Ramadan 1433

Ramadan is here, a bit quicker than I had expected though :)  I am well into the first day and doing well. I have settled into my new job and location, and I have so much to be thankful for. Last Ramadan, I read through my Koran and wrote a post about each sura. It was a wonderful experience, and the discipline was very comforting. This year, I will read my Koran again, but I want to do something different here. I have decided to write a post about the people in my life who have influenced me, some in very small ways, some in very profound ways. I am not sure how many posts I will produce, but as I write them, I will revisit the lessons I have learned the inspiration I  have borrowed from these individuals. Some of these folks are already mentioned in previous blogs, but I want to single them out again to honor the goodness that they have shared with me.



There is a young man who haunts me these past thirty-eight years. I have an image of him, but I am not sure it is correct. I never talked to him, and probably only saw him a handful of times, yet I think of him often, and he was the first one I thought of today as I thought of people to write about. When I was fourteen, my family moved to Pontiac, Michigan to a very rough side of that rough town. We only stayed there for six months, and I am convinced I would not have survived if we had stayed too much longer. I won't go into the details of the place (I did that in Train Kept A Rollin), but it was a place like none I had seen before or since. Between its iniquities and my weaknesses, I barely escaped with my life, literally. I spent five months in an inner-city school there, and that is where I encountered this young man - I started to say this remarkable young man, but I am not really sure if he was. His memory is though, and I will stick to that.

I moved through the school warily; the violence, drugs, alcohol would rival a rock concert on most days. I found a few friends for security, and we did our best to avoid too much attention. One day, while listening to a few girls talk about their drug-fueled dates the evening before, I noticed him sitting a few tables away. It was a dramatic moment, as he was so comically out of place. Looking back now, I suppose he was as Muslim, a member of the Nation of Islam by his dress and demeanor. He was very serious, immaculately dressed with a bow tie, and carried around a brief case that I am sure got him beat up from time to time.

He was always alone when I saw him, and I never noticed him communicating with anyone. He did not become a major point of interest for me, but I do remember puzzling over his presence there. I thought him single-minded and stoic, and I supposed that was in his mind the only way out of that sewer to a better life. Still, I could not imagine forgoing the immediate environment (no matter how bad it was), its pains and pleasures in pursuit of some future contingency unsure, unsettled, and surely not guaranteed. Whatever lay in the day, had its own security - to walk right past that deliberately and almost contemptuously was an act of personal anarchy that I would not appreciate for several decades.

I love this recontexutalized reality that occasionally constructs itself for me as I revisit old memories with new schema and motive. Looking back and seeing something for the first time (no, not differently as it was a incomplete or incorrect image in the first place) is the closest I get to epiphany. On most occasions, I engineer this new vision while revising incidents in relationships (usually failed) in my desperate attempt to understand something when the only source of enlightenment is long gone. When it happens naturally in other contexts, I make a significant shift towards a semblance of wisdom that then erodes but not completely, leaving me with a small residual gain.

I think about him often, wondering if he made it to where ever he was going. I think about him when I pretend that I don't worry what others think about, when I think I am brave and solely courageous. But most of all I think about him when I am lonely, and I wish I would have had the decency to talk to him all those years ago.

Dreams

I don't remember what dreams I held as a child. And later, I had aspirations, but I am not sure they were dreams. I spent much of my life in a juvenile pragmatism, looking forward to the next challenge, forgetting the last. I didn't romanticize many things, other than the books I collected, least of all any semblance of dreams or fulfilling notions of future contentment or bliss. I wasn't unhappy though, as I now realize I was drafting off of other people's dreams, the nobility of their struggles. This borrowed life is lived in the moment, as my bank account, retirement plan, and long-term goals reflect - and now, five decades into this latent lend-lease, I wouldn't have it any other way.
Stepping into to someone else's dream is delicate work, and delicate work is probably not my forte'. Sometimes you are invited in, other times begrudgingly given access, and often you just sort of push your way inside. Perhaps your vision is different: They see the goal, you see the path. Most mysteriously though, you often get involved in another's dream that they don't completely appreciate, or that you actually seem to care more about - this may be the hallmark of teaching.
I see folks dreaming daily, and I am amazed at the manifestations of those endeavors. Yesterday, I saw a man sitting a table in the hallway outside of my office. He was in his thirties,dressed fastidiously, and was carefully and decidedly maneuvering papers around for quite awhile. I knew this dream mechanism - the more he organized, the more he prepared, the better he felt about the coming appeal or proposal. The efficacy of his dream lay at his fingertips at that moment, he would never have anymore control over his destiny than he did over those papers. There was a comfort in his eyes I envied. I hope to see him again, a step closer on his path.
I remember a prostitute in Jamaica who dreamt of reading to get a better job to buy a mattress for her children; children in a refugee camp who dreamt of small shacks with dirt floors and thatched roofs owned not by governments, but by their parents; parents of children in refugee camps that dreamt that their children would survive long enough to leave the camps; first generation college students who dreamt of decent jobs that could feed their families and their brains; students who had suffered horrible childhoods who dreamt of jobs helping others; friends who dreamt of making elegant cakes, poignant stories, inspiring lectures, moving speeches, beautiful music, perfect photographs, happy children.
I have injected myself in some of these dreams, and by doing so, have traded my own for theirs. Probably not very noble, as I will never face the day to day drudgery that can eventually chip away at the corner of dreams gradually dissipating the passion that hydrates them. My dreams are born and reborn daily, and are always as vivid and fresh as the interaction I share with their owners. My strength too is refreshed regularly, and relieved from any nagging notions of selfishness and ego, knowing there is much less guilt in the neglect of my loved ones on behalf of adopted dreams rather than my own.
I told a friend the other day that my life's goal now was probably just making it to my own death, and I suppose he found it morbid or pessimistic. I didn't mean it that way and still don't. There is no light at the end of my tunnel, no grand dream to be realized and cherished at the conclusion of my journey. My eyes are not there, not future focused - rather wrapped warmly around the dreams that inculcate my days, the images and pursuits that fly around me constantly like embracing wraiths as I navigate my way through hundreds of diverse dreams in hundreds of diverse hearts. The end is neither here nor there, but every additional day is a blessing!
I am off now to the tutoring lab to factor a few trinomials, and a few modest and fruitful dreams.

Independence Day

I am struggling today (the 4th of July) to appreciate the significance of the day. It has long been my least favorite holiday, as it has come to symbolize not just another intoxicated holiday, but one including drunks and gunpowder. I am also perplexed sometimes by the almost religious fervor my non-religious friends hold for the founding fathers and the constitution. The same folks who sometimes... hold my beliefs in disdain, yet swap an oligarchy for a prophet, allow for a wee bit more flexibility (i.e., amendments and occasional curious supreme court rulings) but not much, and weave their own brand of Sacred notions on a very partisan but curiously incestuous political loom. When I do get to the day though, I arrive at the same place I do when I pray, when I meet a Christian I trust, or any other human who carries themselves with the dignity of a man or woman with a belief system behind them that guides them on an ethical and humane path. People that acquiesce their own wants and needs at times for something not personally constructed. That, in analysis, is what I am reminded of on this day, not a group of men, a paper, wars, or even the sacrifices made in those wars (another level of appreciation, another day). I am reminded that I live in a country that was founded on a set of ideals, and as an American, those ideals should be evident in my thoughts and actions - and others should be able to count on them. As a Muslim, I appreciate this consistency and submission. It is a day I celebrate living in a society where I continue to be guided by those ideals, and most importantly, acknowledge and respect others for the disciplined and sanctified beliefs that direct their lives. This is what is Sacred to me.

Smiles

There are things so beautiful inside us, that I understand why God loves us. There is the love and joy pouring out of these girls' hearts over something simple and silly, and there is the heart-tugging empathy we may feel knowing what the world might do to their innocence when it forgets to look past the outside of their smiles into their souls. We will fix their external smiles, not for them, but for us. We are a carnival mirror, slowly distorting their sweetness as we shrivel and twist, not knowing how to suffer the weakness in our own hearts as we grow more and more uncomfortable with the bargains that gradually invert our own smiles, swapping goodness and virtue for caution and measured, mediated wonder.

I wish I could smile like these young ladies! Wish I had what they have inside, and the courage to share it. They smile and touch and soothe the neglected regions of my heart. Smiling should be like that.

Attagirl

After a few weeks on the job here, I offered the faculty to send the following note to any students who worked very hard and succeeded in their courses this past spring. I was very touched when more than fifteen of these teachers put forth names (none of the faculty at my last stop cared to do so). What a wonderful indication that I have landed in the right spot!

May 30, 2012

Dear Andrea,


I am writing to congratulate you on your achievement in Professor Hill’s class this past Spring term. She has identified you as an exceptional student who has worked very hard and diligently and has made the most of your learning experience. You should be very proud that you distinguished yourself in this manner – students who take these courses and succeed do very well in the rest of their academic careers!
I wish you well as you continue your education, and if I can ever help, I would be more than happy to do so. You can always stop by and visit with me. Good luck and keep up the fine work.
Sincerely,

Michael Morsches

Equally impressive, Andrea's response was only one of a few dozen. And yes, Andrea stopped by one evening and we chatted for half an hour or so, a single mom returning to school to change her life - I have a very, very cool job!


Dear Mr. Morsches,


I'm just in awe right now!! I thank you so much for your kind words of encouragement. I really needed to hear that from you and Professor Hill. I feel so blessed to have met her spring semester. I don't know what I would have did without her. It's been so long since I've been in school and things were kind of confusing and sometimes no offense but some teachers, and counselor's are not like you and Professor Hill lol. I'm sorry but I'm just keeping it real. God does all things for a reason and somehow Professor Hill and I just connected. Times have really changed from when I was in school. Now Mr. Morsches be careful of what you say lol because I will be contacting you if I have any problems lol. Professor Hill also told me to keep in touch with her even though I'm not in her class which I thought was really nice of her. It takes a good teacher to bring out the best in a student she had so much faith in me, more than I did in myself. I will definitely come by to meet you Mr. Morsches. I'm in summer school are you on campus this summer? Let me know and I will stop by and introduce myself. Thanks once again sorry if I have any fragments Professor Hill is teaching me in that area lol. God bless you Mr. Morsches. Looking forward to meeting you.


Andrea

Acid Reign IV

There are certain advantages to waking up without a face. With no face, there is no foolishness, no squandered hopes or wasted dreams. No one pretends when half the side of their head has dissolved and fused in a slowly tightening tangle of scar tissue and creviced sinew. No one comes to you with pretty promises bargained against marginal self-deceptions when there are no more margins to your face. In sharp contrast, the hole in her head was a mirror now, reflecting the ugliness of those who beheld her now, past the initial moments when coy courtesy and embarrassed shock gave way to an honest and blunt dismissal. She had often fantasized about being invisible as a younger woman, unseen to leering eyes, to disgusted glares and diminishing sneers. Unavailable to an abusive husband, beating her senseless when she didn't have any more money for his alcohol or drugs. The bruises and defeated despair hidden from view in the morning as she raised her children from their beds. She had what she wanted after so long, she just never dreamt how she would have to earn this anonymity.
She knew her future long before she woke from the pain and medication. Somewhere amidst the fourth day she sat up ready to leave, ready to take what was left of her body and soul home to face a life in more forthright frames, more virtuous shadows. She would have no other man, but she would not have him, maybe worth the loss, preferring he take what he would finally and go. There are certain advantages to the death of your closest kept desires. No more negative pain filling unfulfilled spaces, no angst over frustrated ambition or quietly clutched fantasy of eventual karma or redemption. Nothing but God's grace inscrutable and finally, mercifully unavailable to her mortal schemes and dismantled dreams. Dismantled like her face, no longer capable of holding a smile or a sigh, no pathway for tears, no public portent for fears.
She went home bandaged and ignorant of her prognosis, thankful for her children, and in a way, for her new found freedom from a long endured ardor for her own self-destruction - suicide would be a vapid and redundant exercise now. A search for purpose or peace had been replaced by a salient acquiescence to quiet survival. Her pained past had bled directly into an aimless future, and the flesh that had slid off of her face revealed the stark and stoic reality that lay beneath tissue and blood, beneath vainly draped exercises in modesty and deprecation.  Oddly, she would live finally.

Transitions

Lots of transitions happening these days, new job, new location, old friends moving on, and Sindi graduating tonight from high school.  Things haven't always gone as I have planned, but I am very proud tonight, and look forward to watching my daughters both in college transitioning to their own lives.  A bid sad but proud.