Well, I’ve been back in school for a couple of days now.
In my previous post, I noted what I had done to occupy my spring break.
Based on my observations of the past two days, I am confident in saying that I know what most of the MSU co-eds did on their break – they spent a considerable amount of time sunning themselves.
The weather has been sunny and warm this week. What that means on a college campus is shorts. And that means legs: long, lean, toned, tanned legs.
It is helpful to remind myself that these co-eds are my roughly my children’s ages. This prompts me to have a more wholesome attitude. Even so. Legs, legs, legs. Everywhere you look.
This afternoon, I got a letter from Moses, my new pen-pal from prison.
I won’t betray his confidence by revealing the contents of the letter, but I will say that it stirred one particular memory that I can share. Moses’ letter was written on white legal-pad paper. And in true convict form, he wrote on both the front and back of the pages. There is a purpose for this, of course. Writing paper is a limited commodity in prison, so you learn to use it efficiently.
When I was in prison, I was always even more economical in the use of writing paper than Moses. For one thing, I wrote much smaller. Second, I filled up all the available space. In his letter to me, Moses wrote on the front and back of one page, but ended the letter mid-way down the second page.
I always filled up the pages. Of course, I’ve always had the ability to blather on just about any topic.
I didn’t think this week would be very stressful, but today (Tuesday) I got a surprise in my Public Speaking class. My outline for my next speech is due on Thursday, which means I probably, should pick a topic, like, yesterday.
On top of that, Thursday is also the deadline for our paper critiquing a speech we supposed to have attended at some point this semester. The assignment was made at the beginning of the term and I had neglected to note the deadline.
I’m not alone in neglecting this assignment. My friend, Raj Banerjee, who is from India, is in the same boat. After class, we went to the Student Union and inquired if anybody would be speaking there on Tuesday or Wednesday. No luck.
On the way home, I picked up a paper and it featured a story about a visiting professor who will speak at the MSU Library on Wednesday afternoon. The topic: “Sick and Tired: Race and Health Care in Mississippi during Civil Rights Era.’’
Of course, at this point, the topic could have been “The History of Mildew’’ and I would have been excited.
I called Raj immediately. “I found us a speech!’ I told him. He was as relieved as I was.
So I’ll attend the lecture and write my paper tomorrow evening. Whew!
So Tuesday was sort of frantic. It looks like things will work out fine, though.
For all my complaining, I am happy that classes have resumed.
I had an early dinner at the MSU cafeteria on Monday and afterward, I sat on a bench and watched the students pass by. It was a warm, beautiful evening with a gentle breeze out of the south.
I was positioned between the cafeteria and the student union, so there is always a lot of foot traffic there.
You know, there is something about being around young people that I find very soothing. Maybe it’s their confidence, their optimism. They are generally too young to have been beaten up by life. When you are on a college campus, everything seems young and fresh and hopeful. Well, I am not young, but I am fresher than I should be and more hopeful than I’ve been in several years.
As I was sitting there, the clock in the big bell tower at the Chapel of Memories struck 6 o’clock and the chimes echoed the MSU Fight Song from one end of campus to the other. A couple of co-eds were passing by at that moment and they began to sing along with great enthusiasm: “Hail, dear old State...’’
And yes, they were wearing shorts.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
March 20: "Spring Broke''
Spring Break is over.
Technically, I guess it was over Friday afternoon since weekends are “free time’’ even when school is in session.
Saturday, I mentioned to someone that I had been on spring break and she said, “Gosh, I wish I had a Spring Break!’’
My response was that she might just as well have had mine, seeing as how I didn’t make much use of it.
No, Spring Break came and went. I have no tan to show for it. But, then again, I have no hang-over, either. So I guess you would call that a wash.
My intentions were two write three papers. But as of this writing, I’ve written only one, although I’m pretty well into the second. I fear the third will have to wait. It’s not a problem, since none of the papers are due anytime soon. I just figured writing the papers would help fill the idle hours. Somehow, the hours got filled anyway.
On Monday, I drove to Tupelo to visit my sister. I had dinner there and spent the night.
The next morning, I paid a visit on a childhood friend, Terry Harbin.
Terry, his sister, Shirley, and his parents – Jack and Olean – once lived on the little street where I spent the first 14 years of my life.
Terry, two years my junior, is an elementary school principal. He lives out in the country in a beautiful home. His parents live in a nice home a few paces out his back door. We sat in his living room and caught up with each other’s lives. We both have two kids, roughly the same ages.
While I was there, one of his little dogs, a long-haired, red-coated Dachshund, happily leaped into my lap and smothered me with kisses for the entire length of my visit.
The little dog reminded me of something. Not long ago, I had this wonderful dream about a beautiful woman who loved me. She also had a little red dachshund. In that dream, the little dog smothered me with kisses and panted happily as I rubbed his belly.
And then it was over. Dreams end without warning, you know. Even the good ones. Especially the good ones, I think.
When my lease is up in July, I believe I am going to find a little place that allows dogs. I’m going to get a little dachshund of my own. I think maybe I won’t be so lonesome with a little dog to love on. At least that part of the dream can come true, I reckon.
After Terry and I caught up, we went out back and paid a visit on his folks. Jack is 78 now and Olean is 75, they told me.
It’s funny. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how young they were when I first knew them. I am 51. The Harbins moved into the neighborhood when I was about 3. That means they were young couple in their 20s when they moved into the neighborhood. I had no awareness of that at the time, of course. When you are kid, it’s almost as if parents don’t have ages. They are just parents. They are all equally ancient in the eyes of a child.
After a nice visit, I met Margaret Parker for lunch at Old Venice. Margaret is still as tall and thin and pretty as she was when we were high school classmates, which would be irritating if it weren’t for the fact that she is so genuinely kind.
After lunch, I met up with Julie Jackson Herring and Anne Cooper Owen, who were both “home’’ for a few days. We met at Horton Nash’s organic farm out on Mt. Vernon Road. Horton is Julie’s son.
I arrived there first, and was able to convince Horton to give me a tour of his gardens. He has about a hundred different varieties of organic vegetables planted and he patiently explained to me the various strains and told me about his plans for new crops now that Spring is on its way.
As he talked, I thought how my dad would have loved to have taken this tour. Of course, he would have been astonished at the notion of organic gardening. It was a completely foreign idea to men of my dad’s generation.
I don’t know that he would have bought into any of Horton’s ideas, impressive as they seemed to me. But I bet Horton and my dad would have found some common ground. Like Horton, my dad was a man of the earth. Growing things was something he felt deep down in his soul.
I’d like to think that Horton might have left my dad with a few tips he would have embraced and employed. And I also like to think that my dad could have enlightened Horton on some methods that were never written down in any book, mysteries handed down from one farming generation to the next. Yeah,I think Horton and dad would have gotten along famously. They share a love of growing things that transcends generations or methods.
When Julie and Anne arrived, we sat in the living room of Horton’s little house and talked about nothing and everything. Julie and Anne have been friends forever. That’s a special thing. Somehow, those kinds of long friendships between women have a depth and resonance that male friendships can’t approach. At least that was my thought as we sat and visited.
I came back to Starkville late that afternoon.
Over the rest of the week, I didn’t do much of anything. Check that. I didn’t accomplish much of anything. Somehow, I managed to go to the gym twice a day without losing a single pound. How is that even possible, I wonder.
As I mentioned earlier, I wrote one paper and started on another.
Oh, I also wrote a letter to Moses.
I had heard about Moses from a new friend I had met at church a couple of months ago. Last Sunday, Rob and I had lunch after church and he happened to run in to Moses’ mother as we were being seated at the restaurant. He excused himself to go over to her table. He returned a few minutes later and told me about Moses.
Moses had worked for Rob there is his hometown of Maben until one night, in a fit of jealous rage, Moses burst into a trailer to confront his two-timing wife. He barged into a bedroom and shot the two occupants, presuming one of them to be his wife and the other to be her lover. Wrong room. The woman died, the man was injured, but survived. Realizing his mistake, Moses kicked in the door of another bedroom and found his intended victim. He shot her dead.
“He was one of the best workers we ever had. He had never been in any kind of trouble, no kind of trouble at all,’’ Rob said sadly as he finished the story. “For two minutes in his life, he lost control. Two women are dead. He’s serving a life sentence. Just think: Two minutes.’’
I thought about Moses as we had lunch. Then I asked Rob for his address in prison.
Wednesday, I sat down to write a letter to a stranger, a murderer serving a life sentence. What do you say?
I recalled my own time in prison, a four-month sentence that seemed like an eternity at the time. Four months seems a quick as a hiccup to Moses, I bet.
Moses is 32 year old and serving a life sentence. That could be another 40 to 50 years. I can scarcely imagine it.
But I wrote anyway, on the chance that simply writing would bring him some comfort.
I remember what a treasure it was to get a letter when I was in prison.
To an inmate, a letter means you are still a unique human being with your own identity. That’s something you don’t get in prison. Everybody dresses alike, eats alike, lives alike. It doesn’t take long to lose all sense of your identity under those conditions. A letter reminds you that you are your own person with your own history, a history of good things and not just the bad thing that sent you to prison.
I guess maybe my own prison experience awakened empathy for Moses. I imagine that there must be times when he thinks his life has been wasted. I imagine he plays over in his head the events that led to his current condition. I imagine that he is lonely.I suspect there are times when he is low on hope, that he often feels unloved and unloveable.
I know something about that. Sometimes, I still feel that way.
So I wrote a letter to Moses and told him I’d try to send him a little commissary money, not much, of course. for I don’t have much to spare.
I included my address and said that I would like to hear from him. Of course, Moses doesn’t know me from Adam, you might say. So it’s really up to him.
So that’s how I spent my Spring Break.
It wasn’t exactly a beach in Florida.
But it was pretty good.
Technically, I guess it was over Friday afternoon since weekends are “free time’’ even when school is in session.
Saturday, I mentioned to someone that I had been on spring break and she said, “Gosh, I wish I had a Spring Break!’’
My response was that she might just as well have had mine, seeing as how I didn’t make much use of it.
No, Spring Break came and went. I have no tan to show for it. But, then again, I have no hang-over, either. So I guess you would call that a wash.
My intentions were two write three papers. But as of this writing, I’ve written only one, although I’m pretty well into the second. I fear the third will have to wait. It’s not a problem, since none of the papers are due anytime soon. I just figured writing the papers would help fill the idle hours. Somehow, the hours got filled anyway.
On Monday, I drove to Tupelo to visit my sister. I had dinner there and spent the night.
The next morning, I paid a visit on a childhood friend, Terry Harbin.
Terry, his sister, Shirley, and his parents – Jack and Olean – once lived on the little street where I spent the first 14 years of my life.
Terry, two years my junior, is an elementary school principal. He lives out in the country in a beautiful home. His parents live in a nice home a few paces out his back door. We sat in his living room and caught up with each other’s lives. We both have two kids, roughly the same ages.
While I was there, one of his little dogs, a long-haired, red-coated Dachshund, happily leaped into my lap and smothered me with kisses for the entire length of my visit.
The little dog reminded me of something. Not long ago, I had this wonderful dream about a beautiful woman who loved me. She also had a little red dachshund. In that dream, the little dog smothered me with kisses and panted happily as I rubbed his belly.
And then it was over. Dreams end without warning, you know. Even the good ones. Especially the good ones, I think.
When my lease is up in July, I believe I am going to find a little place that allows dogs. I’m going to get a little dachshund of my own. I think maybe I won’t be so lonesome with a little dog to love on. At least that part of the dream can come true, I reckon.
After Terry and I caught up, we went out back and paid a visit on his folks. Jack is 78 now and Olean is 75, they told me.
It’s funny. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how young they were when I first knew them. I am 51. The Harbins moved into the neighborhood when I was about 3. That means they were young couple in their 20s when they moved into the neighborhood. I had no awareness of that at the time, of course. When you are kid, it’s almost as if parents don’t have ages. They are just parents. They are all equally ancient in the eyes of a child.
After a nice visit, I met Margaret Parker for lunch at Old Venice. Margaret is still as tall and thin and pretty as she was when we were high school classmates, which would be irritating if it weren’t for the fact that she is so genuinely kind.
After lunch, I met up with Julie Jackson Herring and Anne Cooper Owen, who were both “home’’ for a few days. We met at Horton Nash’s organic farm out on Mt. Vernon Road. Horton is Julie’s son.
I arrived there first, and was able to convince Horton to give me a tour of his gardens. He has about a hundred different varieties of organic vegetables planted and he patiently explained to me the various strains and told me about his plans for new crops now that Spring is on its way.
As he talked, I thought how my dad would have loved to have taken this tour. Of course, he would have been astonished at the notion of organic gardening. It was a completely foreign idea to men of my dad’s generation.
I don’t know that he would have bought into any of Horton’s ideas, impressive as they seemed to me. But I bet Horton and my dad would have found some common ground. Like Horton, my dad was a man of the earth. Growing things was something he felt deep down in his soul.
I’d like to think that Horton might have left my dad with a few tips he would have embraced and employed. And I also like to think that my dad could have enlightened Horton on some methods that were never written down in any book, mysteries handed down from one farming generation to the next. Yeah,I think Horton and dad would have gotten along famously. They share a love of growing things that transcends generations or methods.
When Julie and Anne arrived, we sat in the living room of Horton’s little house and talked about nothing and everything. Julie and Anne have been friends forever. That’s a special thing. Somehow, those kinds of long friendships between women have a depth and resonance that male friendships can’t approach. At least that was my thought as we sat and visited.
I came back to Starkville late that afternoon.
Over the rest of the week, I didn’t do much of anything. Check that. I didn’t accomplish much of anything. Somehow, I managed to go to the gym twice a day without losing a single pound. How is that even possible, I wonder.
As I mentioned earlier, I wrote one paper and started on another.
Oh, I also wrote a letter to Moses.
I had heard about Moses from a new friend I had met at church a couple of months ago. Last Sunday, Rob and I had lunch after church and he happened to run in to Moses’ mother as we were being seated at the restaurant. He excused himself to go over to her table. He returned a few minutes later and told me about Moses.
Moses had worked for Rob there is his hometown of Maben until one night, in a fit of jealous rage, Moses burst into a trailer to confront his two-timing wife. He barged into a bedroom and shot the two occupants, presuming one of them to be his wife and the other to be her lover. Wrong room. The woman died, the man was injured, but survived. Realizing his mistake, Moses kicked in the door of another bedroom and found his intended victim. He shot her dead.
“He was one of the best workers we ever had. He had never been in any kind of trouble, no kind of trouble at all,’’ Rob said sadly as he finished the story. “For two minutes in his life, he lost control. Two women are dead. He’s serving a life sentence. Just think: Two minutes.’’
I thought about Moses as we had lunch. Then I asked Rob for his address in prison.
Wednesday, I sat down to write a letter to a stranger, a murderer serving a life sentence. What do you say?
I recalled my own time in prison, a four-month sentence that seemed like an eternity at the time. Four months seems a quick as a hiccup to Moses, I bet.
Moses is 32 year old and serving a life sentence. That could be another 40 to 50 years. I can scarcely imagine it.
But I wrote anyway, on the chance that simply writing would bring him some comfort.
I remember what a treasure it was to get a letter when I was in prison.
To an inmate, a letter means you are still a unique human being with your own identity. That’s something you don’t get in prison. Everybody dresses alike, eats alike, lives alike. It doesn’t take long to lose all sense of your identity under those conditions. A letter reminds you that you are your own person with your own history, a history of good things and not just the bad thing that sent you to prison.
I guess maybe my own prison experience awakened empathy for Moses. I imagine that there must be times when he thinks his life has been wasted. I imagine he plays over in his head the events that led to his current condition. I imagine that he is lonely.I suspect there are times when he is low on hope, that he often feels unloved and unloveable.
I know something about that. Sometimes, I still feel that way.
So I wrote a letter to Moses and told him I’d try to send him a little commissary money, not much, of course. for I don’t have much to spare.
I included my address and said that I would like to hear from him. Of course, Moses doesn’t know me from Adam, you might say. So it’s really up to him.
So that’s how I spent my Spring Break.
It wasn’t exactly a beach in Florida.
But it was pretty good.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
March 9: "Table for One''
Her name is Victoria. That’s really all I know about her because that’s really all she has permitted me to know.
I began to notice her after I had been on campus about a week. It seemed as though every time I turned a corner there she was. Somehow, our schedules sort of converged. When I arrived at the cafeteria for breakfast, here she came, too. Same for lunch. In my travels from one class to another, I would look up and find her walking toward me.
So I introduced myself one morning, noted that we always seemed to be running into each other, and told her my name. She told me hers and that was pretty much the whole conversation.
She is a beautiful girl. Maybe it’s a deception of the heart, but she has a striking resemblance to a girl I used to think I loved – only Victoria is a brunette and about 30 years younger than that person. She, too, reminds me of my own daughter, Abby. Like Abby, she seems to have an indefinable quality that draws people to her.
Yes, Victoria is a beautiful girl, all right. And she is the best kind of beautiful, you know? I am certain that she is aware of her beauty, for she is always neatly dressed and carefully groomed. You never see her in a ball cap with a pony-tail sticking out or running around campus in sweats, although there is nothing wrong with that, of course.
But she does not seem to value her beauty beyond what is healthy. I have noticed that beautiful people who are vain about their appearance tend to associate with other beautiful, equally vain people.
But it is not that way with Victoria. At breakfast and lunch, she is never alone at a table. There are always friends with her, friends of all shapes and sizes, some pretty or handsome, some plain. She does not seem to choose her friends based on something as trivial as appearance.
Of course, that makes Victoria all the more attractive.
And I find that I am also attracted to her, for reasons that are purely platonic, almost paternal.
If I am honest, there is a selfish reason, too. Since my arrival, I’ve had every meal alone. Often, I’ve thought it would be nice to have someone to talk to as I had my meal. I could use the company, you might say.
So I thought it would be nice if Victoria and I became friends. But I am pretty sure she doesn’t want that. For a while after our first meeting, when I would see her sitting at a table in the cafeteria, I would say hello. But I could tell in her reaction that my greeting made her uncomfortable. For whatever reason, I did not seem to fit in her otherwise eclectic circles of friends, acquaintances and companions.
She has never been outright rude; I suspect that would be impossible for her. But it just seems might greetings create an awkward pause in her life. So I don’t press it.
These days, I don’t say hello when I see her in the cafeteria or around campus. I just smile and keep going. And she seems to prefer it that way, as far as I can tell.
I have wondered why it should be that way. Maybe, I represent to her some sort of gross old man, some drooling "ancient'' whose motives are too disgusting to contemplate. Maybe my smile seems more like a leer to her.
Or maybe it’s something far more innocent.
I reflect that when I was her age, the only middle-aged people I wanted to be around were relatives and, even then, only in certain circumstances and in small doses. And in the light of that, I should not be surprised if that is Victoria’s preference, too.
I do not want to give the impression that I am treated poorly by my fellow students, though. To the contrary, I am always being greeted warmly by the young students with whom I share a class. I dare say that I am the one student that everyone in class recognizes, primarily because I am conspicuous in my appearance, a gray head in a sea of blondes and brunettes.
But when I see one of my fellow students in the cafeteria, I do not invite myself to join them at their table. What’s true of Victoria is probably true of them as well, I figure. Better to wait for an invitation, I figure.
Someday, of course, Victoria will find nothing awkward or unseemly about having a friend who is many years her senior. I know that to be true, because it is consistent with my own experience. As she gets older, she will find that her circle will include those who are very much her senior. Some may even become her dearest friends. I certainly have found that to be ture.
But she isn’t there yet. And it is probably very natural that she isn’t.
So most days, I eat my meals in solitude as Victoria and her friends laugh and eat just a few tables away.
Being the “ham’’ that I am, I’d like to be in the middle of that. But I can’t force my way in, obviously.
Besides, eating meals alone hardly qualifies as a tragic circumstance. It does not crush my spirits or darken my countenance.
But just once before I graduate, I would like to sit at a table and, between bites, ask someone sitting across from me:
“So how was class today?’’
I began to notice her after I had been on campus about a week. It seemed as though every time I turned a corner there she was. Somehow, our schedules sort of converged. When I arrived at the cafeteria for breakfast, here she came, too. Same for lunch. In my travels from one class to another, I would look up and find her walking toward me.
So I introduced myself one morning, noted that we always seemed to be running into each other, and told her my name. She told me hers and that was pretty much the whole conversation.
She is a beautiful girl. Maybe it’s a deception of the heart, but she has a striking resemblance to a girl I used to think I loved – only Victoria is a brunette and about 30 years younger than that person. She, too, reminds me of my own daughter, Abby. Like Abby, she seems to have an indefinable quality that draws people to her.
Yes, Victoria is a beautiful girl, all right. And she is the best kind of beautiful, you know? I am certain that she is aware of her beauty, for she is always neatly dressed and carefully groomed. You never see her in a ball cap with a pony-tail sticking out or running around campus in sweats, although there is nothing wrong with that, of course.
But she does not seem to value her beauty beyond what is healthy. I have noticed that beautiful people who are vain about their appearance tend to associate with other beautiful, equally vain people.
But it is not that way with Victoria. At breakfast and lunch, she is never alone at a table. There are always friends with her, friends of all shapes and sizes, some pretty or handsome, some plain. She does not seem to choose her friends based on something as trivial as appearance.
Of course, that makes Victoria all the more attractive.
And I find that I am also attracted to her, for reasons that are purely platonic, almost paternal.
If I am honest, there is a selfish reason, too. Since my arrival, I’ve had every meal alone. Often, I’ve thought it would be nice to have someone to talk to as I had my meal. I could use the company, you might say.
So I thought it would be nice if Victoria and I became friends. But I am pretty sure she doesn’t want that. For a while after our first meeting, when I would see her sitting at a table in the cafeteria, I would say hello. But I could tell in her reaction that my greeting made her uncomfortable. For whatever reason, I did not seem to fit in her otherwise eclectic circles of friends, acquaintances and companions.
She has never been outright rude; I suspect that would be impossible for her. But it just seems might greetings create an awkward pause in her life. So I don’t press it.
These days, I don’t say hello when I see her in the cafeteria or around campus. I just smile and keep going. And she seems to prefer it that way, as far as I can tell.
I have wondered why it should be that way. Maybe, I represent to her some sort of gross old man, some drooling "ancient'' whose motives are too disgusting to contemplate. Maybe my smile seems more like a leer to her.
Or maybe it’s something far more innocent.
I reflect that when I was her age, the only middle-aged people I wanted to be around were relatives and, even then, only in certain circumstances and in small doses. And in the light of that, I should not be surprised if that is Victoria’s preference, too.
I do not want to give the impression that I am treated poorly by my fellow students, though. To the contrary, I am always being greeted warmly by the young students with whom I share a class. I dare say that I am the one student that everyone in class recognizes, primarily because I am conspicuous in my appearance, a gray head in a sea of blondes and brunettes.
But when I see one of my fellow students in the cafeteria, I do not invite myself to join them at their table. What’s true of Victoria is probably true of them as well, I figure. Better to wait for an invitation, I figure.
Someday, of course, Victoria will find nothing awkward or unseemly about having a friend who is many years her senior. I know that to be true, because it is consistent with my own experience. As she gets older, she will find that her circle will include those who are very much her senior. Some may even become her dearest friends. I certainly have found that to be ture.
But she isn’t there yet. And it is probably very natural that she isn’t.
So most days, I eat my meals in solitude as Victoria and her friends laugh and eat just a few tables away.
Being the “ham’’ that I am, I’d like to be in the middle of that. But I can’t force my way in, obviously.
Besides, eating meals alone hardly qualifies as a tragic circumstance. It does not crush my spirits or darken my countenance.
But just once before I graduate, I would like to sit at a table and, between bites, ask someone sitting across from me:
“So how was class today?’’
Monday, March 7, 2011
March 7: "The Longest Mile''
Monday afternoon found me at the Drill Field at the heart of the Mississippi State campus where I joined almost 300 fellow students to take part in an event called “Walk A Mile In Her Shoes,’’ otherwise known as the slowest mile in recorded history.
The event, sponsored by Outreach & Sexual Assault Services, the MSU National Pan-Hellenic Council and the MSU Interfraternity Council, is held each year to call attention to the serious issue of sexual and physical abuse toward women.
Each year, men trade in their tennis shoes for women’s pump, stilettos, flats, wedges and sandals and walk four times around the quarter-mile periphery of the Drill Field.
You know, I never did make the connection between staggering/limping/stumbling a mile in painful shoes and sexual and physical abuse. I don’t know. Maybe the message is: Don’t mistreat women; they abuse themselves enough as it is.
When I signed up last week, I was told to be at the Drill Field at 3:30 to pick up my shoes for the 4 p.m. event. But 4 p.m. came and went as about 300 men in uncomfortable footwear listened to various local dignitaries talk about what is a very serious issue.
That means I was in my women’s Size 12s for 50 minutes before the walk even began.
Nobody seemed to mind the delay, though; we were too busy gasping in horror at the footwear of our fellow men.
I took some photos of some of the guys. There were four sheriff’s deputies who were also participating. I took photos of each of them in their women’s shoes on the theory that, hey, I might get pulled over sometime. This is what is called “leverage,’’ I believe.
As I sat on a low wall waiting for the pain to commence, I struck up a conversation with a guy named Ryan, who was there with four of his Sigma Chi fraternity brothers. I noticed that Ryan was wearing a pair of white pumps, but I spared him the embarrassment of noting that it was always in poor taste to wear white shoes before Easter. I mean, there is no reason to be cruel, right.
Besides, Ryan seemed to be getting a huge kick out of the spectacle.
“Can you believe we are doing this?’’ he said, laughing. “Dudes wearing women’s shoes?’’
I noted the excitement in his voice and tried to match it.
“I know!’ I said, enthusiastically. “And I’m wearing women’s underwear, too! Isn’t this fun!’’
I didn’t see Ryan again after that, oddly enough.
One of the co-eds at the registration table helped me with my choice of footwear. I confess that I had my eye on some hunter green heels with a pointy-toe. She soon talked me out of it, though, wrinkling her cute little nose and shaking her head vigorously.
“You want to stay away from heels,’’ she advised. “And pointy-toes, too. They hurt.’’
Armed with such useful information, I chose a pair of brown wedges with clothes straps that tied just about the ankles (at least that’s where I tied them, anyhow). It was not the most stunning look, I thought, but I was pleased with the choice, overall. They were sensible shoes.
No some guys totally wimped out, choosing flats or even sandals, which would even be permitted if I were running the event.
But there were some brave souls who defied logic and good sense and choose stilettos. They would pay for such boldness, of course. By the time we had made our first lap around the drill field, most of the stilettos wearers, where either wincing in pain or had given up and were walking barefoot, heels in hand.
When the walk finally began, all of us passed by a table where four members of the MSU fashion board sat at a make-shift review stand.
“Tell my children I love them,’’ I said bravely, as I began the walk.
I am happy to report that I didn’t break an ankle, didn’t fall and didn’t give up. I made it the full mile. The wedges turned out to be a wise selection.
I think we finished the walk in about 30 minutes, which translates into a "blistering'' 2 mph pace.
At the end of the event, they gave out various plagues. Sigma Chi won an award for having the most members from a group. Some other fraternity won for something else. A black guy in pink stilettos was declared the most stylish walker by the Fashion Board committee.
I didn’t win any prize, though, mainly because they didn’t have a category for “Most Dignified.’’
The event, sponsored by Outreach & Sexual Assault Services, the MSU National Pan-Hellenic Council and the MSU Interfraternity Council, is held each year to call attention to the serious issue of sexual and physical abuse toward women.
Each year, men trade in their tennis shoes for women’s pump, stilettos, flats, wedges and sandals and walk four times around the quarter-mile periphery of the Drill Field.
You know, I never did make the connection between staggering/limping/stumbling a mile in painful shoes and sexual and physical abuse. I don’t know. Maybe the message is: Don’t mistreat women; they abuse themselves enough as it is.
When I signed up last week, I was told to be at the Drill Field at 3:30 to pick up my shoes for the 4 p.m. event. But 4 p.m. came and went as about 300 men in uncomfortable footwear listened to various local dignitaries talk about what is a very serious issue.
That means I was in my women’s Size 12s for 50 minutes before the walk even began.
Nobody seemed to mind the delay, though; we were too busy gasping in horror at the footwear of our fellow men.
I took some photos of some of the guys. There were four sheriff’s deputies who were also participating. I took photos of each of them in their women’s shoes on the theory that, hey, I might get pulled over sometime. This is what is called “leverage,’’ I believe.
As I sat on a low wall waiting for the pain to commence, I struck up a conversation with a guy named Ryan, who was there with four of his Sigma Chi fraternity brothers. I noticed that Ryan was wearing a pair of white pumps, but I spared him the embarrassment of noting that it was always in poor taste to wear white shoes before Easter. I mean, there is no reason to be cruel, right.
Besides, Ryan seemed to be getting a huge kick out of the spectacle.
“Can you believe we are doing this?’’ he said, laughing. “Dudes wearing women’s shoes?’’
I noted the excitement in his voice and tried to match it.
“I know!’ I said, enthusiastically. “And I’m wearing women’s underwear, too! Isn’t this fun!’’
I didn’t see Ryan again after that, oddly enough.
One of the co-eds at the registration table helped me with my choice of footwear. I confess that I had my eye on some hunter green heels with a pointy-toe. She soon talked me out of it, though, wrinkling her cute little nose and shaking her head vigorously.
“You want to stay away from heels,’’ she advised. “And pointy-toes, too. They hurt.’’
Armed with such useful information, I chose a pair of brown wedges with clothes straps that tied just about the ankles (at least that’s where I tied them, anyhow). It was not the most stunning look, I thought, but I was pleased with the choice, overall. They were sensible shoes.
No some guys totally wimped out, choosing flats or even sandals, which would even be permitted if I were running the event.
But there were some brave souls who defied logic and good sense and choose stilettos. They would pay for such boldness, of course. By the time we had made our first lap around the drill field, most of the stilettos wearers, where either wincing in pain or had given up and were walking barefoot, heels in hand.
When the walk finally began, all of us passed by a table where four members of the MSU fashion board sat at a make-shift review stand.
“Tell my children I love them,’’ I said bravely, as I began the walk.
I am happy to report that I didn’t break an ankle, didn’t fall and didn’t give up. I made it the full mile. The wedges turned out to be a wise selection.
I think we finished the walk in about 30 minutes, which translates into a "blistering'' 2 mph pace.
At the end of the event, they gave out various plagues. Sigma Chi won an award for having the most members from a group. Some other fraternity won for something else. A black guy in pink stilettos was declared the most stylish walker by the Fashion Board committee.
I didn’t win any prize, though, mainly because they didn’t have a category for “Most Dignified.’’
Saturday, March 5, 2011
March 5: "The New Paradigm''
This post is a copy of a letter I sent to a friend this morning. It will likely produce one of two reactions: Eyes will roll from here to Arizona; or hearts will be warmed. Certainly, I hope it is the latter, but I have no control over that.
(In the letter that follows, I have used the name “Sally’’ to protect someone’s privacy. I chose Sally because I don’t know anyone by that name.)
M:
I had a great visit with my pastor yesterday. I pretty much laid out everything I could think of that’s happened over the past nine years, beginning with the break-up with my marriage.
I won’t go into details of what we talked about, other than to say that I walked out of there almost three hours later realizing that what I really need is a major paradigm shift.
Thanks to you, I realized that I have been lonely pretty much all my life, even when I was married, even when I was with Deb and Sally.
What I came to realize yesterday was that the relationship I was really lonely for all this time has been one with Jesus.
When I was saved in 2004, Jesus was almost like an accessory, in some respects, an add-on. He was a spoke in the wheel, rather than the hub, from which all other things emanate and have their proper context.
My pastor listened to me talk about how lonely I was, how desperately I wanted someone to share my life with. And he told me, very plainly, that it was a delusion – that in my current state even if I were to find someone, I would still be lonely. For God’s elect, contentment can’t really be found in relationships or possessions alone.
The reason for my loneliness, I am convinced, is that God is using it to draw me into a relationship that can fulfill my deepest desires: “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness and all these other things will be added unto you,’’ as it is written. I had had it in my mind that when I got the girl, then I would work on my relationship with Him. I had it all backwards, of course.
All these years, I sort of viewed Jesus as a means to an end: a way to get what I wanted, some sort of cosmic Santa Claus. Now, I believe that Jesus is the end himself, and everything that will come my way after are the real “accessories’’ of life.
Last night, I began to think that my relationship with Sally is a metaphor that God has used to show me something about Jesus’ desire for me.
I thought of how intense my desire for Sally was, how it was all-consuming, all I could think about., I thought about how happy I was to think of all the plans and dreams we had.
Then, I thought about the pain I felt when she dumped me, how hard it is has been to get her off my mind, how I still ache for her.
I thought, too, of how she said he still loved me – just not in “that way,’’ of how she said she wanted to stay in touch because she loved me, yet she rarely reached out to me and always seemed irritated when I tried to reach out to her.
I thought of the pain I felt when I learned that she with someone else now, someone I knew. How could she chose him over me? It was a thought that tortured me.
How painful all of this has been for me, as you know.
And I consider that in the metaphor, I have been “Sally” and Jesus has been “me.’’
He loves me and wants to have the closest kind of relationship with me and, for a time, we were close. But then I choose to pull back and make the relationship something different. Oh, I would say I loved Jesus, but I rarely wanted to be with him or talk to him and when he wanted to talk to me, I was irritated.
When I first got with Sally, I knew it was wrong in God's eyes. And I remember making a conscious choice to take Sally over Jesus. I am sure he wondered, too: "Why would he chose her over me?''
I do believe that I have broken His heart and that the pain I feel about Sally is, in some respect, similar to the pain he has felt about me. I have betrayed and rejected his wooing, even while claiming that I love him.
And just as I thought I would take Sally back, Jesus WILL take me back.
The difference is, of course, that my relationship with Jesus can only be a healthy one. My relationship with Sally can never be. It never was.
I am pretty sure that Jesus loves me more than I loved Sally. I believe my feelings for her were a deception. It should never have happened. It was wrong.
And while God did not ordain that relationship, he did permit it.
When his brothers came to Joseph to tell them how sorry they were for all the horrible things they had done to him, he said, “What you intended for harm, God used for good.’’
I believe the same can be said of my relationship with Sally. God can use even the wrong we do and turn it into something good.
This morning, at least, when I think of Sally there is no pain or longing. I believe I can let her go now. Maybe she will discover in herself what I am learning about myself. I hope so.
So I begin a new relationship, one that does for me what no other relationship has ever been able to do: I can be happy, truly happy.
As you know, the thought that I might never have that human companionship was a terror for me. Now, I think I can accept it, if that’s the way things turn out. I think I can be happy regardless of what the future holds, in fact.
I think it was St. Augustine who said of God, "the soul has no rests until it finds its rest in thee.'' I see it as a fact now.
I am not so naïve as to think that all the pain and fear is behind me. I know this is a process, that I’ll have ups and downs, setbacks and disappointments.
But in those moments where the pain over Sally emerges, I believe I can recognize that pain as nothing more than a a poor representation of the pain that Jesus felt over our broken relationship.
It’s a new and healthy way to deal with that pain, when it comes, as long as it comes.
I know, deep down, I am on the track toward the life God intended for me from the beginning of time.
All my life, I have been lonely for someone. I thought it was Susan or Deb or Sally or someone else, maybe. Now I know the person I was lonely for has been there all along. And he has been lonely for me, too. The idea alone is overwhelming.
I believe God used you first, and then my pastor to point me in the right direction.
I love you both for it!
(In the letter that follows, I have used the name “Sally’’ to protect someone’s privacy. I chose Sally because I don’t know anyone by that name.)
M:
I had a great visit with my pastor yesterday. I pretty much laid out everything I could think of that’s happened over the past nine years, beginning with the break-up with my marriage.
I won’t go into details of what we talked about, other than to say that I walked out of there almost three hours later realizing that what I really need is a major paradigm shift.
Thanks to you, I realized that I have been lonely pretty much all my life, even when I was married, even when I was with Deb and Sally.
What I came to realize yesterday was that the relationship I was really lonely for all this time has been one with Jesus.
When I was saved in 2004, Jesus was almost like an accessory, in some respects, an add-on. He was a spoke in the wheel, rather than the hub, from which all other things emanate and have their proper context.
My pastor listened to me talk about how lonely I was, how desperately I wanted someone to share my life with. And he told me, very plainly, that it was a delusion – that in my current state even if I were to find someone, I would still be lonely. For God’s elect, contentment can’t really be found in relationships or possessions alone.
The reason for my loneliness, I am convinced, is that God is using it to draw me into a relationship that can fulfill my deepest desires: “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness and all these other things will be added unto you,’’ as it is written. I had had it in my mind that when I got the girl, then I would work on my relationship with Him. I had it all backwards, of course.
All these years, I sort of viewed Jesus as a means to an end: a way to get what I wanted, some sort of cosmic Santa Claus. Now, I believe that Jesus is the end himself, and everything that will come my way after are the real “accessories’’ of life.
Last night, I began to think that my relationship with Sally is a metaphor that God has used to show me something about Jesus’ desire for me.
I thought of how intense my desire for Sally was, how it was all-consuming, all I could think about., I thought about how happy I was to think of all the plans and dreams we had.
Then, I thought about the pain I felt when she dumped me, how hard it is has been to get her off my mind, how I still ache for her.
I thought, too, of how she said he still loved me – just not in “that way,’’ of how she said she wanted to stay in touch because she loved me, yet she rarely reached out to me and always seemed irritated when I tried to reach out to her.
I thought of the pain I felt when I learned that she with someone else now, someone I knew. How could she chose him over me? It was a thought that tortured me.
How painful all of this has been for me, as you know.
And I consider that in the metaphor, I have been “Sally” and Jesus has been “me.’’
He loves me and wants to have the closest kind of relationship with me and, for a time, we were close. But then I choose to pull back and make the relationship something different. Oh, I would say I loved Jesus, but I rarely wanted to be with him or talk to him and when he wanted to talk to me, I was irritated.
When I first got with Sally, I knew it was wrong in God's eyes. And I remember making a conscious choice to take Sally over Jesus. I am sure he wondered, too: "Why would he chose her over me?''
I do believe that I have broken His heart and that the pain I feel about Sally is, in some respect, similar to the pain he has felt about me. I have betrayed and rejected his wooing, even while claiming that I love him.
And just as I thought I would take Sally back, Jesus WILL take me back.
The difference is, of course, that my relationship with Jesus can only be a healthy one. My relationship with Sally can never be. It never was.
I am pretty sure that Jesus loves me more than I loved Sally. I believe my feelings for her were a deception. It should never have happened. It was wrong.
And while God did not ordain that relationship, he did permit it.
When his brothers came to Joseph to tell them how sorry they were for all the horrible things they had done to him, he said, “What you intended for harm, God used for good.’’
I believe the same can be said of my relationship with Sally. God can use even the wrong we do and turn it into something good.
This morning, at least, when I think of Sally there is no pain or longing. I believe I can let her go now. Maybe she will discover in herself what I am learning about myself. I hope so.
So I begin a new relationship, one that does for me what no other relationship has ever been able to do: I can be happy, truly happy.
As you know, the thought that I might never have that human companionship was a terror for me. Now, I think I can accept it, if that’s the way things turn out. I think I can be happy regardless of what the future holds, in fact.
I think it was St. Augustine who said of God, "the soul has no rests until it finds its rest in thee.'' I see it as a fact now.
I am not so naïve as to think that all the pain and fear is behind me. I know this is a process, that I’ll have ups and downs, setbacks and disappointments.
But in those moments where the pain over Sally emerges, I believe I can recognize that pain as nothing more than a a poor representation of the pain that Jesus felt over our broken relationship.
It’s a new and healthy way to deal with that pain, when it comes, as long as it comes.
I know, deep down, I am on the track toward the life God intended for me from the beginning of time.
All my life, I have been lonely for someone. I thought it was Susan or Deb or Sally or someone else, maybe. Now I know the person I was lonely for has been there all along. And he has been lonely for me, too. The idea alone is overwhelming.
I believe God used you first, and then my pastor to point me in the right direction.
I love you both for it!
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