Valuing People

I'm sometimes hesitant when it comes to sharing my outlook on the role "other people" play in my life because I'm concerned that others will misunderstand or not take the time to appreciate what I actually feel.

The reason I have a hard time trusting that others will understand me in this regard is because on the surface it sounds shallow and self-serving.  And since you actually can, in truth, judge a book by its cover there is some truth to that judgment.  I am self-serving.  But I would not accept the word shallow.  Again, as with books, there is so much more if you go deeper than just the cover.

I value people.  When I meet someone I see a person who can help me out one day.  So I smile; I am nice and try to make their acquaintance when possible.  I try to at least take the time to be civil, if not friendly.  I suppose I am like the politician who sees everyone as a potential voter.  Unfortunately, this sounds like I dehumanize other people in my mind, only seeing them for what they can do for me.

I prefer to use a different perspective, however.  I value people and see them as having value, intrinsic and extrinsic.  I like them for who they are and for what they make of themselves.  I realize I am dependent on other people.  Certainly I worked hard to become who I am, but what would my school efforts be worth had I not had teachers to show me what to learn and how?  How could I have repaired my cars if a nice stranger hadn't let me use his garage and tools and hadn't shared his automotive experience with me?  Absolutely I worked hard, and in the end it was I who repaired the cars.  But that success, as with all my successes in life, were dependent on other people giving me some kind of help.  I value that help immensely.

And yet, is valuing people for what they can do for you any different from what we all do?  When we don't stop to talk to someone we pass by on our way, aren't we essentially saying that those people aren't worth as much as whatever we're doing at the time?  We value being on time more, or we value the people we are going to meet more than the ones we see on the street.  We value our friends more than strangers.  In that sense it is not fair to judge someone who goes out of their way to see value in people we normally don't value as much: "others".  When you stop and tell a child, or an elderly person that they are, in fact, important, isn't that a valuable thing?  And isn't it good to feel valued by other people?

At a certain point, the things that we get from other people, goods, services etc, become less valuable for what they are in and of themselves.  At a certain point they become valuable for the relationship that we have with the people who give us the service.  We value them and the fact that they are helping us more than we are even valuing the help itself.  I consider this one of the most important aspects of humanity.  In a sense it still is self-serving, but in another sense it is a reciprocal form of service.  We give to others in ways and at times that they need it, and they also help us in ways and at times when we need it.

♫Back to [grad] school, to prove to dad that I'm no fool♫

     I finally heard back from all my PhD program applications.  Only one of them completely accepted me so it made the choice a lot easier.  I was honestly worried about choosing the right path to balance what I’m good at and what I want to accomplish with my life.  I kept feeling like one or the other program would open some neat doors and close some others that I didn’t want closed.  So, the choice is removed and it’s just up to me to make what I’ve got work.  Sort of like an arranged marriage: you don’t have to worry about silly details like “does he fart in bed?” or “will she really keep calling her friends for 3 hours a night?”  You’re married so you stay in love and treat each other well because…that’s what you’re committed to.

     So the program will be Instructional Psychology and Technology at BYU.  This kind of psychology will not involve me prescribing people drugs.  And actually it will not take me so far away from the second language teaching and learning that I felt I should be doing.  The program focuses on research, instructional design, evaluation and measurement.  Basically I will learn how to help improve both the in-class and out-of-class experience for students.  I will have a second language focus and will be able to bend all my learning towards foreign language teaching and learning, whether that be during my program or afterwards.

     BYU will be great in its own way.  Tuition is cheap, housing is relatively cheap and the education is good.  Finding regular funding will be harder, though.  It’s a quieter campus and we like that; I’ll be there to study.  And it’s not like we want to take our children to all-night parties.  We have our own wild parties every night at home: they involve poopy diapers, karaoke to the same song 12 times in a row at 3am, and waking up in different bedrooms than you fell asleep in.  We won’t be missing anything.

     The hard part is that a position at Hawai’i just popped up.  It’s a place Trish worked and studied before, and the people there love her and want her back.  It’s a real salary compared to scrimping and saving while I get ready to be fully employed.  But we wanted to switch out and have Trish at home while I work, so this will be a bit of an adventure and lesson in humility and creativity (for both of us).

     I’m not sure all our friends will understand or agree with our decision.  But if you know us and the kinds of things we value and enjoy, the kinds of challenges we love to take on, then it probably will make more sense you’ll see how it fits in with who we are.  Trisha isn’t giving up her training or education, she’s applying it in a different way.  She certainly won’t be giving up mentoring or teaching—I’m not even talking about our daughter.  She’ll be helping me be a good graduate student.  In fact, a lot of my understanding of graduate school and a lot of what made my statement of purpose strong(er?) was based on principles that I’ve learned from her.  Furthermore, she’s more likely to go on foreign adventures in following my career track—yet another thing we value.

     So that’s the latest news.  We’re excited.  Perhaps best of all is that we finally know where we’re going next.  It’s like “I don’t care if you send me to a prison camp in the freaking Yukon Territory making Nutella out of ice cubes, just pleeeeeease tell me where I’m going already so I can start making some plans.”  The long weeks of desperation are over.

Speaking with the gift of . . . hands

     Speaking different languages has always been something that I’ve defined myself by as I’ve grown up.  In my last church congregation I was probably the most fluent French speaker and was asked to translate services for the French-speaking African immigrants and refugees.  I really enjoyed that. 

     In my current congregation we just had some deaf folks move in.  While I’ve known French for years, studied it at the university and spent a year and a half living in France, I’ve only audited 1/3 semester of ASL and then taken a few week long night school course in it.  So, comically, I’m once again the guy translating services.  Imagine a speaker, instead of just speaking, reading every letter of every word of their talk to you over the pulpit.  That’s me as I translate for deaf services.

     On the other hand, I think it’s a valuable Christian lesson for these deaf church members.  More than any lesson they are taught at church, more than any sermon they hear, each Sunday they have practical application of the gospel principles of 1) not laughing in my face at me, 2) patience, and 3) the gift of “tongues” (you should be laughing at least by that last one).

     It doesn’t take much for me to admit that I actually really love doing it, hard as it is.  Here’s a group of people that have been unintentionally marginalized in their own native culture.  For an immigrant, you just have to put in the time studying or hashing it out pointing at stuff until you start picking up some words and a bit of grammar.  But for a deaf person it doesn’t matter how hard you try, they will never get “an ear” for the language.  Even reading is, actually somewhat, based on oral speech.  What different does a letter make to you if it doesn’t represent a sound (or two or three :D )?  So learning through reading is still a bit hard.  So it gives me a greater-than-normal thrill to be able to help deaf people feel included.

     After services, there are usually a couple people who make the nice comment that they think it is “so cool” that I can sign.  I’m grateful for the kindness but I try to refrain from laughing out loud about how atrociously bad my signing ability is.  It makes me proud to be able to speak different languages and it does give me a certain pleasure that people notice it.  But secretly I wish the comments were more about how awful of a signer I am and that they should actually start signing themselves so they could do a better job of it all.  Then at least there would be a bunch of people able to communicate with our deaf friends.

Home Alone :(

          Tonight Trish was at a ladies church function and took Felicity with her.  I was therefore home alone working on stuff.  I'm sure I've been home alone since Felicity was born but I can't think of any occasions.  I will log this away as the tentative first.

          I didn't realize I would be lonely.  Pretty much my daily routine consists of feeding my daughter (about 10 minutes usually?), giving her a nap (anywhere from 29-31 minutes, depending on when I check my watch--I don't think I even know adults who are this consistent let alone kids), and then playing, reading books, exercising and changing diapers for 2 hours.  Repeat until 5:30pm.  At no point in there do we discuss politics, the weather or anything regarding me.  At least not as a dialogue.

          The only linguistic interaction we have would be on the phonetic level, not even the phonological level, let alone the lexical level.  I recall making farting sounds back and forth with my daughter all day this week.  I think we did the "b" sound and some vowels for a while during the last couple months.  That about sums up our conversations.

          Don't get me wrong.  Hearing my daughter make farting sounds with her lips is enjoyable and makes me truly proud as a father.  And we have a great time just making faces and blowing raspberries on her armpits.  Yep, my lips go in her armpits and she laughs up a storm; go ahead and think it's gross but if you saw my 5-month-old laughing that hard, you'd do it too.  Shamelessly.

          But this is just the problem.  I actually do enjoy spending time with my daughter.  Even if she's ignoring me for her tupperware and I'm sitting on the couch doing something else, we both know the other is there and we're comforted by that fact.  And we've been doing this for over 3 months so it's becoming our way of life rather than a temporary arrangement.

          So not having my daughter upstairs flopping around in bed, or my wife reading in the family room, or anyone around was kind of lonely.  And that's just for 2 hours.  It's certainly nice to realize that my family is part of my life and inseparable from my self now, though, as opposed to a chore and something I have to deal with.

Here's your reward for reading my post:

Staying at home

          The last few months have been exciting.  I get to celebrate the simplest things now: first smiles, first time grabbing things, even pushups now have a pleasant aura about them—when I’m doing the watching, of course.

          However, I’ve found some negative aspects to it that make it a challenge for me.  For instance, as much as I feel I’m the more emotional one in our family, I just don’t feel quite as “mommy” as I could if I were . . . a mommy.  Yes, I feed my daughter; I change her diaper, wash her diapers, play with her, read to her, take her for walks and so on.  But let’s take the playing as an example of how I’m not very mommy. 

          For me, there’s a certain amount of playing that needs to be done.  We have certain developmental tasks that we need to be working on—quad blasting, balance, consonantal articulation—periods of time with the various toys, regular changes of location.  I call this scheduled fun.  And the “fun” doesn’t stop there.  I even collect data on when she sleeps and eats, and how much of each.  I’ve been hesitant to record when she poops.  I’ll let you guess what I ended up deciding on that one.

          Basically, like any good guy, there's a job to be done.  So we get in and git er done.  Even making sure to not just hurry through things is a checklist item in the ol’ planner.

          Physiology is the next major challenge.  Not only am I not mentally a woman, I’m not physically one.  Yep, bottles can be taken anywhere.  Nobody’s going to accuse you of indecency if you wave a bottle around in public.  Uncovered.  Or spray milk all over.  I admit that’s pretty handy.  But just because she can eat anywhere doesn’t mean she does it.  Like with breastfeeding, she has her certain places and positions that she has grown accustomed to when it’s time to eat.  And that’s what she demands or she goes on strike.  And when we’re out too long, guess what.  I don’t have the built-in components to magic up some more milk for her.  Better pack a thermos or stay close to home.

          As if the mind and the body were not enough, society is the last challenge I’ll drag into this.  I’ll admit, on most days I forget that I participated in a war, taught college and did some other cool stuff that would give most people a lot of confidence.  But I still manage to feel somewhat valuable even when all questions regarding how we raise our daughter are directed to my wife.  “So, what kind of diapers do you use?”  “Does she have a sleep schedule?”  “Is it hard having daycare?”  Woah, what?  Since when am I “daycare”?

          Ya, those hit a solid nerve and a half.  But the two things that get me most are these.  Nobody, and I mean nobody invites me to play groups.  Granted, splitting between one other mom and myself would feel more like a play date for us than for my daughter who isn’t going on dates until she’s married.  But I’m pretty sure play groups come in different sizes.  What—don’t think I can talk about cooking?  Afraid I’m anti-feminism?  That doesn’t even make sense—look at my family!

          Now, here’s the killer.  ALL of my daughter’s clothing, from the boy hand-me-down clothes to the brand new girly clothes ALL say “Mommy loves me” or “I love Mommy!”  I love her too, don’t get me wrong.  But I just deleted the first words that came to my keyboard.  Doesn’t anyone realize that our society is falling apart because onesies don’t encourage complete families?  It all starts right there on that little piece of cloth that absorbs everything the diaper misses.  Curse you, multi-billion-dollar baby fashion industry.  My wife hunted around for some clothing to make me feel better.  By Father’s Day she came up with ONE.  Seriously.  On Father’s Day.  What do they think dad’s want, ties?  Socks?  Come to think of it, I am running a little low on socks right now.

          I’ll end the complaining now.  I know my wife’s a bit jealous that I get to see more of Felicity’s developments.  When she gets home from work it’s almost time to put Felicity to bed.  Then in the morning she’s getting ready for work about the time Felicity is waking up.  I’m lucky that I get to see smiles and laughter so often, and I love that.

The Woeful Tale of Eric the Unafraid, but possibly Unnerved

This might take a while to read.  It took a while to run it so it makes sense.
 
     So I’m training for a couple ultra-marathons coming up very soon—far sooner than I let myself realize.  Tonight’s training was supposed to be 3ish hours, hoping for 4 hours.  I didn’t get to the trail until about 5:30pm (in mid-October when the sun goes down earlier than I'm used to).  Normally I train in the morning or midday, depending on not very many important factors.  Basically, I haven’t trained for any nighttime running, and probably won’t need much for how short these ultras will be.
 
     Despite the hoped length of the run, I decide to take my headlamp and warm shirt with me just in case.  I planned to be back at the car after 2 hours so I could get more water if I needed, and to send a text message home to say that I haven’t been eaten by any bears.  Heh.
 
     The light is good at 6pm.  Fellow trail users are friendly and courteous.  The leaves are turning lovely shades of yellow, orange and red.  It is cool enough to want extra clothing, but warm enough that I will not need them for quite some time.  It is a good evening to be running.
 

     Somewhere around 45 minutes into my run I see a pickup truck below me on a road.  It is a park service truck and it is stopping where it’s at.  It might be stopping so that the rangers can tell me to go home because the park closes at dusk.  I will not be stopping my run at dusk.  I am a runner.  I was also a US Marine.  I am not afraid of the dark, and I am quite familiar with these trails.  I run on, but not far.  I actually think I just heard growling, or a squirrel, or sticks banging1. I actually wonder if the truck was trying to locate a bear.  A few seconds of wondering, with a little light left and plenty of grit and determination, and I’m running again.

 
     It’s been about an hour and there is significantly less light.  I really do know these trails but I stop and pull out my headlamp because I’ve got nothing to prove by trying to run in the dark.  Or at least I haven’t seen anyone for a few miles to prove it to.  I’ve selected a place to turn around that’s about another ½ hour on; this should get me a solid 3 hour run, after which I can run a couple out-and backs closer to the car if I really need to and feel like it.
 
     About ten minutes later it is quite dark and I decide to turn around.  This is not because I’m scared of the dark.  This is not because I am afraid I’ll hurt myself.  No, no.  It is simply smarter to run closer to the car when it is this dark.  I decide that it will be just as well if I take up the rest of my run in the morning.  And so I set off along the dark and dreary path.
 
     I still have my watch running and I am still checking it from time to time, but despite this I’m not very aware of the passage of time anymore.  I am, however, very aware of the rocks on the ground.  The squirrels have gotten louder and I am lonely.  I am not bothered by the dark, but I am bothered by how lonely it is.  Not scared, just unnerved.  I am fortunate that a group of cyclists have converged with my trail.  As long as I can see them, I feel comforted.  So I run faster despite the growing dark, despite the distortion from my headlamp.  Even for how slow they are riding in the evening, they are still riding faster than me and they eventually disappear.  And I am left alone again.
 
     At this point the monologues in my head have started.  Bravery.  Bravery versus stupidity.  It is not courageous or brave, I am telling my future sons, to break into these creepy, abandoned houses on the side of the trail here simply to show that you can overcome fear or prove to your buddies that you are not a coward.  Bravery is when you do something dangerous that you didn’t want to do, but you did it in order to help someone else.  You still feel scared when you are brave, you just ignore the fear.
 
I am running in the dark.  I am not brave.  I am not being modest about it.  I am simply stupid.
 
     There is no more light at all at whatever pm it is now.  There are no more fellow trail users.  The leaves have turned to eerie shades of dark, darker and abysmally black.  My breath is now steaming out of my mouth as though some foul creature were in front of me.  I do not want my warm shirt; I want a cup of hot cocoa.  It is an awful night to be running.  I am not so much unnerved at being alone.  I am scared of the dark.  I want to be home.
 
     The trees are no longer standing straight up, but are leaning inward above me, their branches reaching out at me just beyond the edge of the trail.  The deer’s teeth are growing into fangs and I am less sure of the path.  Twice I have to stop to make sure if I am still on the trail.  Another cyclist passes and life is good.  I am confident for another five minutes.  Just long enough to last until I emerge from the forest to run along the edge of a couple farms.  The air is sweet outside the forest.  The trail is clear and the light is a little better.  I love running at night.  I revel in the solitude.
 
     All too soon the trail leads back into the forest for the last 10 minutes.  The last mile of my run.  It is dark again but I know this section of the trail better than any other.  I have been scanning the trees overhead and the bushes alongside me to see if there are eyes looking back at me, reflected in my dim lamp-light.  Only once have I seen a deer since it got dark and it did not stay in sight for more than a flitting moment.  My attention to the trees has cost me a bloody toenail and a few splashes in the puddles but that’s autumn running.  I can laugh this off.
 
     Suddenly the trail winds a strange direction.  I’m not heading toward the road anymore.  Do I hear the cyclists loading their bikes onto their cars?  I’m not sure.  The trail is definitely petering out into a track, as opposed to the wide, rocky path that I’m used to.  I have chosen a different fork in the trail than the one I normally take.  The usual one has a larger stream crossing and I don’t feel like slipping on the rocks or trudging through the stream.  And isn’t water where animals congregate?  Maybe that’s just on the nature programs but I chose the other fork anyway.  Why.  Why now.  There haven’t been any other little trails that I could have gotten off on but I’m definitely heading out to another part of the park where I don’t want to be.  Or was there another trail back there a ways . . . ?

     I’m not worried about that anymore because I can see a pair of eyes reflected back at me a little ways off the trail.  They’re not blinking.  They’re staring.  Silly, it’s probably just one of the trail signs reflecting back at me.  In the shape of two small eyes.  But there aren’t any trail signs on this part of the trail.  And they just blinked.  “Hey, is that somebody over there?”  Please answer.  Well, I’ll just pick up one of these rocks to throw at it.  That should scare off this thing--it's probably a deer.  Wait, how can there be no rocks on a trail that has been covered in rocks for over 2 hours of my run?  Here’s a stick I can throw.  More like balsa wood.  Who puts stick-shaped pieces of balsa wood on the trail?  It doesn’t fly very far.  And the eyes don’t move.
 
     I try sliding up and down the trail a couple feet to see if I can catch a glimpse of the animal.  But with my dim lamplight I just can't see anything.  But it’s off the trail anyways so I’m just going to go ahead, slowly.  As I start walking, the animal seems to have disappeared.  I can’t tell if it’s hiding now or if it has moved, but the trail has suddenly turned right back to where the eyes were.  Now what.  After several moments of thoughtlessly considering what I should do, I notice that the eyes are now further away.  So I bravely creep forward a little further.  Or is that stupidly?  I’m barely aware that the trail has opened up again and is a bit more familiar.  This is little comfort as the eyes stay still while I clap my hands and then throw another stick that floats like a paper airplane.  Can this really be happening this close to the car?
 
     Another eternally long minute or so passes and the eyes disappear again.  The trail is definitely—how many times have I used this word tonight only to find out how utterly devoid of meaning it is for me??—heading where I think it should, and away from the eyes.  From the deer, I’m sure.  Quite sure.  But do deer hunt like velociraptors?  While I’m watching this one, are there others closing in alongside me ready to disembowel me with their predator-developed 2-inch long . . . deer hoof?  This thought isn’t even funny at this point.  I’m running for it.  Full speed, up the hill, I’m not that tired, it won’t follow me quickly enough because I’ll catch it off guard.  And I won’t look back because if I don’t then it can’t follow me.  Whatever.  Just run.
 
     The adrenaline courses through my body as I race up the hill.  2 hours of running tonight and I’m not the least bit tired as I expel large puffs of mist from my mouth.  Well, actually it kind of hurts and I’m not so sure that was adrenaline.  Fear, definitely.  But probably not adrenaline.  Then I hear it.  I stop and turn, and see the eyes again as it comes to an abrupt stop bounding through the forest towards me.  This is a mountain lion.  In a forest in the middle of an urban environment.  A mountain lion that is bounding through the forest?  I have no idea what it is.  I still can’t see anything but the eyes.  Raptors are smart enough to know to stay at the edge of your light.  They know that Petzel headlamps that were manufactured 3 years ago have a luminous range of about 40 feet.  It knows to stand exactly 41 feet away.  Maybe it’s an error with the conversion from the metric system.  Strange thoughts creep into your mind when you’re scared.
 
     The Marine in me comes alive.  I shout with all the authority that I ever had, loud enough that anyone close by can hear me.  Loud enough that the eyes disappear and bound away.  Or skulk.  Ya.  I’ll say it skulked away when I retell this story.  Skulked away quickly.  The Marine is gone now and I find myself racing down the trail again.  This is the home stretch and I can see my own car and the cars passing by on the country road.  All the trails have converged now and I would normally walk this last, very short stretch to cool down.  But I do not stop running until I get to my car.  I unlock the car, turn off my light and start stretching as another car passes by me.  The leaves following in its wake look and sound like animals running towards me.  I stop stretching and jump into my car.  I lock all the doors—can deer evolve enough to open car door handles?  Clever girl.  It’s still not funny.
 
I hate running at night.  And I am scared of the dark.

Footnotes:
1 Don't worry, this is only supposed to make sense to a few people.