, their innocent acceptance of my pursuit as "important" will turn into pride. I'm fully aware that it is difficult to deliberately delineate moments of significance onto the soul of a family--for better or worse, I believe those eternal etchings tend to take root a bit more organically. But I'd be lying if I said the thought is not at least part of the reason I'm doing what I'm doing (the thought certainly protects me in those moments when I think, "what am i doing. what have i done."). It would be easy to slide down the slippery slope of cliched hyperbole right now, so I won't. I won't talk of seizing dreams, or taking risks, or attacking life with reckless precision...or teaching our children to take value in their craft and enhancing their identity through worthy pursuits. Or teaching them to have pride like my mom has, not like the kind in the Bible that turns you bad (lyrical reference, check!). No, I won't do that here.
Here I'll just hope that the PhD is the new Masters. At least in their prayers. At least for a few years. Then it will be over .
Monday, August 30, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
aitkin for the bacon...
I was in Aitkin, Minnesota last week and had the chance to spend a lovely 24 hours with my 93 year old maternal grandmother, Grandma Jones. Aitkin is two hours north of the twin cities. The Mississippi runs along its outskirts, just 100 miles south of the mighty river's humble beginnings. I can throw a rock across it in Aitkin...with my left hand. A far cry from the rumbling rapids that flow below the modern-twisted steel of the bridge in Alton which is the more familiar Mississippi to me. A far cry from everything.
Before I left, Zoe told me to "tell all my friends in Minnesota hi. And Grandma." I'm not sure who those friends are (although with Zoe, everyone soon becomes a friend), but I did say hi to Grandma. And I enjoyed it immensely. I asked her deeply personal questions and made her give me equally personal responses. I just sat back in her massaging recliner and listened intently as she described the means by which she dealt with marital conflict, how she survived raising four "delightful, but very strong willed girls" (euphemism for, "without God and vitamins, I would have murdered those psychos"), and how she currently deals with the "delightful, but very strong willed neighbors" in her apartment complex.
Before I left, Zoe told me to "tell all my friends in Minnesota hi. And Grandma." I'm not sure who those friends are (although with Zoe, everyone soon becomes a friend), but I did say hi to Grandma. And I enjoyed it immensely. I asked her deeply personal questions and made her give me equally personal responses. I just sat back in her massaging recliner and listened intently as she described the means by which she dealt with marital conflict, how she survived raising four "delightful, but very strong willed girls" (euphemism for, "without God and vitamins, I would have murdered those psychos"), and how she currently deals with the "delightful, but very strong willed neighbors" in her apartment complex.
Walking around town with Grandma was a bit like hanging out with the Dalai Lama. Everywhere she went people would wave and smile. People would stop and talk to her...ask her how she was doing, then make some comment about how amazing she is. I was slightly disappointed each time she introduced me as her grandson; I was enjoying the reverie so much that I wanted these people to imagine I was her long-haired lover, visiting from California. They appeared to be disappointed as well when I became "the grandson from Illinois." I think they wanted me to be the lover too. She would be even more mysterious and remarkable. 93 years old. Perfect hearing. Great driver. No limp. Five almonds and 16 vitamins with every meal. Spelt wheat muffins. Fruit.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
my (world) cup runneth over
I'm a Franz. I'm not great at telling people to do things when the message is hard, or contrary to what they are currently doing. I've asserted myself once or twice in my life, and I think it almost cost me a few relationships, and at a minimum, caused some hard feelings for a while. I'm not good at it. I affirm well. There is a reason the Senator Al Franken's Stuart Smalley was a bit of a cult hero in our home. We like telling people they're good enough. They're smart enough. And gosh darn it, people like them. Even when they suck, they're dumb, and no one likes them (except for us). This is not a perfect approach to people, I know, but it's what we do best, and what comes naturally. Le chemin de moindre résistance, as the French say (I just Googled that).
I worry about this quality as a parent. Probably more than anything else, I try to identify the right times to assert myself with our children; when to set boundaries, when to impose a consequence, when to push them, when to blatantly correct when something or someone has been wronged...and then when to let it be, let it play out...affirm. If I've succeeded at all in asserting boundaries, it's because I think about it a lot. If I've failed at asserting boundaries, it's because I think about it a lot.
After 30 years of life, and at least 25 of those being involved in some sort of organized sport, I've been able to observe a lot of father-son interactions on the pitch, the court, the field, and on the sidelines. I've watched my friends puke before games, shutdown during games, and cry after games...all because of an over-bearing father. I was never that kid, thank goodness, and I certainly don't want Brennan to ever become that kid. And even though it's against my nature to be imposing (being 5'7" helps too), I'm aware that what I prefer impacts my son. I'm aware that despite having a physique (at this point) that may suit him well for swimming or basketball, he is obsessed with soccer in no small part due to my love of the sport. During the month of June, Brennan and I (and 14 other Americans) watched a lot of soccer. I've answered the question, "Who are the seven best players in the world," at least 89 times (in 89 different ways). I've tried to discover what number Lionel Messi wore on his first Argentine jersey...and his first Barcelona jersey. I've been required to learn the "Number 10" for each team that made it to the quarterfinals of the World Cup. We've analyzed how Tim Howard's Tourette's syndrome may actually enhance his ability as a goalie. We now have a couch in the basement named "Maradona." This quasi-obsession made it possible for Brennan to sit outside for 9 hours in the brutal heat this past Saturday to watch me play in a 3v3 soccer tournament (we lost in the championship game. Mom and Dad, I'll tell you all about next time I'm home. Just make sure Kari and Maggie are around to hear ALL the details). He loves the game, and I'm happy to answer all of his questions.
Of all the Q&A exchanges over the past several weeks, one will always remain with me. It wasn't a question I answered, but rather a question I posed which Brennan answered. During the US v. Ghana game I mentioned how much I appreciated Michael Bradley's game. The guy hustles like mad, has a great command of the midfield, and gets everyone involved in the game. My kind of player. I asked Brennan, "Why do you think he gives it his all like that? Why do you think he plays so hard?" Without missing a beat, Brennan looked up at me out of the corner of his eye, and said, "Because his Dad is watching him." And of course he was. Bob Bradley, Michael's father, is the coach of the US team...and Brennan, of course, knew this. I responded, "Do you play harder because you know I'm watching you?" He looked at me, a bit embarrassed, and responded with a smile and an honest, "Well, yes."
Even though I fear what I may be keeping Brennan from as a result of my affirmative approach, I'm happy that I can influence him...passively. This week Brennan is learning soccer from a bunch of Brits who charge WAY too much money to teach American kids how to really play football. We're paying for an accent and fancy Pumas. They'll have an impact on his love of soccer, no doubt. But they won't be his Dad. That's mine. Despite being passive at times, overbearing at times, and carrying general shortcomings at all other times, I'm happy with the arrangement of being Brennan's Dad...and happy that he wants to play hard for me. Just don't puke, Brennan. Please. You're good enough...
I worry about this quality as a parent. Probably more than anything else, I try to identify the right times to assert myself with our children; when to set boundaries, when to impose a consequence, when to push them, when to blatantly correct when something or someone has been wronged...and then when to let it be, let it play out...affirm. If I've succeeded at all in asserting boundaries, it's because I think about it a lot. If I've failed at asserting boundaries, it's because I think about it a lot.
After 30 years of life, and at least 25 of those being involved in some sort of organized sport, I've been able to observe a lot of father-son interactions on the pitch, the court, the field, and on the sidelines. I've watched my friends puke before games, shutdown during games, and cry after games...all because of an over-bearing father. I was never that kid, thank goodness, and I certainly don't want Brennan to ever become that kid. And even though it's against my nature to be imposing (being 5'7" helps too), I'm aware that what I prefer impacts my son. I'm aware that despite having a physique (at this point) that may suit him well for swimming or basketball, he is obsessed with soccer in no small part due to my love of the sport. During the month of June, Brennan and I (and 14 other Americans) watched a lot of soccer. I've answered the question, "Who are the seven best players in the world," at least 89 times (in 89 different ways). I've tried to discover what number Lionel Messi wore on his first Argentine jersey...and his first Barcelona jersey. I've been required to learn the "Number 10" for each team that made it to the quarterfinals of the World Cup. We've analyzed how Tim Howard's Tourette's syndrome may actually enhance his ability as a goalie. We now have a couch in the basement named "Maradona." This quasi-obsession made it possible for Brennan to sit outside for 9 hours in the brutal heat this past Saturday to watch me play in a 3v3 soccer tournament (we lost in the championship game. Mom and Dad, I'll tell you all about next time I'm home. Just make sure Kari and Maggie are around to hear ALL the details). He loves the game, and I'm happy to answer all of his questions.
Of all the Q&A exchanges over the past several weeks, one will always remain with me. It wasn't a question I answered, but rather a question I posed which Brennan answered. During the US v. Ghana game I mentioned how much I appreciated Michael Bradley's game. The guy hustles like mad, has a great command of the midfield, and gets everyone involved in the game. My kind of player. I asked Brennan, "Why do you think he gives it his all like that? Why do you think he plays so hard?" Without missing a beat, Brennan looked up at me out of the corner of his eye, and said, "Because his Dad is watching him." And of course he was. Bob Bradley, Michael's father, is the coach of the US team...and Brennan, of course, knew this. I responded, "Do you play harder because you know I'm watching you?" He looked at me, a bit embarrassed, and responded with a smile and an honest, "Well, yes."
Even though I fear what I may be keeping Brennan from as a result of my affirmative approach, I'm happy that I can influence him...passively. This week Brennan is learning soccer from a bunch of Brits who charge WAY too much money to teach American kids how to really play football. We're paying for an accent and fancy Pumas. They'll have an impact on his love of soccer, no doubt. But they won't be his Dad. That's mine. Despite being passive at times, overbearing at times, and carrying general shortcomings at all other times, I'm happy with the arrangement of being Brennan's Dad...and happy that he wants to play hard for me. Just don't puke, Brennan. Please. You're good enough...
Thursday, July 1, 2010
fantastic ms. zozo
I'm a big Fantastic Mr. Fox fan. It was the first real book that I read and it spurred a mild childhood obsession with Roald Dahl. It was also the first real book that I read to Brennan. The fact that Wes Anderson chose my favorite Dahl book to create the best cinematic interpretation of any Dahl book to date (read and weep, Chocolate Factory lovers) just makes it that much better. It's like the ultimate white compliment, and even better than claiming that you saw Bottle Rocket (1996) in 1994.
There is a scene in the film where Mr. Fox is lamenting his life under ground and his respectable profession as a newspaper columnist. He asserts that living in their current home makes him feel poor. His ever-loving and ever-practical wife responds, "We are poor. But we're happy." He replies in his characteristically flippant manner, and the movie goes on. It's a good moment in the film, but not one that I ever considered particularly memorable...especially for the kids. Until the other day.
Brennan has become a bit concerned with our recent decision to quit my good job and resume graduate studies on a full time basis. We openly talk to the kids about our early years of marriage...we didn't have any money, ate a lot of rice, took good advantage of eating a ton during trips to our parents' homes, etc. When we have discussed this in the past, Brennan wears his passage through poverty like a medal. "You know Zoe, I didn't have chocolate until I was four. That's how poor we were. Opening scene of Saving Private Ryan? Yeah, I've been there." Perhaps we overstated the poverty, but I don't think so. Brennan has my propensity for taking life's circumstances and mentally bending them just enough to convince himself that he is a conqueror/saint/survivor. Have I ever told you about no warm showers for 5 months in Brasil?
On this particular day, Brennan was asking specific questions about how life will change when I quit my job. "Will we move" (we tried. not any more.)? "Will we keep the black car" (yes. forever.)? "Will I still go to Southside" (yes.)? After a few more questions, he arrived at the final question. The kicker. His real concern. "Will we be poor? (voice reflected partial excitement, part terror.)" Before I could respond, Zoe, who had been taking all of this in quietly, chimes in with: "We are poor. But we're happy."
Hold. The. Phone.
6 words. Nailing the context. Roald Dahl. Resolving concern with a gentle, optimistic rebuke. Quoting film. I think I'm in love. Zoe instantly recognized she was on to something brilliant and continued quoting the film: "What the cuss did you say, you little cuss?" I suppose we could do without that, but she was on a roll, so I had to let it slide.
There are many lessons here, and parallels to be made between our life and that of the Fox family...but that's for another time. In the end, the experience made me grateful for our kids' good sense of humor, their appreciation for good entertainment, their keen memory, and their ability to appropriately access pop culture and insert it into daily interactions (clutch). I hadn't been this proud since a 3 yr old Brennan started singing Salt n' Peppa's Push It to a surprised checkout clerk in upstate New York.
Stuff White People Really Like #476: Children who can quote Wes Anderson.
There is a scene in the film where Mr. Fox is lamenting his life under ground and his respectable profession as a newspaper columnist. He asserts that living in their current home makes him feel poor. His ever-loving and ever-practical wife responds, "We are poor. But we're happy." He replies in his characteristically flippant manner, and the movie goes on. It's a good moment in the film, but not one that I ever considered particularly memorable...especially for the kids. Until the other day.
Brennan has become a bit concerned with our recent decision to quit my good job and resume graduate studies on a full time basis. We openly talk to the kids about our early years of marriage...we didn't have any money, ate a lot of rice, took good advantage of eating a ton during trips to our parents' homes, etc. When we have discussed this in the past, Brennan wears his passage through poverty like a medal. "You know Zoe, I didn't have chocolate until I was four. That's how poor we were. Opening scene of Saving Private Ryan? Yeah, I've been there." Perhaps we overstated the poverty, but I don't think so. Brennan has my propensity for taking life's circumstances and mentally bending them just enough to convince himself that he is a conqueror/saint/survivor. Have I ever told you about no warm showers for 5 months in Brasil?
On this particular day, Brennan was asking specific questions about how life will change when I quit my job. "Will we move" (we tried. not any more.)? "Will we keep the black car" (yes. forever.)? "Will I still go to Southside" (yes.)? After a few more questions, he arrived at the final question. The kicker. His real concern. "Will we be poor? (voice reflected partial excitement, part terror.)" Before I could respond, Zoe, who had been taking all of this in quietly, chimes in with: "We are poor. But we're happy."
Hold. The. Phone.
6 words. Nailing the context. Roald Dahl. Resolving concern with a gentle, optimistic rebuke. Quoting film. I think I'm in love. Zoe instantly recognized she was on to something brilliant and continued quoting the film: "What the cuss did you say, you little cuss?" I suppose we could do without that, but she was on a roll, so I had to let it slide.
There are many lessons here, and parallels to be made between our life and that of the Fox family...but that's for another time. In the end, the experience made me grateful for our kids' good sense of humor, their appreciation for good entertainment, their keen memory, and their ability to appropriately access pop culture and insert it into daily interactions (clutch). I hadn't been this proud since a 3 yr old Brennan started singing Salt n' Peppa's Push It to a surprised checkout clerk in upstate New York.
Stuff White People Really Like #476: Children who can quote Wes Anderson.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
5 reasons
Kids, in case you are ever short on reasons to love your family, here are the top 5 (current) reasons.
05) The other day, my father (your Papa) was playing wiffle ball and (apparently) crashed into Deea (wife of my cousin), giving her a concussion, stitches in the ear, and a dislocated shoulder. Deea is a very sweet person and surely didn't deserve this. I have no idea how it happened. I simply know that it is just ridiculous enough to make the list (and my lack of details makes it an even better/more tragic story).
04) Your Aunt Maggie was recently robbed. The thief entered her home, went through her panties, stole her computer, bled on her bed, BUT did NOT take her bike. Score.
03) Your parents are taking you to LouFest. Carolina Chocolate Drops. Jeff Tweedy. Built to Spill. Zooey Deschanel. Want to know what music I was involved in as a 7 year old? Safety Kids. That's right. Me dressed up as Freddy holding a stuffed frog hollering, "You're not gonna get rich on me!" while my mother (your Mimi) mouthed the words from the audience. *
02) _________________________________________________________________
____________________________________________________________________
_______________Irish_________________________________________________
_______________________________________________
(That was a story about your Mom's family that I can't tell you. It's really cute and endearing, but it might be misunderstood and lead to awkward silence, so it's probably best just left like this.)
Drum roll...
1) Your aunt Kari used to be married to Jerad. For a variety of reasons, they got divorced. Things were a bit dicey for a spell, but they are fairly smooth now. Their wonderful kids (your cousins) are well-adjusted and Kari and Jerad have begun their own separate lives.
Or have they?
Kari met a great guy named Kelly who loves her and the boys. He bought her a ring. They are getting married on June 12th.
Jerad met a gal named Kelly who loves him and the boys (I think). He bought her a ring (which according to Facebook looks a LOT like Kari's ring). They are getting married on June 12th.
Good thing they have three boys. Two ring bearers and one to spare? Any more Kellys up for a wedding?
And those, my sweet children, are five reasons you should love your family.
* I actually enjoyed Safety Kids, so thank you Mom. I'm not sure how or why I got involved...but I think it might have been Mom's first attempt at a multi-level work-from-home-business. Indeed, she didn't "get rich on me." Now if I were a little boy made of wax, then the story would have (does have) a different ending.
05) The other day, my father (your Papa) was playing wiffle ball and (apparently) crashed into Deea (wife of my cousin), giving her a concussion, stitches in the ear, and a dislocated shoulder. Deea is a very sweet person and surely didn't deserve this. I have no idea how it happened. I simply know that it is just ridiculous enough to make the list (and my lack of details makes it an even better/more tragic story).
04) Your Aunt Maggie was recently robbed. The thief entered her home, went through her panties, stole her computer, bled on her bed, BUT did NOT take her bike. Score.
03) Your parents are taking you to LouFest. Carolina Chocolate Drops. Jeff Tweedy. Built to Spill. Zooey Deschanel. Want to know what music I was involved in as a 7 year old? Safety Kids. That's right. Me dressed up as Freddy holding a stuffed frog hollering, "You're not gonna get rich on me!" while my mother (your Mimi) mouthed the words from the audience. *
02) _________________________________________________________________
____________________________________________________________________
_______________Irish_________________________________________________
_______________________________________________
(That was a story about your Mom's family that I can't tell you. It's really cute and endearing, but it might be misunderstood and lead to awkward silence, so it's probably best just left like this.)
Drum roll...
1) Your aunt Kari used to be married to Jerad. For a variety of reasons, they got divorced. Things were a bit dicey for a spell, but they are fairly smooth now. Their wonderful kids (your cousins) are well-adjusted and Kari and Jerad have begun their own separate lives.
Or have they?
Kari met a great guy named Kelly who loves her and the boys. He bought her a ring. They are getting married on June 12th.
Jerad met a gal named Kelly who loves him and the boys (I think). He bought her a ring (which according to Facebook looks a LOT like Kari's ring). They are getting married on June 12th.
Good thing they have three boys. Two ring bearers and one to spare? Any more Kellys up for a wedding?
And those, my sweet children, are five reasons you should love your family.
* I actually enjoyed Safety Kids, so thank you Mom. I'm not sure how or why I got involved...but I think it might have been Mom's first attempt at a multi-level work-from-home-business. Indeed, she didn't "get rich on me." Now if I were a little boy made of wax, then the story would have (does have) a different ending.
Monday, May 10, 2010
M&Ms (&M)
This entry is not about candy.
The other day, during his lunch break, my father went out for a ride on a tandem with his new lesbian co-worker. It's been fairly obvious that Dad has a gay co-worker, because he has brought up gay issues consistently during every recent conversation we have shared (except for the call where he tried to explain to me why nose-picking isn't ok in public. "Gentzy, it's like sex. We all enjoy sex, but you can't do it in public." Right, Dad...it's JUST like that.). This is classic A. Gentz Franz. He is SO open-minded and accepting that all he needs is a little exposure to something/someone and he is sold. I remember having a friend in junior high school who was a little untrustworthy. My parents (Dad mostly) expressed a slight objection to my socializing with this particular friend...until I had that friend over to the house. By the end of the visit, my dad had made up a nickname for him and was ready to have him marry one of my sisters.
This is not to say that my Dad was anti-gay before his interactions with this co-worker, it's just been an interesting time for all of us practicing Mormons and gay rights. The Church took a very strong stand that was hard for many of us to understand. We've been forced to think about the issue (which is good), but it was confusing for many to think about what to do with the issue. Some people jumped in line and supported the Church, while others walked the tight rope of "faithful Mormon and gay rights supporter." Those are of course only two reactions among myriad reactions to what has become a painful and divisive issue for many of our faith. Not to speak for Dad, but I'd explain his discomfort as a result of his intense love for the Church and his superordinate love for people...all people. Anyway...back to the tandem.
At some point after the tandem ride during lunch, this co-worker approaches Dad and tells him that "it would never work out between us because of the 3 Ms." My father, taken aback slightly, asks, "what are the 3Ms?" To which she responds, "Mormon, Male, and Married." When this was being related to me over the phone, at this point my mother yells out, "Can you believe this?" in a somewhat threatened way (as if Dad were being propositioned). Mom, no need to worry...the 3Ms pretty much define Dad. Getting one of those Ms out of him is not going to happen. You're safe.
This story sums up my Dad (kids, your Cakoo Papa). I've heard my father speak Ebonics, southern, sign language, and redneck (separate occasions). In those moments, he was black, southern, deaf, and a hick. NOW, he is a lesbian. Pleasers the world over salute you. If you ask me, this is a wonderful example of how my dad has made sense of the tension that frequently occurs within the mind and heart of many a person who actively practices a religion. This woman feels loved and accepted by someone who looks like the people who so frequently reject her. But my dad jumped on a tandem with her.
Religion is not enough of a reason for Dad not to love her. Indeed, as Dad views his religion (correctly, I might assert), his religion demands that he love her. Ironically, religion was 1/3 of the reason she cannot love him. Fair enough. I really don't think our family can take the whole, "Dad's leaving Mom for another woman...whom he converted to Mormonism and heterosexuality." We'll take the M&M&Ms.
The other day, during his lunch break, my father went out for a ride on a tandem with his new lesbian co-worker. It's been fairly obvious that Dad has a gay co-worker, because he has brought up gay issues consistently during every recent conversation we have shared (except for the call where he tried to explain to me why nose-picking isn't ok in public. "Gentzy, it's like sex. We all enjoy sex, but you can't do it in public." Right, Dad...it's JUST like that.). This is classic A. Gentz Franz. He is SO open-minded and accepting that all he needs is a little exposure to something/someone and he is sold. I remember having a friend in junior high school who was a little untrustworthy. My parents (Dad mostly) expressed a slight objection to my socializing with this particular friend...until I had that friend over to the house. By the end of the visit, my dad had made up a nickname for him and was ready to have him marry one of my sisters.
This is not to say that my Dad was anti-gay before his interactions with this co-worker, it's just been an interesting time for all of us practicing Mormons and gay rights. The Church took a very strong stand that was hard for many of us to understand. We've been forced to think about the issue (which is good), but it was confusing for many to think about what to do with the issue. Some people jumped in line and supported the Church, while others walked the tight rope of "faithful Mormon and gay rights supporter." Those are of course only two reactions among myriad reactions to what has become a painful and divisive issue for many of our faith. Not to speak for Dad, but I'd explain his discomfort as a result of his intense love for the Church and his superordinate love for people...all people. Anyway...back to the tandem.
At some point after the tandem ride during lunch, this co-worker approaches Dad and tells him that "it would never work out between us because of the 3 Ms." My father, taken aback slightly, asks, "what are the 3Ms?" To which she responds, "Mormon, Male, and Married." When this was being related to me over the phone, at this point my mother yells out, "Can you believe this?" in a somewhat threatened way (as if Dad were being propositioned). Mom, no need to worry...the 3Ms pretty much define Dad. Getting one of those Ms out of him is not going to happen. You're safe.
This story sums up my Dad (kids, your Cakoo Papa). I've heard my father speak Ebonics, southern, sign language, and redneck (separate occasions). In those moments, he was black, southern, deaf, and a hick. NOW, he is a lesbian. Pleasers the world over salute you. If you ask me, this is a wonderful example of how my dad has made sense of the tension that frequently occurs within the mind and heart of many a person who actively practices a religion. This woman feels loved and accepted by someone who looks like the people who so frequently reject her. But my dad jumped on a tandem with her.
Religion is not enough of a reason for Dad not to love her. Indeed, as Dad views his religion (correctly, I might assert), his religion demands that he love her. Ironically, religion was 1/3 of the reason she cannot love him. Fair enough. I really don't think our family can take the whole, "Dad's leaving Mom for another woman...whom he converted to Mormonism and heterosexuality." We'll take the M&M&Ms.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
lori's got the cayman islands. but we've got mexico.
Lori is somewhere in the Atlantic ocean right now, enjoying some well-deserved down time on a cruise with a bunch of old Europeans. Per the one text message I've received from her in the past 5 days, she seems to be having a good time. But here in sunny Champaign, we're having an even better time...here's proof:
On Saturday morning during the ride to Brennan's soccer game we were listening to radio commentary on the recent legislation in Arizona. Brennan asked a few questions to clarify what was going on, then listened to the rest of the report. Four hours later, he and Zoe were quietly playing in the toy room/bathroom. After about 25 minutes of the quiet play (complete solace...I almost fell asleep), Brennan emerged from the bathroom and announced, "A Mexican woman is moving into our bathroom." Zoe was dressed as the Mexican woman, and the bathroom was decorated eerily similar to some of the Latin living rooms I have been in. Complete with kitschy knick knacks, an electronic keyboard, and a Mexican flag. The only thing missing was a statuette of the Virgin. I am not sure if he was making a political statement, going for laughs, or just being compassionate (he definitely got laughs). While this was going on, Zoe simply stood there, exhausting her entire Spanish vocabulary over and over again: uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinco, seis, siete, nacho, libre, dez.
On Saturday morning during the ride to Brennan's soccer game we were listening to radio commentary on the recent legislation in Arizona. Brennan asked a few questions to clarify what was going on, then listened to the rest of the report. Four hours later, he and Zoe were quietly playing in the toy room/bathroom. After about 25 minutes of the quiet play (complete solace...I almost fell asleep), Brennan emerged from the bathroom and announced, "A Mexican woman is moving into our bathroom." Zoe was dressed as the Mexican woman, and the bathroom was decorated eerily similar to some of the Latin living rooms I have been in. Complete with kitschy knick knacks, an electronic keyboard, and a Mexican flag. The only thing missing was a statuette of the Virgin. I am not sure if he was making a political statement, going for laughs, or just being compassionate (he definitely got laughs). While this was going on, Zoe simply stood there, exhausting her entire Spanish vocabulary over and over again: uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinco, seis, siete, nacho, libre, dez.
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