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A few days ago I stumbled across someone in the blogosphere who is very angry at me.

I don’t mean just plain mad – I mean red-eye raging, forehead-vein throbbing, spittle-forming-in-the-corner-of-your mouth mad. I think if I turned a corner and she recognized me for what I am, she would have offered a wide-eyed smiled just before stabbing me in the eye socket with a verbal knife.

Let me clarify – this was guilt by association only. This person doesn’t know me; she probably doesn’t even realize that I, as an individual, exist. But she is angry at a group of people because of what has been done by some of the individuals in that group, and she went out of her way to make sure her audience understood that there was no chance in hell that I was any different from the whole stinking lot.

Someone I don’t even know is angry at me.

For some reason this affected me.

* * * * *

The blog post was very, very long, but I made myself read it all the way through.  I sighed.  Many of the reasons that she is angry with me are the same reasons I am angry and frustrated and sad with the world.  I wanted to comment and tell her that I was different. I wanted to ask her if she was willing to get to know me. But she was very clear in her blog post – if you are this one thing, then there’s no getting around it.

I hadn’t felt this way for a long time, so I dug into the emotion. What was I feeling? Why was my heart racing? What about this interaction made me want to give up hope that human beings can ever truly reconcile with each other? Why did I suddenly want to disengage with everyone who even slightly disagreed with me? Then I remembered it.

I felt stereotyped.

* * * * *

When Maile and I moved to England in 2001, 9/11 was scarcely a month behind us. England had moments of silence in which entire cities would literally stop – cars, people, trains – all in remembrance of those who had died. For those first few months of our time in England, if anyone heard our American accents they would stop us and ask how we were doing, ask if we had relatives who had died in the attacks.

But then, as America began pulling England into a war in Iraq, the sentiment changed. Our friends still treated us well, but occasionally a stranger would hear us speak and ask, with a slightly repulsed look on their face:

“Are you American?”

Or people at parties who assumed we were Canadian (I guess due to our accents beginning to meld with Brit-speak) would go on rants about “dumb Americans.”

Who would ever think that a caucasian, male, American could ever feel like a minority. But I did. And I tried hard to fit in: to look British, sound British. Maile and I talked quietly, so as not to perpetrate the loud American stereotype. Yet we almost always felt out of place.

It’s not fun, being the stereotype.

* * * * *

I had a few different reactions to the woman who is angry with me. I wanted to apologize for being part of something that made her so mad. I wanted to ask her, indignantly, how she could paint such a broad stroke. I wanted to write something that would prove to her that I wasn’t that person. I wanted to get angry back.

But I didn’t. I just clicked the little X at the top right hand corner of the page and left without comment.

* * * * *

There is nothing wrong with anger. For a great reflection on that emotion, check out Jason McCarty’s recent blog on it. Anger can spur us to action, it can shed light on injustice, it can save our lives. And like I said, 99% of the things she is angry about are things that a lot of people are angry about.

But I think that if there’s ever a chance for people to meet and form relationships and increase their understanding and eventually bring about change, somehow the anger, while it’s force continues to be aimed at bringing down the injustice, must still leave room for like-minded people with different backgrounds to connect. And that’s what I felt was missing. Basically, I came away with the feeling that she was saying:

“I’m angry at you, Shawn, because you are the human form of all that I am angry with, and there’s nothing you can do or say to prove to me that we could ever be on the same page or fight for the same cause.”

In essence, this is bipartisan politics at its worst.

It’s the root of what drives every ethnic conflict on earth.

Anger directed at causes and movements and injustice makes sense to me. Anger that leaves no room for dialogue is an anger that makes reconciliation impossible.

* * * * *

I sit here and wonder. Who am I angry at? Are there people, perhaps part of movements or belief systems that I find distasteful, that I could connect with, influence, and in the end make the world a better place?

My mind has never been changed by someone directing their anger at me.

But recently I have found my mind changing regarding things I had once felt so sure about. Not because the issue has changed or the people I once disagreed with have changed their minds.  Not because they’ve gotten less angry. But because we have both deliberately set our anger to the side so that we can exchange emails, share a meal, get to know one another a little better.

By all means, let your anger motivate you to change the world. But don’t let your anger alienate you from a potential ally.

* * * * *
For similar posts, check out:

Stop Long Enough to Hear the Story

Where Have All the Candles Gone?

Democracy: An American Christian’s Prop?

Yesterday I offered up a confession: when communicating with my kids, I am now using some of the phrases my parents used. It’s true. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I don’t seem to have any control over it.

So I threw the question out there to the readers – what lines do you remember your parents using?  And the response was overwhelming. These are just a few that came in:

1. “Don’t make me turn this car around!” (Brenda Boitson via yesterday’s comments)

2. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” This is actually used more by my kids. I am not, and have never been, a big breakfast fan. Usually I get by on nothing. Or maybe a glass of milk. But my older two are always happy to remind me, when I come back in the house for an early lunch (at around 10:00am) that if I had eaten breakfast, the most important meal of the day, I’d last until the real lunch time.

3. “Don’t make me come up there!” Or back there. Or down there. This one can be adapted to just about any location on the planet. Or in the afterlife.

4. “I’m not so-and-so’s parents” – (in response to, “but so-and-so’s parents let him do such and such) (Ken Mueller via yesterday’s comments)

5. “What do you say?” This ambiguous questions is usually greeted by an equally ambiguous stare.

Someone gives one of my younger children something nice.

“What do you say?” I ask, eyebrows raised.

Blank stare.

“What do you say?” I ask again, nudging them, nodding my head.

Silence.

“Say thank you,” I hiss.

“Thank you,” they say, relieved.

6. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” Usually accompanied with an I’m-looking-at-you-out-of-the-corner-of-my-eye stare and the equally threatening eyebrow raise.

7. “This too shall pass.” (Sara Eiser via Twitter) This one sounds like it may have been used for the last several hundred years (due of course to the presence of the word “shall”), but I can vouch that it is alive and well in the postmodern parenting generation.

8. “‘Can I just have 2 minutes of peace and quiet, please?’ – the answer is never yes.” (Bryan Allain via yesterday’s comments)

9. “You better hope I don’t get to 10! 1…2…3…” (Susan Zeamer via yesterday’s comments)

10. “When I was your age . . .” (Kevin via yesterday’s comments)

Honorable Mentions:

“This is the world’s smallest violin playing just for you” – said while parent rubs thumb and forefinger together (Chris Hall via Twitter)

“Go ask your mother” – (Mrs. Mickle via Twitter)

“To thine own self be true” (Sara Eiser via Twitter) – hmmm, another one with an old-fashioned word in it…Sara’s really sweatin’ to the oldies.

“If you keep slingin’ mud at the wall, something will eventually stick.” (Melody Kittles via Twitter)

Just about all of these folks left multiple suggestions, all just as funny as these, so head back to yesterday’s post and check out the comments.

Phew. I’ve never used so many “via”s in my entire life. It’s tiring.

For more Top 10 fun, check out these posts:

Top 10 Reasons Costco Gets Away With Charging Me To Shop There

Top 10 Stalling Tactics My Children Use At Bedtime

Top 10 Quotes on Writing EVER

 

There were always things my parents said that I said I would never say.

Did you get that?

Yet now, nearly 30 years later, when my kids start pushing my buttons, and I am at a loss for words, these old go-to phrases suddenly emerge from my own vocal chords, as if ghosts from the past have taken up residence in my over-sized Adam’s apple and are controlling everything I say.

These are the top 10 things my parents said that I now find myself compelled to say:

1) “Because I said so.” This was the ultimate ending of any argument, and I find myself using it more these days as my kids get older and their reasoning power reaches a new level. I finally understand why my parents used it – there is no comeback. For example:

“Dad, can I have some ice cream.”

“Not tonight. It’s almost bed time.”

“What?! You always eat ice cream before bed! Why can’t I?”

“Because I said so.”

2) “I’m not saying it again” (AKA “I’m saying this one last time”) – This basically means nothing. I tell it to my kids all the time, and they know that it’s meaningless. They will ask again, and I will say it again. The only way to break out of this particular cycle is to drop “because I said so” on them.

“C’mon dad, can’t we stay up for 10 more minutes?”

“It’s bed time. That’s it. I’m not saying it again.”

“Please, please, please let us stay up? Why can’t we stay up?”

“Because I said so.”

3) “As long as you live in our house, you’ll play by our rules” – how condescending can you get? Our kids aren’t quite old enough to appreciate this one, but I still drop it from time to time:

“Take off your shoes, kids.”

“Why do we always have to take our shoes off? We’re going right back outside!”

“Hey, as long as you live in my house, you’ll play by my rules.”

4) “one more time” – this one is more of a fragment, but can be used in all kinds of different settings: “if you so much as touch your sister one more time…” or, “if you come out of your room one more time…” or “if you shout here in the library one more time.” This particular phrase is only useful if it is followed up by a suitably ambiguous threat like “you’re gonna get it.”

5) “If you want it, then save your money up and buy it yourself” – this one might be more specific to my household, I don’t know, but I’ve decided to use it as a standby when requests for stuff become frequent. It makes about as much sense as “because I said so,” seeing that my son gets an allowance of about $4 a week, half of which he has to put into a piggy bank as “savings.”

For example, sometimes when we’re at the store he’ll see a Nintendo Wii and ask for it – if I’m correct, these run for around $300?

“Dad, can we buy a Wii?”

“Hey, if you want it, save your money up and buy it yourself.”

Wrinkled brow.

“How long would it take me to save up $300?”

“About three years. Give or take a few weeks. If you never buy anything else.”

I’m going to stop at five today and ask you the question: what are the old stand-by phrases your parents used? Help me fill in the final five for tomorrow’s post, and if your phrase is included I’ll be sure to give you credit.

This Tuesday’s Top 10 idea is brought to you by Janelle. Thanks!

We like to moan and groan about Mondays.

We like to rejoice in the wonderment of TGIF.

But what if we saw each Monday as a new beginning? A chance to start over? An opportunity to push aside our screw-ups and hang-ups and unrealized goals of the previous week, the previous month, even the previous year, and start fresh?

What if we could regain the imagination of our childhood and believe that, this week, anything is possible?

Maybe this is the week we get that job.

Maybe this is the week we get that acceptance letter.

Maybe this is the week that an unimagined reconciliation occurs.

Who knows.

But I do know this – every single week during which something awesome happened, every single week during which you’ve overcome or conquered or achieved, every single one of those weeks…began with a Monday.

When Shawn asked me to write a guest post, he suggested the topic of “how you got into poetry.” This is actually a bit puzzling for me to write about, because I wasn’t really given a choice in the matter — rather, trained for the vocation from infancy.

What do I mean here? I mean that I was a colicky baby — as my mother, until the very end of her life, never let me forget. My parents discovered that taking me for a car ride, in itself, didn’t always solve the problem, but taking me for a car ride and reciting nursery rhymes helped greatly. Until, that is, I started screaming when the poetry stopped. To save her sanity, my mother crammed like a college student before finals and memorized reams of verse.

When she began teaching night classes (math must have been a blessed relief from all the doggerel), my father had me to deal with, and by then I had fallen hard for a book called Milkman Bill. I wanted this read to me over and over and oy vey is mir, over. Dad’s sanity-saving ploy one night involved reading me the book word-for-word backwards: that is, “truck shiny his into climbed Bill Milkman.” Only my mother came home, caught him doing this, and chewed him out for potentially causing dyslexia. Far from it. I loved the fresh idea that you could juggle words for comic effect.

And of course, being the children of two academics, my sister and I were raised in a house that resembled a small library, albeit one with Legos all over the floor. I was taken aback at times to go over to friends’ houses and discover walls bare of books. I remember bouncing on the bed as Dad read Vachel Lindsay.

By age four, I had produced the following magnum opus:

Nature is green.
Nature is wild.
Why, nature can be
Just like a child!

To my absolute dismay, this poem, typed out (the privilege of using Mom’s electric typewriter was, at the time, the coolest thing ever) and suitably decorated with drawings, stayed on my grandmother’s fridge until she moved to a nursing home — sometime in her early nineties. I trust that you kind readers of Shawn’s blog will avoid asking me pointed workshoppy questions about this quatrain, namely whether I meant that children were green as well as wild.

I found a best friend who liked books too, and we played at being the characters from Lloyd Alexander’s Chronicles of Prydain. By my second semester at Penn State, I had declared an English major with a concentration in writing, and was looking for a writing-intensive course to fill my fall schedule. I spotted a section of English 213 — which turned out to be taught by poet, translator, essayist, and memoirist Bruce Weigl — and thought, “Oh, poetry. That should be easy.” (When did these words come back to haunt me? When I sat down to write my four-hour master’s degree candidacy exam, after turning in a thesis advised by another great poet, Carolyn Forché.)

But how do you train a poet in childhood? You indulge her curiosity. You take her to the library as a treat and let her roam the whole thing. On Saturdays, when we lived in Grand Forks, North Dakota, we would head downtown to a used-book store called The Book Fair. (Lancaster County friends, take note: Aaron’s Books in Lititz similarly encourages kids to plop down and read.) You take her out into green, wild nature: I have photographic evidence of my involvement in the Audubon Society literally before I could walk. You give her chemistry sets, Erector sets, and the aforementioned Legos, all of which train the mind to build intricate structures. You give her notebooks, blank books, journals. You may, of course, wish to point out that the Jabberwock has jaws that bite and claws that catch.

That is how I got into poetry: standing a while in uffish thought beneath the Tumtum tree. Or maybe it was a Truffula Tree, one of the few saved by the Lorax. Both species are good at showing your future poet how sounds can be arranged into patterns, and how much fun this is.

Check out Gwyn’s latest book of poems, “Ordinary Beans,” HERE

This afternoon I get to go back to Messiah and talk to English majors about life after college.  A friend of mine, Adam Benner, heard about this and sent me a message on Facebook:

Heard that you’ve been selected to assuage the fears of Messiah’s English majors…I’m actually waiting for them to invite me for a talk designed to inspire fear in Messiah’s English majors.

I’m not sure how many fears my story will assuage, but I do hope it will encourage them to use their imagination, and follow their passions, and not get caught up in thinking they have to do things the way everyone else does them.

More than anything, though, I’m just looking forward to being back on campus. I love that place and all the memories it gave me, and I can’t wait to just wander around with Maile, visiting some of our old haunts: there’s the creek and the covered bridge that used to be such a part of my emotional landscape; the library where many late nights were spent cramming and procrastinating; the entrance to the dorm where Maile and I had our first smooch; the cafes and the classrooms and the auditorium; the place in the woods where I asked her to marry me.

What’s a place in this world that you enjoy going back to? What’s it like when you get there?