Tagged: women
I Need Security: Harmless Stupid vs. Insecure Stupid
Everyone knows there is a distinction between “stupid” and “ignorant”. The main difference being “stupid people who mean well” are different than “stupid people”. And we call “stupid people who mean well” “ignorant”.
In my experience, I have come to see one other division of the general category of “stupid”. I see “harmless stupid” as most humor and silly assumptions that do not negatively affect life, even if they do hinder success. One example of this that comes to mind is misattributing cause and effect—not ignorantly—but harmlessly. Like when the regularly scheduled sprinkler system goes off during the outdoor church service and people attribute it to the devil doing devil things. They aren’t ignorant of the situation, they just are stupid.
Different from this kind of stupid is the kind which causes insecurity in life. One easy example of this would be alcoholic parents. They may be great parents most of the time, but the weekly or monthly instances of uncontrollable outbursts or whatever particular scenes unfold (kids trying to wake up passed-out parents etc.) leads to insecurity in life.
With me? Make sense?
Routine, even if for harmlessly stupid reasons, is still secure. “Every Monday after dinner my parents drove exactly the number of miles as the calendar date. I never understood why. Still don’t. But we got ice cream afterwords and it was fun overall.” That’s a bizarre and stupid routine, but it is not problematic.
Put another way, and to get to the point of this post, I value security over intelligence.
Moreover, I do not believe that stupidity is necessarily insecure.
What I am not certain about is if I am actually right. All I know today is that I need security.
My wife hails from one of the most uneducated regions, continents, and countries on the Earth. While dating, I noted many harmlessly stupid comments and observations. (This was/is not too different than any other day, or any other interaction with folks.)
Little anecdotes about “everyone there believes all Americans are rich” were cute to hear and even carried an air of “why would they believe otherwise if the only source was Hollywood films?” intentionally-sympathetic soundness. Couple this with the fact that no educated American wants to admit the reality that, “What you just said is completely without thought at a level that is beyond ignorance and evidences some mixture of mental laziness and legitimate inability to think”—especially if the conversant is BIPOC.
To be clear—I have witnessed first-hand many, many American friends hear my wife tell the same anecdotes and they all respond the same way, ie, no one calls out what each of us plainly hears. And why not?
I cannot answer for anyone but myself, and my no-call was because I believed there was harmless stupidity.
But the other kind, the stupidity which leads to insecurity, that is now something I am dealing with every day. And I don’t know how to right the ship. I don’t know how to course correct.
Readers might offer advice about the big things, like kindness, compassion, empathy. And I wanted to believe those exist, but have slowly been convinced that those are culturally-based postures and so the problem in this culture-clash-called-my-family is not resolved.
So far, my solution has been to try “let’s start with truth” and go from there. “Could we agree to say true things?” But the language barrier is such that even this seemingly simple request relies tremendously on ignoring reality and relying on hopeful intentions.
He said: “What did you buy?”
She said: “Groceries.”
So far so good.
He said: “What is this item?”
She said: “Oh, underwear.”
Setback.
He said: “In your culture is ‘underwear’ in the same category as ‘food and soap’ and other things that we use up?”
She said: “It’s wrong to buy underwear now?!!”
So even something as supposedly universal as “truth” seems out of reach.
Of course, the easy solution is to resign. To simply not care. To “let go and let God”. To choose a “non-fighting” version of “peace” as the higher ground in every moment of every day. But the problem with that is I tell the truth. I don’t tell it in a “I’m just keeping it one hundred” provocateur kinda way (mostly not at least). I just need my words to mean things, and I need my kids to mean the same things when they say the same words.
In other words, I need security.
Teacher Emails in 2024: Grandparents Don’t Know, But Now You Do
It was Facebook, yes? That was the first hegemonic message board of the internet? Some college kids using the latest radio to communicate—and it was free in the main sense?
Twenty-odd years later, college kids (now called teachers) use apps, like “ParentSquare” or “Gradelink” and there are others, I’m sure, to deliver messages to parents. Keep in mind, when we were kids, parents would hear directly from teachers a total of “near never”. Seriously. When did any of your teachers speak directly with your mom or dad? Parent teacher conferences offered an opportunity for the conversation to take place, but the parents had to show up. Some did, some did not. No big thing.
In 2024, teachers, at least two a day, post updates on these apps. Read that again. I’m telling you that on average two teachers each write messages to parents each and every day. The number of messages is staggering. By my thinking, the only parallel to draw is when someone that is lying talks on and on. Total time and energy spent creating and communicating the lie far outweighs whatever the lie is meant to conceal. But the words keep pouring out.
Let’s get to it. Here is the doozy that I received yesterday. (Nothing has been redacted—I wanted you to have the authentic experience.)
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Quality of Play for Upper Division – Please talk with your student
Good afternoon Families,
Upper Division Teachers are asking for parents to have conversations with students early in this week about PLAY. Research and observations supports the value in play for learning, growth, and development. Both structured play (like organizing teams to play a soccer game, or run a game like 4-square, or playing UNO) and unstructured play (students imagining scenarios and acting out stories of their making with peers) are incredibly valuable experinences in growth and development.
Teachers have noticed recently that some of the unstructured play students in which small groups of students are participating in at recess sometimes resemble their video gaming or media experiences. Some of the things we have observed recently involve pretend armies, weapons (swords, light sabers, guns), and while we understand that students may have different permissions and levels of supervision at home while playing these types of games, we are discouraging the expression of these games at school to ensure the actual safety and the protect the perception of safety of everyone in our school community.
Because we are an open campus and we are purposefully structuring our space and day for multi-age academic and social groupings, it is important that Upper Division students remember to code-switch, or filter their words and behaviors at school. We are an academic workplace where the focus is on learning. Quality play is necessary, but not sufficient, for learning.
As part of our focus on Leadership, we would ask that you remind your students that while we are mindful of their interests and want them to enjoy thier play times, we will ask them to modify or change their play if is seems inappropriate. We would like this discussion to continue, so please also talk to students about how to respond to adults who interrupt their play if it seems unsafe, disrespectful, or unkind for our K-8 school community. While they are encouraged to challenge the process and enable others to action, a positive tone of voice and body language that indicates respect is necessary for success when negotiating with adults about code-switching. Modifying their play to be appropriate for the place and space is a non-negotiable part of our Social Contract.
Our Upper Division students are charismatic leaders who make a difference in the lives of their peers and teachers. We are all so glad to get to work with them every day and we are grateful that you share them with us. Please let us know if you have questions or concerns. And thank you for your active partnership in raising them to be caring and thoughtful individuals.
Thanks!
Upper Division Team
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I have read and re-read this manifesto many times, too many times.
In an English 101 course I enrolled in around 2013 at UCDenver, I learned the term “Discourse Community”. That is what you can call places like Starbucks and their odd size names. (Grande etc). Discourse communities occur everywhere and for many reasons—nearly zero of the reasons being nefarious.
Again, like my Report Cards in 2024 post, the trouble here is the teachers clearly know better. The writer of this email cannot be incompetent. The grammar is fine (subject-verb disagreement in second sentence and only one misspelling “thier” after the bold para). The flow is also fine (though a bit unaware of itself to be “good”). And most importantly, the entire message is focused and captured by the subject line. In other words, no one hijacked anything. It wasn’t a passive-aggressive, “Read Here How Great Your Child Is”, when the content is really saying, “They’re horrible and it’s your fault—do something.” Nope, it is focused and singular. These are rarities in 2024.
The problems, instead, are fourteen-fold and listed below for clarity:
1. What is “Quality of Play”?
2. What is “Upper Division”?
3. Why is “PLAY” capitalized?
4. No sources are provided for “Research and Observations”.
5. Did you just define “structured” and “unstructured”?
6. By “small groups” do you mean A. Only a few bad apples or B. Every time a small group forms? Follow-up: If “A”, what does research and observation show regarding putting everyone on blast, instead of using a “praise in public, criticize in private” type posture?
7. Do you look at my student’s browser or device history? Are you monitoring what we watch together (or separately) in our home? How would you know what their media experiences include?
8. What is an “open campus”?
9. What does “code-switch” mean?
10. Is “filter their words and behaviors” any different than “think”? If not, isn’t that more your role than mine?
11. Is, “Quality play is necessary, but not sufficient,” a threat to take away recess? Sub-question, why is “play” here not capitalized?
12. What does, “challenge the process and enable others to action,” mean?
13. You wrote, “Our Upper Division students are charismatic leaders who make a difference in the lives of their peers and teachers.” Is that different from saying, “These kids attend school in America in 2024”?
14. Finally, how would you distinguish an “active partnership” from a “partnership”?
In the end, why is there a “discourse community” for the parent/teacher relationship? Why? I don’t want the relationship in the first place, because in the first place it hides the teacher’s (possible) failure—nothing more. And in the second place, I do not have the time for it. This post took over an hour. Who has that much time each day? Certainly not teachers. Definitely no one but me.
Let’s stop wasting time, no? Is there anyone against that?
A Woman in 1899, Another in 1920, and One from 2024
Self-satisfaction begins with reading a variety of books. This morning, already, I have read from F Scott Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise and Jack London’s short story “The White Silence.”
The necessary vital stats of these two giants for this post include London’s work preceding Fitzgerald’s by about 30 years; oh, and London wrote about life in the wild, whereas Fitzgerald wrote about life in, what later would be called, the concrete jungle—the city, specifically high society.
In writing about “life”, they also wrote about women. Women are everywhere, it seems. And not to be avoided.
In order of my reading today, here is a blurb from F Scott on women.
“I’ve got an adjective that just fits you.” This was one of his favorite starts—he seldom had a word in mind, but it was a curiosity provoker, and he could always produce something complimentary if he got in a tight corner.
“Oh—what?” Isabelle’s face was a study in enraptured curiosity.
And, now for the real test, from 30 years earlier and a world away, Jack London’s entry on women.
“Yes, Ruth,” continued her husband, having recourse to the macaronic jargon in which it was alone possible for them to understand each other; “wait until we clean up and pull for the Outside. We’ll take the White Man’s canoe and go to the Salt Water. Yes, bad water, rough water—great mountains dance up and down all the time. And so big, so far, so far away—you travel ten sleep, twenty sleep, forty sleep”—he graphically enumerated the days on his fingers—“all the time water, bad water. Then you come to great village, plenty people, just the same mosquitoes next summer. Wigwams oh, so high—ten, twenty pines. Hi-yu skookum!”
He paused impotently, cast an appealing glance at Malemute Kid, then laboriously placed twenty pines, end on end, by sign language. Malemute Kid smiled with cheery cynicism; but Ruth’s eyes were wide with wonder, and with pleasure; for she half believed he was joking, and such condescension pleased her poor woman’s heart.
“And then you step into a—a box, and pouf! up you go.” He tossed his empty cup in the air by way of illustration and. As he deftly caught it, cried: “And biff! down you come. Oh, great medicine men! You go Fort Yukon, I go Arctic City—twenty five sleep—big string, all the time—I catch him string—I say, ‘Hello, Ruth! How are ye?’—and you say, ‘Is that my good husband?’—and I say, ‘Yes’—and you say, ‘No can bake good bread, no more soda’—then I say, ‘Look in cache, under flour; good-by.’ You look and catch plenty soda. All the time you Fort Yukon, me Arctic City. Hi-yu medicine man!”
Ruth smiled so ingenuously at the fairy story that both men burst into laughter. A row among the dogs cut short the wonders of the Outside, and by the time the snarling combatants were separated, she had lashed the sleds and all was ready for the trail.
I know, I know. Way more from London. But it’s to serve a point, my point.
The earlier-dated passage from London required more words as the task before him included also announcing the different cultures.
But they both offer the same comment—and oh, how detestable the situation!
They both convey a man telling a fairy tale to their woman, and they both convey that women are beholden to men.
We are now one hundred years from F Scott and this question is, by my thinking, the pre-eminent question of our time. My generation has no other issue of more importance on the docket.
And for my part, I have determined resolution of the question. This will not shock regular readers.
I can put the matter in one of two ways, a kind of “glass is half-full” version and a kind of “glass is half-empty” version.
Half-empty: Women are no longer beholden to men. And without men, women are actively disintegrating civilization.
Half-full: Wise women would do well to choose to live as if beholden to men, regardless the true nature of their plight.
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For the record, Ruth is infinitely more attractive to me. According to the text, she displays taking “pleasure” and “ smiles ingenuously.” (Look it up, if you don’t know. I had to.) She also lashed the sleds.
What did Isabelle do? Nothing that an animal in heat couldn’t.
Blind Aliens vs. Blind Cave Monsters, A Joint Review of A Quiet Place(s), by John Krasinski and The Descent, By Neil Marshall
I think I have a knack for learning foreign languages. In my heart of hearts, I don’t think it is an inborn or god-given talent, because I never enjoyed learning French in high-school and college. But at the seminary as we learned Biblical Hebrew and Koine Greek, I was more open to the idea and the professors began at the beginning. The beginning of language, naturally, are the sounds of the language. And with the table set so pleasingly, I was ready to give it my best and have since been rewarded.
Back in French, the teacher just started with all these new words and the tables of verb tenses etc. But in Hebrew and Greek, the professors began (and were kinda compelled too) with the sounds of the letters and the fact that there were no equivalent sounds in English. This was especially true for Hebrew’s “clearing the throat” sound. Once I understood that languages were not about trying to add vocabulary to English, but about trying to utter a totally new set of sounds, things became interesting (and easy).
Before leaving this lengthy introduction and the topic of sounds, I want to share that in full Pete-personality, I did get tired of the professor’s casual “this how this letter (of a dead language) sounds” claims and finally asked, “But if nobody speaks it, how could we possibly know?” And the answer was, (can you guess?) “Well, sometimes writers would assert that this particular letter sounded like the sound a sheep makes.” So the Greek “Beta” for example, sounds like, “Baaaa”. Kidding. It sounds like “Beeey”. The actual sound a sheep makes. Super interesting, in my opinion.
Let’s get to the joint movie review.
Not too different from the name “Trump”, for as long as I can remember, I have heard about some book called “Dune”. Always being terrified of confirming irrevocably my membership in the “nerd” category, I never gave in to curiosity. But these days even otherwise nerdy movies are pretty high quality and so I finally gave in and watched the new movie Dune. (Don’t tell anyone.)
Dune is great. The way it relates to these two (three) films today is that I used Dune to finally motivate me to do something I have long been interested to do: learn ASL.
I found there is a professor dude, Dr. Bill Vicars who has amazing content on YouTube and I have begun a really fun project of learning the letters (quite simple) and now the language as a whole. This is in addition to learning my wife’s language, Amharic, to try to find that ever elusive marital bliss. In fact, I have the whole family working on ASL with Dr. V videos. It is terrifically rewarding.
“Focus, Pete. Blind Aliens vs. Blind Cave Monsters. Where does ASL fit in?”
Funny you should ask.
Nothing at all to do with learning ASL, the other day I had three hours available for a movie. And I couldn’t find a good epic to settle into, so I decided to just watch two 1.5 hr films. Never having watched A Quiet Place, those were my choice. Wouldn’t you know it? ASL requires no sound! So somehow, as I am being introduced to the benefits of ASL, I also stumble upon a film that affords some practical testing. Weird.
The movies are held together by Emily Blunt, of Sicario. She will never top Sicario, so don’t expect that. But the movies aren’t bad. The sequel didn’t really lose much steam either—a rarity if you ask anyone. But I wanted to capture my thoughts on them in a blog post because I did notice something about them that is worthy of sharing.
The end of A Quiet Place: Part Two is good because it moves along at a good clip. It never dwells. Just keep moving the story forward. It recognizes exactly what kind of movie it is, and exactly what the viewers came to see, and it delivers. But in that delivery, it also is a bit too mathematical. That’s my complaint. There are two or three different locations of simultaneous action and the time spent at each location is almost perfectly matched. It’d be interesting to actually time it and see. “Start time: the monster is closing in…stop time. Move to other location. Start time: the duo is about to save the day…stop time. Move back to… Start time…” etc. You get the point. But the bigger criticism is that the precision detracts from the humanity of film.
Mr. Krasinski: I don’t want to know that you have studied me perfectly and given me exactly what I would find palatable. I want you to tell me a story. I want to see what the Muse gave you. As the chick says in The Descent, “If there’s no risk, what is the point?” There is no risk in mathematics. Besides concluding that, I feel it. And so I felt that your films lacked risk. For that reason, they are not great films.
Today, then, I had 2.5 hrs to watch a movie and decided to watch The Descent, which I had only seen once or twice since it came out in 2005. Besides the fact that I remembered it as very good, I had just commended it to my step-son, for when he is older as we scrolled past it on Prime for something to watch.
Best “female empowerment” movie ever made, if you ask me. I’m not saying that it portrays an ideal woman. I am saying that of all the ridiculous displays and forced “girls don’t have to play only with dolls anymore” roles in both movies and sports that we are forced to endure if we seek new entertainment, this one gets the actual job of “empowering” done the best.
And oddly enough I found myself thinking, “What is with me these days? Two (three) blind (but hearing) monster movies in two days? And precisely when I am learning the singular way to survive (ASL)? Crazy affirmations from La Ooniversa, I guess. ‘Thank you, Mr. Universe, Sir! May I have another!’”
In the end, The Descent ranks in the category of “perfect film” (right alongside Sicario and Ford vs. Ferrari). Besides moving at a good clip, it is perfectly efficient, perfectly toned, perfectly cast, perfectly acted, and perfectly climatic. There are also a couple of perfectly surprising “make you jump” frights. I found myself laughing at how I jumped. Not many movies have that effect on me these days. But this one got me. Probably for the last time of viewing it. But it was worth it. Sitting all alone and drawing closer and closer to the story and the screen, when “Blam!”, you’re three feet in the air and land laughing. A wonderful feeling.
I’ll end by saying this: after due consideration, I can still imagine happily exploring Space and other worlds—even hosting aliens, if given the opportunity; I cannot imagine descending into an uncharted cave—flashlight or otherwise.
Because You’re Not a Moron
Thinking about any one child of mine (see earlier post today) naturally causes my thoughts to return to H-.
Want to know what some folks advise? I wish I was kidding. There are, supposedly, well-educated and well-trained men and women in the business of divorce that suggest, “Send cards and letters over the next 5 years or so at least for birthdays and holidays etc. That way, when she is 18 and maybe thinks differently and is free to do as she pleases, she won’t be able to (fact-check-proof) say, ‘You never even…’”
As I receive this advice, I always poo poo it, saying agreeably, “Yeah. I know. Of course I will.” But that’s a lie. Not the part about whether or not I will use the USPS to attempt to parent, but the part about my belief that it somehow works. My kid, H-, would have to be some kind of moron to think, “Oh, he actually did love me,” because she received some one dozen articles of mail each year for five years.
Seriously, can you imagine an adult woman falling in love with a man who did the same?
“But he sent me a Hallmark card every major holiday!!” the imaginary imbecile woman’s response to friends, after they chide her for ever having confessed that she nursed a dream of real relationship with a pen pal.
That woman would be a moron!!
And so would H- if the greeting card thing had any effect, by my thinking. And I’m not looking to raise morons here. Marry them? Yup. Divorce them? Yup. Produce them? Nope.
I have far too much hope placed on H-’s inborn ability to get to the bottom of the situation before she turns 18 (or after, for that matter) to waste any on the experts’ advice.
No, to be clear, the truth still lay where it always has.
After 12+ years of rocky, but never hopeless co-parenting (and more money transfers than sanity permits to reckon, both in total dollars and percentage of income), H- has recently been kidnapped by her mom (and any others over there who don’t actively work for H-’s freedom). Right now she has developed Stockholm Syndrome, which, when put plainly as if for 14 yr olds, means: she prefers the company and agenda of her kidnapper—despite the crime—than the terror that she now surely believes, wrongly, comes with freedom and knowing the truth.
Oh. And her mom is a money-grubbing whore. Always has been and always will be. The future for H- will include a realization of all this, followed by a tepid-at-first, then common-to-perhaps-loving-even return to me (including apologizing for ever doubting), plus a daily and disastrous relationship with her mother that is anything but encouraged by little ol’ me after said realization. Then, maybe later, the two will talk it out through the glass on those phones at a prison—as her mom is locked up for the what is illegal in the future—the general crime of allowing a heart of absolute moral blackness to continue to pump blood throughout her body.
(The fantasy sustains me; what do you want me to say?)
****
Post recap: Don’t be a moron. Cards and gifts alone could only ever serve as “Exhibit A” of the dysfunction and moral crimes you live under.
She Wanted to Be Caught!
To the toddler, the crack of their door at night is more precious than all the gold and silver in the world. Shut the door and they cry and cry. But open it just a crack and they sleep restfully.
So what happened last night? I still don’t know. But I do know that the non-toddler family members were watching the latest Mission Impossible—the one, like all its predecessors, which always had the team simultaneously realizing and then stating aloud, “He wanted to be caught!”
The toddlers went down pretty easy—door was cracked. My hearing is the best out of the three of us, and so I was the first to hear some noises from their room and eventually paused the flick and rounded the corner to see that A- had climbed out of bed and turned on the hall light. Door was now wide open. J- was standing in his crib and now had Paddington—a gift from his older sister, I had to assume. As I laid him back down, he was in the mood to play, but I wasn’t, so I just covered him and turned my attention to A-.
“Gotta stay in bed, A-. It’s bed time.”
She put her arms out for a hug.
After the hug, I whispered to the dark room, “I love you. Goodnight.” Then I closed the door to just a crack and turned off the hall light as I went back to the movie.
A few minutes later, and I could hear more toddler shenanigans. Pretty much the same scene, but J- may have been closer to sleep than I would’ve guessed. Turning my attention to A-, I softly threatened, “It’s time for bed, A- If you get up again, I will shut the door.” She nodded like the perfect little angel that she is.
Back to the movie.
A few minutes later, back up stairs.
I left A-, saying, “I am closing the door. I told you this would happen.”
That was odd, I thought, as she didn’t make a peep of protest as I shut the door.
Back to the movie.
I just wanted to make it through the car chase scene, which I knew was about 10 minutes, and was sure to begin soon.
“Fart!” I suddenly had a sinking feeling. “She wants to be in the room with the door shut!”
Hitting pause once again, I went up the stairs to check on the two of them.
“No hall light on. Good,” I noticed as I turned the corner. Looking at the crack under the door, I saw the bedroom light was still off too. “That’s gotta be a good sign,” I thought. But in the movies the bad guys are always one step ahead of us good guys. So I did the unthinkable. I slowly turned the handle—so slowly. And then I opened the door a crack, and without the crack sound. As I continued in, I found little A- in some level of pre-sleep that was happy to be tucked in once again, but absolutely void of any contest. J- was out like a light.
Back downstairs we were able to finish the film without trouble. And I secretly acknowledged, with joy and anticipation, that the toddlers might actually allow me to sleep in a bit in the morning, given all these post-bedtime antics.
I was right.
Well, not about A- wanting to get shut in. But they did sleep in a bit.
My Eulogy for Apollo Creed
Ask my mom and she’ll tell you. She’ll tell you how frustrated I get by the little blurbs that people write about their loved ones when they die. I am always sending her screen shots of the ridiculously bad sentiments that accompany death. I think it all started when that University of Utah female student was murdered by her boyfriend—a 37 yr old bouncer she had no business associating with—and her parents, two professors, wrote about her recent GPA and athletic accomplishments. Give me a break. Like any of that has to do with who that young woman was.
Making the matter worse, I have also been dreading the oncoming harvest of all the Hollywood stars that I have loved for the last thirty years. Even as I sit here and type near my beloved Steinway, I look up and see my poster (purchased and framed some twenty years ago in college when I didn’t have any budget for such things) of Neil and Vincent, from Heat. “A Tale of Crime and Obsession.”
But it was Rocky III and Top Gun that defined my childhood. Family legend goes that I broke our family’s VHS tape that had Rocky III recorded on it by rewinding it so much. That is the film that had Apollo as Rocky’s trainer, not nemesis. I probably should credit Rocky III with my ability to go where whites otherwise do not go—among blacks. And I have Apollo to thank for that.
The scene when they go to Apollo’s gym and see all the scary, serious looking black boxers surely scared me when I was young boy. But as I watched, I learned from Apollo that they just had the “eye of the tiger” and then I saw them crack up and loosen up when Apollo let them know he was there because of them, not to fight them. Lesson learned: when it’s time to get serious about boxing—go to the dirtiest, meanest gym possible.
An odd tribute is in many comments about Carl Weather’s death. “There is no tomorrow!” the famous and perfectly delivered line from the very same Rocky film is all over the web. Why? It’s a Freudian Slip, surely. Or it must be, to my mind. It’s inconceivable that anyone could think it applies to death. I am not motivated to try hard or train hard now that Apollo has died. Mr. Weathers’ death does not inspire, it saddens and depresses.
That stated, here is my official eulogy.
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Apollo Creed had the most perfect physique of any fighters in the Rocky Saga. He did not have the most perfect physique ever formed, and other men still hold the crown within their particular group (MJ is the most perfectly formed basketball player, for example). But when it came to casting a character to oppose Rocky, and then train Rocky, the casting was perfect.
When I watched the new Creed films, I kept thinking, “Are humans just smaller these days?” And, “Why is Michael B. Jordan being cast as if he is strong like Rocky and Apollo were?” Even the new Russian didn’t hold water compared to Apollo Creed, let alone Ivan Drago.
I have since watched Rocky III while trying to imagine that Mr. Weathers wasn’t Apollo Creed in an effort to determine what his size was in reality—you know, using background props and other actors and actresses he appeared next to to more accurately assess his size—but I have so far been unable to downsize him. Those shoulders, those traps, those arms, his chest, his six pack, and his back. His legs, and his hair and mustache—all simply iconic. Man, those shoulders!
How many pushups have I done while he trained me? How many situations have I not shy’d away from while he encouraged me? How many friendly faces, inside and outside of gyms, have I encountered because of Apollo Creed? The number, like his size, is immeasurable.
Apollo, you were always more, more than I thought possible in more ways than you would ever guess. You aren’t in my heart—you formed my heart. Thank you.
USAFA Hoops vs. All Socks
I surprised the family and took them to the Air Force Academy Men’s Basketball game the other night. The Academy puts on a good show in all the ways they can plan and perfect (sound and lights etc.), and then everyone knows that the basketball skill just isn’t going to be there because it is a military academy. But the game was fun to be at and I have to admit this was my first time back on an Air Force base/installation since I separated over 11 years ago and it felt kinda awesome to be around like-minded folks. The highlight of that like-mindedness was when the grandpa-type guy behind us saw A- light up when she saw his popcorn and he just offered her some straight out of the red pin-striped box. It was more than wonderful moment.
Also the other day, I did the toddlers’ laundry and when I folded their clothes, I found that all the socks still had their pair. That too was a moment covered with awesomeness.
Which moment felt better? Hard to say. But it’s been a good week, that’s for sure.
I Have Two and a Half Other Children
It’s true. I have two and a half other children besides H-. I barely write about them on here. I think I have written about my step-son (he makes up the “half”), A-, the most, and I can recall writing one post about my other daughter, A-. I do not believe I have mentioned my son, J-. If I had to guess, I believe I don’t mention him because he, unsurprisingly, carries all my hopes and dreams. I think I’m trying to say, with my son, that it’s the same as how we don’t tell the birthday wish after we blow out the candles. You won’t get a chance to know him on here. Only time will tell if you have the opportunity in real life.
But I have written a whole series of posts, generally categorized, ‘The Daughter Project’, about H-. And my last post was not just written about her, but to her. (Though in it I did write some facts about her ((that she has been kidnapped by her mother)) as I pleaded with her to “wake up”. Upon consideration of that post’s purpose and this blog’s content as a whole, I found myself almost motivated to rename the blog once again, this time to something like, “Revelatory Blog Posts from One of the Many Divorced American Dad’s Who Desire to Father Their Children on the Topic of ‘How Vicious Women Can Be as Measured by How Absolutely Impotent Her Ex is from Stopping Her Heinous Moral Crimes Against Their Child’, Among Other Interesting Musings.” But given how few blogs are actually written by humans (not AI), and how few of those are written by men, and how few of those are updated with any regularity by men doing anything other than expressing bitterness, I realized, “Pete’s Blog” pretty much does the same job–and it’s much easier to remember.
I want to tell you something I have never written about on here.
I want to tell you what I believe is the real beef between her and I.
Aaron Sorkin, the Hollywood writer/director, offers writer’s the tip, “Each line of dialogue should be an attack. And every argument is always about something beneath whatever the stated topic is.” (I’m paraphrasing.) I really like that. I like it because it is clear and easy to follow for writers, and I like it because I believe it is true. Sure, some folks may not always attack, and some folks may legitimately be superficial, but these folks clearly are missing out on the good parts of life.
I can only imagine what my ex tells her family and friends as she describes her crimes. Everyone loves playing defense these days, so it wouldn’t surprise me if all she said was, “I have loved him from the moment I heard there was a ‘big white guy’ in the studio. I really do want him to play a role in H-‘s life,” and subsequently the whole room always rushed to her aide.
For my part, when I talk about my ex-wife’s crimes against me and our daughter, the general response I get is, “I hate when people use the kids against each other,” and, “That sucks that she is using your daughter to hurt you.” As the respondent begins, I always take careful note to learn if anyone is willing to enter the fray and claim that either of the adults (me or her) need a defense or to be attacked to my face. Nope. They do not. Instead they stick to the fairly obvious and fairly neutral, “DON’T HURT CHILDREN!!” claim in all its agreeableness and wisdom. In other words, people–even friends, especially friends–do not attack her, or defend me. Truth be told, as I candidly mentioned last post, if my family and friends do any attacking, it is against me for writing and posting these stupid posts. Aside from that, the only human being who certainly is attacking anyone (outside of me and my nightly imprecatory prayers to the Most High God, Yahweh Elohim–ineffective as they are) is my ex. And she is only attacking H-.
On to it, on to the raison d’etre of this post. I told you that besides informing ya’ll about my family demographics that may not always come across and I like to believe may have a softening effect on the man behind the blog, I wanted to take a moment and describe, for H-‘s sake, what I imagine is the “real” fight/argument between her mom and I. I want to take a moment, crazy as it may be, to reveal my best guess as to what her mom really has had beef with for at least this past 11 years of being divorced. Ready, H-? Ready, dear reader?
H-‘s mom, unlike me, really loved me. As in, she really wanted to not be divorced from me.
Three clues that lead me to this conclusion.
Firstly, when we were in front of the judge for the first and only time we both appeared together in a court room, even he, the judge, commented how well we seemed to get along. I was, naturally, unconcerned with truth and just doing whatever my instincts instructed would be the winning action/speech to get the hell out of there alive. In the moment, I assumed K- was doing the same. Like a traffic stop on steroids. Survive. That’s the goal. But then one of the weirdest moments of all my life occurred in the elevator down, which we, for some reason, got into at the same time. K- said to me, “Well, who knows? Maybe we’ll get remarried.” I knew then, by the speed of the transition of the look on her face from hope to hate, that without a doubt I wear my feelings on my sleeve.
Secondly, I can’t take sole credit for developing this imaginary scenario of mine. One of the only people to truly listen and try to figure out how someone could still care enough to keep pursuing the crime after seven years was the first to state it. This co-worker said something like, “She must have really been hurt.”
My immediate reaction was like, “What do you mean? Hurt by what? Hurt by who? Me?” It’s actually a bit daunting to consider what I saw as the conclusion of this co-worker’s assertion. I started thinking, that my ex-wife–miserable, vindictive wench that she is–actually loved me and wanted to remain married to me or get remarried to me despite all the unpleasantness of our 6+ year marriage. All the more daunting because I just never did. I had even said, “If it doesn’t work, we can just get divorced,” casually on or near the day I proposed.
I have never been one to hide my faults. I have never been one to deny my sins. And I suspect this is where I am different from most people. I have no problem baldly saying, “I never really loved you. I never really cared about you. There were many outside variables–most of which stemmed from my view of sexual union–that led to my proposal.” I just don’t shy away from confessing shameful things like that. “Let’s get the truth in the air and then figure out the path forward” has always been my modus operandi.
Keep in mind, I also believe that “let’s get the truth in the air” is what is happening all day long by our actions. The distinction I draw or ask for help in drawing is that I believe we should intentionally match our words to our actions. K- was no happy wife/mother. She still isn’t. Her actions said so and say so.
Thirdly, the final piece of the puzzle that assures me that my imaginary world of her “love” for me and wish to remarry is the fact that she got remarried, only after I did. The difference, of course, is that I barely dated–and never lived with a girlfriend for the 6+ years between divorce and wedding. Slow down and read that again. I had 6 years of living alone–and after trying some dating for the first 3 years of renewed bachelorhood–was single for the next 3 until I met my current wife. And we did not live together until we were married. My ex, on the other hand, continued where she left off back when I became her bankbook of the hour. Since our separation, a year before the divorce was final, she had live-in boyfriend after live-in boyfriend. As much as I can cherry pick all the disastrous women I have heard of and conclude that I disdain the female sex in its entirety, believe me when I say that I am well aware that the male is equally as terrible. What kind of man moves in with a single mother–a single mother collecting child support and kidnapping the child as if the father, me, is on the penal farm? Horrible men, that’s who. Tried and true “mother effers”. It’s in the name, folks. But she found them and invited them in. Yet, she wouldn’t marry them, or they didn’t ask, or she didn’t pressure them to ask with the “get the milk from the cow for free” BS that made me feel guilty all these many years ago.
But she loves me still. And I don’t love her at all, never did.
That is the underlying disagreement that all the surface dialogue attacks about child support and parenting time is truly about.
****
What do you think, H-? In your almost 14 year old wisdom, does every marriage have to be based on love? And does every divorce have to be based on equitable lack of love? And do empirical facts have any role to play in determining what love is?
Finally, H-, I’d love to hear how you justify your treatment (or lack thereof) of A-, A-, and J-, otherwise known as your ‘brothers and sister’. Do you know that I barely say your name around them anymore, to protect them? Is that what you want? Or are you gonna reengage sometime soon and I can remind them of their big sister? For what it’s worth, J- is so young and promising that he probably won’t display any care, taking the wisest of stances if/when he decides to speak about it. Something like, “I always figured things would change when the right situation presented itself.” So while you two need each other, the age and gender gap is just too big anyhow. I will tell you, though, that taken together with how much your mom is hurting you, you’re doubly losing by not having A- in your life. I can already see that. She has so much love and energy to give. The four of us can’t receive it all. So please start using your grey matter and come back to us.
What will you do?
Wake Up, H-. You’re Being Lied to by Your Mother.
It really bothers me that my choice of wife has resulted in the kidnap of my daughter. These days, I think it probably best to say “kidnap/runaway.” I think the addition of runaway better reveals the indifference and poor parenting involved. We’re not talking about a fairy tale here. We’re talking about years long moral crimes by mothers and all who support them.
Coming a close second to the fact of physical separation and the resultant lack of influence by yours truly is the absolute nonsense behind the idea that I, me, have any responsibility for the situation. Let me be clear: I don’t cause these crimes.
Not only have I done nothing (ever) that any reasonable person would think indicates that I don’t want to raise or can’t raise or shouldn’t raise my daughter, I have only ever acted with the intent to raise my daughter. Do you know how easy it would be to quit these days?
My intent is evident all the way from the fact that I have a job down to the fact that I have never—not ever—suggested that her mom not get time to raise her. She’s your kid too, dummy! Of course you get the chance to screw her up like your parents screwed you up!
Physiological effects surface by just typing this description of the perverse nature of the situation: a mother kidnapping her daughter from the father while stealing his money to foot the mealticket and nearly every single witness, the judge, and the jury look away. Does God?
It bothers me.
Did I ever mention on here that despite thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars being stolen by H-’s mom that when I finally saw H- again, she was wearing socks with more than one hole in them? That they were thin as tissue?
Do you see the three-fold problem with that, dear reader? First, no one over there has thought to teach her self-respect. Second, “Buy the kid some friggin’ socks!” And third, “Pay attention to your kid’s socks!”
Why is my daughter clothed like a pauper when the money you steal should have her keeping up with the Kardashians? Or do you work for me and not have money left over for H-? I wonder what your husband thinks of his benfactor? Sounds fun. Maybe someday his balls will drop.
The great flaw of Christianity, if it can be called that, is exemplified by the following question that constantly circles my situation. The folks who put this question to me usually preface it with, “Now don’t get upset, but…”
The question is, “Is there anything you are doing to cause this situation?”
I want to answer them, “Uh, yeah. Tons of things. Like, breathing. And eating. And putting one foot in front of the other. The other day I turned on the water; I think that had something to do with it,” but instead an anger of the hottest kind boils over into, “I AM NOT CAUSING THIS!! IT IS NOT A SITUATION WHICH IS AN EFFECT OF A CAUSE!!” (That use of capital letters is meant to convey yelling in the most passionate rage.)
Some people, it seems, live on a planet where there is a balance book, a zero sum world. In their world, if you help an old lady across the street a couple times as a kid, then your future ex-wife is morally grounded, narrowly avoiding the ever-present call all women face to embody a virulent waif. On the other hand, if you discard every instinct and signal your body sends, in favor of optimism, and accordingly marry someone (whose action of leaning over in her car, as the two of you drive separately from her job to the restaurant of your first date, is, you later find out, for the purpose of taking a hit of weed), divorce her later before the madness spirals totally out of control, and write—with uncommon voice, vocabulary, and velocity—both how you feel about the State you served’s defense of a mother’s right to kidnap and neglect a child, rob the father, and that she never once, not once, ever, never ever supports herself (or her daughter) financially, then it’s open season on you.
Sorry, Bible-believers, but if you really thought that “choice of spouse” was that important, then that should’ve been the end of the matter and we can forget about the whole Gospel thing.
But you and I both know that life is about much more than marriage and family relationships, don’t we? That’s right. We do.
The thing, in short, is this.
Every bone in my body tells me I am right, tells me my way of seeing—not everything—but this situation is reality.
I would be betraying myself, I have betrayed myself, by giving time and action to the notion that I somehow, in some way, play a role in the situation. That is simply not true. It is an untenable option.
I want my daughter, I have always wanted my daughter, and I have done nothing to push her away from me. Never. Even the divorce was my way of trying to save her from experiencing her mother for at least some of her childhood—exactly half, if I had my way.
Instead, all my efforts have dropped me off on soil where I am the one who never sees H-.
This bothers me. It depresses me. It makes me want to quit. Quit with a capital Q. I feel like ending all effort and just vegging out on the couch in front of the tv. No more work, no more parenting my other kids. No more reading. No more piano. No more nuthin’. Just leave me alone.
But I persist. I persevere.
Why? Because if I was H-, and this daydream may be my fatal flaw, if I was H-, then I would want to know that I had experienced violence at the hands of the only person I trusted. In other words, if I was H-, I would want to know I had been kidnapped.
I would want to know.
****
Half the reason I am motivated to “keep on, keepin’ on” in life is the quest to find reality. What is real? Put differently, am I alone?
Reality for me, I guess, means peace. It means evidence of order—irrespective of feelings. Reality is not the chaos caused by passions. Most importantly, reality is worth fighting for.
Am I really a deadbeat dad, deemed by society as unworthy of raising my own child? Is that the reality? Am I really some maladjusted, bitter, and just plain mean terrorist of a man, being justly punished for an unending reign of terror—but a man who is always one moment away from changing his ways to the reward of being reunited with his daughter? Is that reality?
Or, or, or, are those and other grandiose fantasies being perpetuated from every angle with all intensity upon an unsuspecting teenage girl who finds herself bound by a seemingly unbreakable spell made up of an unrelenting dark web of lies and half-truths cast by her own mother?
Reality, for me, is the latter. But H- is the one who must decide. So I persist. Because she is my daughter and worth fighting for.
Captain’s Log 