Risks abound. A car ride. Inadequate sleep and exercise. A poor diet. Or a bad economy. Yet, we get by, confident that we'll be okay, at least for now.
It's when we step outside life's normal routine that things can begin to feel a bit more dicey. A sky dive. A bungy jump. A trip to a lesser developed country. Or a heart-felt letter presented to an impressionable teen.
This past Christmas, with some trepidation and tons of trust in her and God, I did the last, the recipient being my thirteen year old niece Janice. I had written the letter when she was but an infant, newly adopted and brought over to Hawaii (from Asia) by my sister Joan and her husband Aldwin. It described their lack of success in conceiving, their medical issues, and a one-time unsuccessful medical procedure. Joan's refusal to seek further medical intervention left them bereft until they pursued adoption (see related essay entitled Adoption Option.)
The letter also described the couple's trip with my parents (Joan was recovering from a surgery at the time) to and from Korea and the immediate aftermath: The friendly fellow traveler at the airport—a Korean national—who offered to take them around during their three days before the pick-up date but who eventually became a pest due to her “Let's get together again,” persistence until they finally stopped answering their hotel telephone. The emotional meeting with the foster mother, a veteran of several foster children. The first meeting (the foster mother had discretely withdrawn) with the baby when Joan burst into tears of joy, yet the baby held firm, alert and self-composed. The harrowing taxi trip to the airport when Janice, realizing that Mom wasn't coming along and that she was being taken somewhere by a group of strangers, shrieked inconsolable, a crying jag that lasted the duration of the half-hour taxi ride plus most of the hours-long flight to Hawaii, only interrupted by short naps induced by physical and emotional exhaustion, Joan weeping joyfully and pityingly while seated on the floor beside her, comforting her and refusing (unlike the others) to take a sleep break in another section of the largely vacant plane. Janice's quick adjustment to life in Hawaii with her new family where she became happy, hungry, and even-keeled—“just fine”, so said my parents.
The letter foresaw Janice's inclination and curiosity to one day want to learn more of her birth parents and past and that how far she goes with it is hers alone to decide. I described my father-in-law's awful experiences when tracking down his birth mother and the way he suffered and self-destructed as a result. (His birth father's identity and whereabouts remained vague and untraceable.)
But the overarching tone of the letter was one of love, and although I envisioned presenting it to Janice upon her reaching adulthood or her late teen years, possibly as she struggled through identity issues virtually all adolescents sooner or later face, I changed my mind because of her family's recent ten-day trip to Korea with other adoptee children from the same adoption agency. No one explained to me the impetus for the trip, but I reasoned that obviously Janice must have expressed interest. (Joan said she'd planned nothing for the trip, which suggested it wasn't her initiative; my brother-in-law is a go-along type. Joan said that they were “playing it by ear” whether or not to visit Janice's foster mom but were counseled against it by an agency worker because it takes lots of preparation for something like that, at which point Joan dropped the idea.)
Deanne was very concerned that Janice might take the letter the wrong way (as was I, but to a lesser extent), and perhaps that Joan and Aldwin might hold it against me if things went poorly. But I felt that this was between Janice and me—I didn't want to have to or believe it necessary to filter the letter through Joan or Aldwin because as parents, they are personally vested in the outcome whereas I have a certain detached perspective that perhaps allows me to focus better on what's potentially best for Janice. And her parents and I surely agree that we all want what's best for her. And once she reaches eighteen she can and will do what she sets her mind to anyway.
Christmas Eve I raised with Joan, Miley Cyrus's music video awards show performance. I had read about its raunchy simulated sex acts, the skanky outfit she wore, and the shocked reactions from fans who bemoaned what had become of their once sweet, innocent child. Janice had been a big fan of hers from her Hannah Montana days and had an autographed copy of one of her earlier posters. Joan said her performance was no big deal—no worse than any of the other stars'—and that the backlash was identical to the flack Brittany Spears took the first time she broke out of her sweet, innocent childhood mode.
Janice interrupted and asked which performance?
I said, well, I don't know if you saw it.
She said I saw all of them, which one?
I looked at Joan who had walked away and said the VMA show.
Janice smiled and said, “I saw some, but when she started doing some weird stuff, I walked out of the room.”
I held an arm out to hug her, she came to me, and I said, “Good for you. You know what to do.”
She said, “My friend watched it over and over again. She tried to get me to watch it but I told her I don't want to.”
I again praised her for her good judgment.
Later, she, my kids, and my brother's son had a nice time together outside on the balcony decorating a prefabricated ginger-bread house. When the kids were eating dinner that night on the same balcony table, I took a break from the adult table inside and stood around and talked with Janice and the others and found her to be a fine and engaging girl. However, when she mentioned stressing out over exams and taking awhile to calm down so she could think, I counseled her to concentrate more on having fun—straight A's all the time shouldn't be the top priority at her age.
With the letter, I enclosed a cover letter saying to discuss with me before reading and if she wants to stop reading, to return it to me for safekeeping until a later date.
Christmas afternoon she looked at me, letter in hand, in the midst of the present-opening festivities. I had been thinking maybe I should sit in a separate room with her, Joan, and Aldwin while she read it, but instead I asked, “You know the facts of life, right?”
She said, “Huh?”
I said, “You know where babies come from?” She nodded. “And how they are made?” She nodded again. “Then go ahead.”
Joan said, “Sheesh, this letter... I wonder...” but she laughed as she said it.
Janice sat quiet, hunched over as she read the twelve-plus pages, intent and serious, while I continued to shoot photos, stay engaged, and check on her from a distance from time to time.
I relived Joan's tearful joys and Janice's childhood ordeal and sorrows as she turned the pages and her eyes began to glisten and redden. Later, she left the room, and when she returned, her mood was somber and her eyes were puffy and red. She reclined into the folds of Joan's arms—a rare display of public affection. I went over and whispered, “If you like, you can share the letter with Mommy.”
She said, “Thank you for the letter, she knows what's in it already.”
I thought a moment and said, “She might have forgotten some. I forgot a lot and only remembered after I reread it.”
It was a big change from a year ago when Janice had danced about the room exuberant over her new acquisitions: fluorescent soccer shoes, a soccer ball, electronic devises, fashionable clothes, dress shoes, and a pair of flip flops. And I felt good for having done the right thing.
(To Joan, Aldwin, or Janice if you are reading this: I love you all dearly.)
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Art – Creating and Acquiring
One
thing that separates man from the beasts is art. Others—morality; spirituality; and rational
awareness of self, time, symbols, ideals, and the meaning of life—exist, but
to me, appreciation of beauty and art and the desire to create them seems a huge part of man's unique essence.
Birds, whales, baboons, and cats sing, but do they find such music beautiful or compelling? Can it cheer them up, depress them, make them laugh or cry, or put them in just the right mood? Do they obsessively strive to improve their craft seeking ever greater beauty or perfection? Or is art intrinsically good to them because it adds beauty to an imperfect world?
Every culture everywhere has its history with art. Usually two- or three-dimensional depictions of nature can be found among the world's most ancient works of art. (No where in the animal kingdom can such artifacts be found.) Later depictions often contain spiritual representations, birth, death, fertility, or languages—all parts of many cultures' ancient arts: offerings to deities, warnings to the observer, fanciful handiwork of the bored, or factual depictions of the present.
So it's in our genes, I believe, to create and appreciate art.
My tastes are diverse: rock and roll and classical music (happy or relaxing); black and white photos with dynamic range (humorous or insightful); literature that is more real than real; humble, down-to-earth memoirs; artsy foreign films; and sculptures with visual puns.
But the real fun comes in creating.
I love playing guitar and singing (I've led worship in small-group settings), shooting black and white photos, sculpting clay, writing fiction and creative non-fiction, and on rare occasions, fooling with paints and permanent markers. Some of our best family outings have been to arts festivals—free to the public—at the Contemporary Art Museum, Honolulu Academy of Arts, Hawaii State Art Museum, and Windward Community College. They all put on good shows and allowed much hands-on participation and souvenir-making.
What sets activities apart at these are the artists who guide them, whose enthusiasms are palpable. I love to get them talking about the origination of their art forms, techniques, tools and materials, and their professional or academic statuses. It's also fun to let my creative side take over and see how my abstract scribbles turn out, or sculpt some mundane silly thing (tooth brush, toilet, a thumb) and see if the kids can guess what it is (they usually can't, even though it looks exactly like the object depicted—my wife can always tell). One thing that the kids got to do that I always wanted to (but adults weren't allow to) was spin clay. I later kiln-fired their bowls in town for a small fee, sprayed them with acrylic clear coats, let the kids decorate them with acrylic paints, then sprayed them with acrylic clear coats again—perfect gifts for the holidays. Another fun activity was carving wet plaster using wood carving tools. We ran out of time but were told how to finish them at home, which we did using blunt tools and knives, then painted with acrylics. Jaren, too young to carve, enjoyed gluing scrap wood blocks together, then painting them, instead.
As an art collector, I love originals. We can't afford expensive works, so usually it's through happenstance that I discover some affordable artist whose works I love. The first of these I discovered at my old apartment in Kakaako. Beautiful paintings were displayed in the lobby front office, propped upright on the floor against a desk front. I inquired about them and was told that the artists Cece and Fabio were tenants allowed to set up shop in a garage storage room. I went over and was immediately hooked—everything they produced, I appreciated (including painted flat board cut-out standing sculptures). I commissioned them to do a painting—anything they wished—for eighty dollars, and they did one on canvass, the wood frame of which was also painted and incorporated into the piece. I ended up buying four more pieces from their inventory (all sold at steep buyer-appreciation discounts), including one print which I gave to my brother, plus a number of postcard prints of originals.
The young Brazilian men with heavy Spanish accents were nascent artists striving to attain commercial success without “bastardizing their work.” One of them—handsome, studly, and full of fire—had paralysis from the waist down and got by with arm crutches. Their stories and our rapport and goodwill added substantially to my enjoyment of the pieces.
Another artist I came upon was Robert Kelsey, who displayed his works on Saturdays on the Fence by the Honolulu Zoo. His fine abstract acrylic paintings were on stretched canvass and extended all the way to the tops, sides, and bottoms—no frames required. A sign encourage customers, “Please DO touch the paintings.” I told Braden, then a toddler, “Look what the sign says.” An elderly gentleman with kind, gentle disposition approached, took a painting off the fence, stroked it, and held it for Braden to feel. The man joked about his wife from South-East Asia and explained how his mother-in-law, who was such an encouragement to him, gave him Chinese calligraphy brushes that he used in some of his paintings. She promised him that her daughter would take good care of him in his old age, so when his wife neglected him once when he had sore hands from stretching canvasses, he reminded her of her mom's promise to which she responded, “My mother was wrong!” Throughout the years, I purchased five pieces from him from twenty-five to thirty-five dollars each, two given away as gifts.
In acquiring art, I always seek the story—either of the artist or within the work itself. Yet, the main thing is always the way the work makes me feel. To paraphrase Duke Ellington, to me, if it feels good, it is good.
Whereas in creating art, the fun is in the doing. I don't teach my kids how to play guitar well or shoot compelling photos, instead, I just let them see me have fun doing it, show them the basics, then let them go and have some fun. If they enjoy it they'll stick with it longer and automatically improve over time. For a huge part of the fun in doing is improving.
Birds, whales, baboons, and cats sing, but do they find such music beautiful or compelling? Can it cheer them up, depress them, make them laugh or cry, or put them in just the right mood? Do they obsessively strive to improve their craft seeking ever greater beauty or perfection? Or is art intrinsically good to them because it adds beauty to an imperfect world?
Every culture everywhere has its history with art. Usually two- or three-dimensional depictions of nature can be found among the world's most ancient works of art. (No where in the animal kingdom can such artifacts be found.) Later depictions often contain spiritual representations, birth, death, fertility, or languages—all parts of many cultures' ancient arts: offerings to deities, warnings to the observer, fanciful handiwork of the bored, or factual depictions of the present.
So it's in our genes, I believe, to create and appreciate art.
My tastes are diverse: rock and roll and classical music (happy or relaxing); black and white photos with dynamic range (humorous or insightful); literature that is more real than real; humble, down-to-earth memoirs; artsy foreign films; and sculptures with visual puns.
But the real fun comes in creating.
I love playing guitar and singing (I've led worship in small-group settings), shooting black and white photos, sculpting clay, writing fiction and creative non-fiction, and on rare occasions, fooling with paints and permanent markers. Some of our best family outings have been to arts festivals—free to the public—at the Contemporary Art Museum, Honolulu Academy of Arts, Hawaii State Art Museum, and Windward Community College. They all put on good shows and allowed much hands-on participation and souvenir-making.
What sets activities apart at these are the artists who guide them, whose enthusiasms are palpable. I love to get them talking about the origination of their art forms, techniques, tools and materials, and their professional or academic statuses. It's also fun to let my creative side take over and see how my abstract scribbles turn out, or sculpt some mundane silly thing (tooth brush, toilet, a thumb) and see if the kids can guess what it is (they usually can't, even though it looks exactly like the object depicted—my wife can always tell). One thing that the kids got to do that I always wanted to (but adults weren't allow to) was spin clay. I later kiln-fired their bowls in town for a small fee, sprayed them with acrylic clear coats, let the kids decorate them with acrylic paints, then sprayed them with acrylic clear coats again—perfect gifts for the holidays. Another fun activity was carving wet plaster using wood carving tools. We ran out of time but were told how to finish them at home, which we did using blunt tools and knives, then painted with acrylics. Jaren, too young to carve, enjoyed gluing scrap wood blocks together, then painting them, instead.
As an art collector, I love originals. We can't afford expensive works, so usually it's through happenstance that I discover some affordable artist whose works I love. The first of these I discovered at my old apartment in Kakaako. Beautiful paintings were displayed in the lobby front office, propped upright on the floor against a desk front. I inquired about them and was told that the artists Cece and Fabio were tenants allowed to set up shop in a garage storage room. I went over and was immediately hooked—everything they produced, I appreciated (including painted flat board cut-out standing sculptures). I commissioned them to do a painting—anything they wished—for eighty dollars, and they did one on canvass, the wood frame of which was also painted and incorporated into the piece. I ended up buying four more pieces from their inventory (all sold at steep buyer-appreciation discounts), including one print which I gave to my brother, plus a number of postcard prints of originals.
The young Brazilian men with heavy Spanish accents were nascent artists striving to attain commercial success without “bastardizing their work.” One of them—handsome, studly, and full of fire—had paralysis from the waist down and got by with arm crutches. Their stories and our rapport and goodwill added substantially to my enjoyment of the pieces.
Another artist I came upon was Robert Kelsey, who displayed his works on Saturdays on the Fence by the Honolulu Zoo. His fine abstract acrylic paintings were on stretched canvass and extended all the way to the tops, sides, and bottoms—no frames required. A sign encourage customers, “Please DO touch the paintings.” I told Braden, then a toddler, “Look what the sign says.” An elderly gentleman with kind, gentle disposition approached, took a painting off the fence, stroked it, and held it for Braden to feel. The man joked about his wife from South-East Asia and explained how his mother-in-law, who was such an encouragement to him, gave him Chinese calligraphy brushes that he used in some of his paintings. She promised him that her daughter would take good care of him in his old age, so when his wife neglected him once when he had sore hands from stretching canvasses, he reminded her of her mom's promise to which she responded, “My mother was wrong!” Throughout the years, I purchased five pieces from him from twenty-five to thirty-five dollars each, two given away as gifts.
In acquiring art, I always seek the story—either of the artist or within the work itself. Yet, the main thing is always the way the work makes me feel. To paraphrase Duke Ellington, to me, if it feels good, it is good.
Whereas in creating art, the fun is in the doing. I don't teach my kids how to play guitar well or shoot compelling photos, instead, I just let them see me have fun doing it, show them the basics, then let them go and have some fun. If they enjoy it they'll stick with it longer and automatically improve over time. For a huge part of the fun in doing is improving.
Acquisitions:
Creations:
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Adoption Option
My
family has a long history with adoption, so when the time came for my wife and
I to explore various options due to medical circumstances, I felt comfortable
with this possibility.
Both my paternal grandparents had had younger siblings adopted due to parental deaths. Grandma shared how her dad, a sugar plantation worker in Kihei, gave up the family's youngest for adoption to a family in Kula—where she eventually disappeared and was later found dead, drowned in a cistern. When Grandpa was a child and both his parents died in close succession—his father by drowning when thrown by a huge wave off a commercial fishing sampan off Hilo and his mother from disease—his uncle, a barber in Lahaina decided he could manage to care for but one of the two children. He therefore sent Grandpa's sister to live with relatives back in Japan. As an adult, Grandpa, a Kula Sanatorium yard man, sent her money because her family was so poor, World War II ceasing all correspondence for a time. Many years later, they resumed correspondence, and decades later, reunited in a sorrowful reunion at which Grandpa's sister couldn't stop crying. Their second reunion, however, went much better as she had found peace amidst all the painful memories.
My maternal grandmother died when Mom was a child so Grandpa, a farmer with a fifty acre plot in Honokaa and seven daughters to care for, gave the youngest up for adoption. Though Aunt Mae seldom was included within the close, tight circle of all our other aunties (partly because she lived in Chicago and other faraway places), my mom and aunties corresponded with her and met up with her in recent years for vacations and other gatherings.
My sister Joan adopted her sole child from Korea. The two couldn't stop crying on their trip home together to Hawaii—my sister for joy and pity at her daughter's tears; my one year old niece due to fear of the strangers taking her away from her beloved foster mom.
My sister's husband's twin sister was given up for adoption shortly after birth due to their mom not feeling up to the task of raising them both. I met Samantha at my sister's wedding—a beautiful, confident woman who is included in numerous of my brother-in-law's family gatherings back east where he grew up in New Jersey.
And my half-Scot, half-Siamese father-in-law was as an infant adopted by a Chinese family in Malaysia. He grew to six-foot-four and played for his future country's national basketball team as center, but quit when he saw the United States' team in which their shortest player was taller than he was.
Our personal encounter with adoption came over a year ago when routine ultrasound images showed abnormalities in our eight-weeks-old fetus my wife Deanne was carrying. Our doctor made us an appointment at a fetal diagnostic center and offered to later test for chromosomal abnormalities such as Down syndrome and spina bifida—early notice apparently to give us time to decide whether or not to terminate the pregnancy. I told Deanne, who later brooded over the prospect of caring for a special needs child that if we didn't feel up to it, we could consider giving it up for adoption. But if we did give it up, we'd have to do so at birth, because once we brought it home and cared for it, we'd become so attached, it'd be too painful to give away after that. She didn't like the adoption idea because when her dad, as an adult, tracked down and talked to his biological mother, she outright rejected him and told him to never bother her again, which devastated him.
Abortion was something neither of us felt comfortable with, so that left us with planning to keep the baby, possibly skipping the test, and praying everything would be fine.
Two weeks passed and the next ultrasound showed the baby fine, clear, and healthy, but also an abnormal bulge in the uterine wall that the doctor said the fetal diagnostic center may better be able to identify. Three days later, the fetal diagnostic center's high-tech ultrasound showed the same size fetus with no heartbeat, and multiple chromosomal abnormalities—possibly Down syndrome. The fetus had apparently died in the intervening period. We opted to wait for a natural discharge of the fetus' remains (or a miracle recovery), but ten days passed and Deanne seemed increasingly less pregnant. At the next doctor's visit, the ultrasound confirmed no growth and no heart beat or blood flow. The doctor recommended a procedure to remove the fetus, placenta, and other baby-related support systems to prevent infection, which Deanne and I agreed to.
The miscarriage shocked and disappointed us. We had been buoyed by the prospect of a fourth child yet stressed at the same time by the logistics of planning a preparing for its arrival and funding its future. What eased the pain and emptiness was knowing God had decided for us. It was if He said, “No, not now. I want this child with me, chromosomal abnormalities and all—it doesn't matter to me, I love it just the same.”
Deanne had a dream a couple days later of her deceased father (who recently died after a prolonged bout with colon cancer). She placed a baby in his arms and said, “Here's Jen.” Dad had never met our youngest child Jaren, who just turned six, and Jen was the name we had preselected from six-and-a-half years ago to name him, had he been a girl.
A part of me wondered: If God blesses us with another daughter, will we still feel comfortable naming her Jen? It took us awhile to come up with that name (not her real name, by the way, we don't share that with anyone until after birth). But after Deanne again got pregnant, we realized, no, Jen would not do. So we came up with a different name. God again called the fetus to Him (after two weeks). It had been such a short pregnancy, and we had guarded our hearts just in case, so the shock of disappointment was not quite so severe. God's will be done in all things. He has been good to us beyond compare.
Both my paternal grandparents had had younger siblings adopted due to parental deaths. Grandma shared how her dad, a sugar plantation worker in Kihei, gave up the family's youngest for adoption to a family in Kula—where she eventually disappeared and was later found dead, drowned in a cistern. When Grandpa was a child and both his parents died in close succession—his father by drowning when thrown by a huge wave off a commercial fishing sampan off Hilo and his mother from disease—his uncle, a barber in Lahaina decided he could manage to care for but one of the two children. He therefore sent Grandpa's sister to live with relatives back in Japan. As an adult, Grandpa, a Kula Sanatorium yard man, sent her money because her family was so poor, World War II ceasing all correspondence for a time. Many years later, they resumed correspondence, and decades later, reunited in a sorrowful reunion at which Grandpa's sister couldn't stop crying. Their second reunion, however, went much better as she had found peace amidst all the painful memories.
My maternal grandmother died when Mom was a child so Grandpa, a farmer with a fifty acre plot in Honokaa and seven daughters to care for, gave the youngest up for adoption. Though Aunt Mae seldom was included within the close, tight circle of all our other aunties (partly because she lived in Chicago and other faraway places), my mom and aunties corresponded with her and met up with her in recent years for vacations and other gatherings.
My sister Joan adopted her sole child from Korea. The two couldn't stop crying on their trip home together to Hawaii—my sister for joy and pity at her daughter's tears; my one year old niece due to fear of the strangers taking her away from her beloved foster mom.
My sister's husband's twin sister was given up for adoption shortly after birth due to their mom not feeling up to the task of raising them both. I met Samantha at my sister's wedding—a beautiful, confident woman who is included in numerous of my brother-in-law's family gatherings back east where he grew up in New Jersey.
And my half-Scot, half-Siamese father-in-law was as an infant adopted by a Chinese family in Malaysia. He grew to six-foot-four and played for his future country's national basketball team as center, but quit when he saw the United States' team in which their shortest player was taller than he was.
Our personal encounter with adoption came over a year ago when routine ultrasound images showed abnormalities in our eight-weeks-old fetus my wife Deanne was carrying. Our doctor made us an appointment at a fetal diagnostic center and offered to later test for chromosomal abnormalities such as Down syndrome and spina bifida—early notice apparently to give us time to decide whether or not to terminate the pregnancy. I told Deanne, who later brooded over the prospect of caring for a special needs child that if we didn't feel up to it, we could consider giving it up for adoption. But if we did give it up, we'd have to do so at birth, because once we brought it home and cared for it, we'd become so attached, it'd be too painful to give away after that. She didn't like the adoption idea because when her dad, as an adult, tracked down and talked to his biological mother, she outright rejected him and told him to never bother her again, which devastated him.
Abortion was something neither of us felt comfortable with, so that left us with planning to keep the baby, possibly skipping the test, and praying everything would be fine.
Two weeks passed and the next ultrasound showed the baby fine, clear, and healthy, but also an abnormal bulge in the uterine wall that the doctor said the fetal diagnostic center may better be able to identify. Three days later, the fetal diagnostic center's high-tech ultrasound showed the same size fetus with no heartbeat, and multiple chromosomal abnormalities—possibly Down syndrome. The fetus had apparently died in the intervening period. We opted to wait for a natural discharge of the fetus' remains (or a miracle recovery), but ten days passed and Deanne seemed increasingly less pregnant. At the next doctor's visit, the ultrasound confirmed no growth and no heart beat or blood flow. The doctor recommended a procedure to remove the fetus, placenta, and other baby-related support systems to prevent infection, which Deanne and I agreed to.
The miscarriage shocked and disappointed us. We had been buoyed by the prospect of a fourth child yet stressed at the same time by the logistics of planning a preparing for its arrival and funding its future. What eased the pain and emptiness was knowing God had decided for us. It was if He said, “No, not now. I want this child with me, chromosomal abnormalities and all—it doesn't matter to me, I love it just the same.”
Deanne had a dream a couple days later of her deceased father (who recently died after a prolonged bout with colon cancer). She placed a baby in his arms and said, “Here's Jen.” Dad had never met our youngest child Jaren, who just turned six, and Jen was the name we had preselected from six-and-a-half years ago to name him, had he been a girl.
A part of me wondered: If God blesses us with another daughter, will we still feel comfortable naming her Jen? It took us awhile to come up with that name (not her real name, by the way, we don't share that with anyone until after birth). But after Deanne again got pregnant, we realized, no, Jen would not do. So we came up with a different name. God again called the fetus to Him (after two weeks). It had been such a short pregnancy, and we had guarded our hearts just in case, so the shock of disappointment was not quite so severe. God's will be done in all things. He has been good to us beyond compare.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Date Nights
Deanne
and I have been married for fifteen years—the fifteen happiest years of my life
(and hers too, so she replies sometimes more convincingly than others). Most everyone agrees that a key to happy
spousal relations, especially for couples raising kids, is continual
courtship-style dating. One Christian
counselor advised that in economic terms, spending one to two hundred dollars
every other week and enough for one “big” thing (trip to Europe, week in a ski
lodge, etc.) every other year or so is a bargain to keep things alive because
the cost of divorce is magnitudes higher (in terms of alimony; child support;
duplicate housing, utility, and insurance costs; etc.) Fortunately, my wife and I don't have such
expensive tastes and manage to date on much less (and have yet to do, post-kids,
a “big” style thing—we travel as a family; our budget and baby sitting options
don't allow the two of us to disappear for days at a time.)
We
find that the best dates don't involve shopping (especially not for
necessities) and rarely involve movies.
All too often, these get us into tunnel-vision mode, detracting from
attentiveness toward each other.Dates we enjoy involve concerts, eating, scenic walks (highly recommended) window shopping, plays, shows, and a variety of music forums. When I think about it, it's shocking how limited the variety of our dates have been. But due to physical limitations and preferences, we discovered early on that our dates wouldn't be about skiing, skating, golfing, bowling, dancing, scuba diving, or hiking, or about adrenalin-rush adventures (crowded festivals or group-oriented activities). We prefer our alone-times to be about anticipating then sharing a slow-cooked meal sans the hassles of preparation and clean-up, which always puts us into wind-down mode. Or sitting quietly to witness a live performance (with plenty of hand-holding, whispered conversations, people watching, and discussions before and after.) Or walking after a meal or show at my slow, preferred pace (man takes the lead, like in ballroom dancing), looking, exploring, and doing whatever catches our fancies, spontaneous and free.
Fondly remembered shows included Altar Boys, Spring Awakening, Rain—The Beatles Experience, Loggins & Messina, Diane Shuur, Manhattan Transfer, The Nutcracker, Die Fledermaus, and The Odyssey. Fondly remember restaurants included Chai's Bistro, The Chart House in Haiku Gardens (where we married), Canton House, Empress, The Olive Garden, Maharani, and countless others. Pleasant walks included Waikiki, Fort deRussey, Ala Moana, Downtown, University, Puck's Alley, Waialae, Kapahulu, strip malls, Ward area shops, Honolulu Waterfront, and Aloha Tower Marketplace. Only now do I realize how urban our walks have been (we're not much into picnics due to the burden of preparation and clean-up and we hate long drives), yet, they've never felt hustle-bustle, perhaps because our focus had been on savoring the child-free moments.
Deanne is from a big city, so man-made scenery tends to comfort her. Although I'm from Hilo and sometimes still long for a more open-air environment, I've adapted and learned to enjoy doing simple, fun, and easy things together even if in high population density locations. Though often surrounded by people, we still feel alone enough—unrecognized and left to our own private intimacies—to reconnect as man-woman friends. As another pastor once said, couples rarely fall out of love. It's when they fall out of friendship that trouble begins.
It's up to us, then, to keep our friendship alive by continuing to court each other (dress up, bathe, primp, and offer gently courtesies), making the effort to be attractive and sexually desirable. Dating offers the opportunity, yet it's up to us to make it happen. Fun and romantic? Or painful and boring? Usually it's the former or at least part of it is. Total bombs, though rare, are learning experiences. What went wrong? Poor planning? Bad attitudes? An over-busy schedule? In the midst of such a bomb, I start praying, and God always comes through—even if it’s just a pleasant surprise restaurant at the end of a long, hot walk through an unpleasant neighborhood. And such memories tend to stick—the good within the bad, which makes it sometimes seem even better than it really was. But that’s okay—it’s all good when you’re dating your spouse.
Friday, December 27, 2013
Serious Stuff
A friend of mine and his wife—who I'll call Douglas and Sharie—have been missionaries in China (where foreigners may not wish to openly disclose their missionary status) for the past three years, in a western, modern, technologically advanced, and comfortable city that is getting startlingly expensive. Tuition for their son's highly rated preschool shot up over a hundred percent to several thousand dollars a semester. They struggle to make it on Douglas' meager side-business income and minimal financial support from Hawaii (their small, young church meets in a community center).
Within a few short years after marrying, they chose to deliver their first child, a boy, in Hawaii; their second, a girl, in Japan (where they stayed near Sharie's missionary parents, who live there); and their third, another girl, in China.
I received a jubilant newsletter e-mail from Douglas last year describing the birth of Theresa, their last child. Sharie had suffered terrible bouts of morning sickness with all three babies, requiring intravenous drips administered at home, even, for the final pregnancy, and frequent dosages of anti-nausea medication just to be able to hold solid foods down. He hadn't stated this as the reason for stopping at three (she had originally wanted more), but I guessed it may have been a factor, the decision sounded so definite and sudden.
Within the week I sent him a congratulatory e-mail, rejoicing with them, and again marveling that here he was, a China missionary, finally, after twenty years of having longed to go.
A week passed with no reply—which was no surprise, they were so busy and he rarely corresponded with me personally, anyway, he had so many other contacts, commitments, and responsibilities. The next mass e-mail I received gave me the same shocked chill of disbelief as the TV images did the morning of 9-11: Theresa had displayed symptoms (quick, shallow breathing; paleness; low temperature; vomiting) the day before (a Saturday) and they were told to bring her in that night, and by Sunday, she was in an incubator in the intensive care unit with a tube to help her breathe and constant monitoring of her vitals. CT scans and blood and other tests revealed serious problems in her heart beat, brain, respiration, blood pressure, and other bodily functions. Despite her critical condition, they were allowed to see her only once a week for two hours on Wednesdays. His e-mail was urgent, asking for prayer, but not at all panicked.
I received that e-mail Monday and, already dreading the worst, sent an immediate response saying I had and would continue to pray and that no matter what happened, God would take excellent care of Theresa, she was so sweet and innocent. Days passed and no e-mail updates of a miraculous recovery or stablized condition or even further concerns came, so I dreaded even more—Douglas was always good about reassuring those that might worry for them. The next news of Theresa came through a friend who had heard of it through another: Theresa died Sunday evening.
I don't know how Douglas and Sharie did it, but they immediately posted a web-based tribute to Theresa. The photos depict as healthy a baby as I have ever seen—alert eyes, strong neck, responsive face, and well-formed limbs. A photo of ultrasound images of Theresa as a fetus suggested the doctor's close monitoring of her prenatal development. Douglas described the hospital's newborn care in glowing terms, in certain respects superior to that at Queen's, where his son had been delivered.
“It doesn't make sense!” kept popping into my head, reminding me of what a gentleman at a church I once attended said of his wife's premature demise: “It doesn't make sense. No matter how much I go over it, it doesn't make sense. It will never make sense.” Yet Douglas and Sharie's web tribute showed their faith and thankfulness, even joy that they had been blessed by Theresa during her short three weeks of life.
Would this have happened in America? I can't help but wonder sometimes. Theresa, I noticed, was conspicuously delivered the modern, Chinese way, unlike her two siblings and brother in particular, who had received the full western-style medical treatment. Is that what caused it? An infection perhaps? A missed congenital birth defect? Their hospital—reputedly the best in west China—was located only a mile away from their home and their doctor had excellent recommendations from other expatriots whose babies he had delivered. Our modern western and natural human tendency, perhaps, is to want to know, a need for assurances that no matter what happened, it couldn't have been avoided as it was God's will for it to have happened that way. But such closure has not happened for Douglas and Sharie, not that it matters much because nothing will bring back Theresa, which is all they really want even now.
I didn’t question in my mind anything they subsequently did or did not do—stay, leave, curse God, or love and praise Him more—it was their decision. But I did pray for God to bless them with peace and rest in the midst of turmoil and that they would continue on, day by day, knowing God would bless them for their faithfulness, and that all they hoped for for Theresa and her legacy would come to pass.
They recently had a get-together in Honolulu—they had come back for the delivery of their fourth child. They were glowing and flush with joy for the reunion as they gave presentations of their missionary experiences. As Sharie started to sob as she described the birth of Theresa and the subsequent build up to what fallowed, I left the room with Jaren and Penelope—the impressionable ones—and we waited outside. Fifteen minutes later, Deanne and Braden came out and we left together for home—it was an informal gathering and we had already exchanged our well-wishes with the upbeat couple who had a ways to go with their presentation. They knew our hearts and it was enough for now.
Within a few short years after marrying, they chose to deliver their first child, a boy, in Hawaii; their second, a girl, in Japan (where they stayed near Sharie's missionary parents, who live there); and their third, another girl, in China.
I received a jubilant newsletter e-mail from Douglas last year describing the birth of Theresa, their last child. Sharie had suffered terrible bouts of morning sickness with all three babies, requiring intravenous drips administered at home, even, for the final pregnancy, and frequent dosages of anti-nausea medication just to be able to hold solid foods down. He hadn't stated this as the reason for stopping at three (she had originally wanted more), but I guessed it may have been a factor, the decision sounded so definite and sudden.
Within the week I sent him a congratulatory e-mail, rejoicing with them, and again marveling that here he was, a China missionary, finally, after twenty years of having longed to go.
A week passed with no reply—which was no surprise, they were so busy and he rarely corresponded with me personally, anyway, he had so many other contacts, commitments, and responsibilities. The next mass e-mail I received gave me the same shocked chill of disbelief as the TV images did the morning of 9-11: Theresa had displayed symptoms (quick, shallow breathing; paleness; low temperature; vomiting) the day before (a Saturday) and they were told to bring her in that night, and by Sunday, she was in an incubator in the intensive care unit with a tube to help her breathe and constant monitoring of her vitals. CT scans and blood and other tests revealed serious problems in her heart beat, brain, respiration, blood pressure, and other bodily functions. Despite her critical condition, they were allowed to see her only once a week for two hours on Wednesdays. His e-mail was urgent, asking for prayer, but not at all panicked.
I received that e-mail Monday and, already dreading the worst, sent an immediate response saying I had and would continue to pray and that no matter what happened, God would take excellent care of Theresa, she was so sweet and innocent. Days passed and no e-mail updates of a miraculous recovery or stablized condition or even further concerns came, so I dreaded even more—Douglas was always good about reassuring those that might worry for them. The next news of Theresa came through a friend who had heard of it through another: Theresa died Sunday evening.
I don't know how Douglas and Sharie did it, but they immediately posted a web-based tribute to Theresa. The photos depict as healthy a baby as I have ever seen—alert eyes, strong neck, responsive face, and well-formed limbs. A photo of ultrasound images of Theresa as a fetus suggested the doctor's close monitoring of her prenatal development. Douglas described the hospital's newborn care in glowing terms, in certain respects superior to that at Queen's, where his son had been delivered.
“It doesn't make sense!” kept popping into my head, reminding me of what a gentleman at a church I once attended said of his wife's premature demise: “It doesn't make sense. No matter how much I go over it, it doesn't make sense. It will never make sense.” Yet Douglas and Sharie's web tribute showed their faith and thankfulness, even joy that they had been blessed by Theresa during her short three weeks of life.
Would this have happened in America? I can't help but wonder sometimes. Theresa, I noticed, was conspicuously delivered the modern, Chinese way, unlike her two siblings and brother in particular, who had received the full western-style medical treatment. Is that what caused it? An infection perhaps? A missed congenital birth defect? Their hospital—reputedly the best in west China—was located only a mile away from their home and their doctor had excellent recommendations from other expatriots whose babies he had delivered. Our modern western and natural human tendency, perhaps, is to want to know, a need for assurances that no matter what happened, it couldn't have been avoided as it was God's will for it to have happened that way. But such closure has not happened for Douglas and Sharie, not that it matters much because nothing will bring back Theresa, which is all they really want even now.
I didn’t question in my mind anything they subsequently did or did not do—stay, leave, curse God, or love and praise Him more—it was their decision. But I did pray for God to bless them with peace and rest in the midst of turmoil and that they would continue on, day by day, knowing God would bless them for their faithfulness, and that all they hoped for for Theresa and her legacy would come to pass.
They recently had a get-together in Honolulu—they had come back for the delivery of their fourth child. They were glowing and flush with joy for the reunion as they gave presentations of their missionary experiences. As Sharie started to sob as she described the birth of Theresa and the subsequent build up to what fallowed, I left the room with Jaren and Penelope—the impressionable ones—and we waited outside. Fifteen minutes later, Deanne and Braden came out and we left together for home—it was an informal gathering and we had already exchanged our well-wishes with the upbeat couple who had a ways to go with their presentation. They knew our hearts and it was enough for now.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Analog vs. Digital
When
I was in college, I splurged on a high quality Thorens manual turntable, which
produced excellent sound through a Scott amplifier and Marantz speakers—far from
top-of-the-line, but plenty enjoyable.
A few years later, post-college, I rented a room in a house in which the owner allowed me to use his stereo system with CD player. I did a side-by-side comparison of vinyl album vs. digital CD—same song playing at the exact same time through otherwise identical equipment and switchable at will between the two, convinced analog was superior. To my disappointment and surprise, digital won, hands down: it's highs and midrange were crisper and livelier, and its lows a lot less muddy. Henceforth, whenever I had the choice, I always selected CD over albums. But my listening pleasure didn't increase, it decreased. I attributed it to nostalgia and grief over my obsolete equipment.
But after I moved out, I went back to my albums and found them as enjoyable as ever.
About that time, I bought my first camera—a Pentax SLR—that shot great photos and was fun and easy to use. I got into black and white photography, and did my own developing and print processing in a rented darkroom. Some of my photos taken on grainy tri-x film blew me away—forceful, timeless, and immediate—no Ansel Adams or Henri Cartier Bresson, but plenty satisfying considering my humble amateur hands and equipment. I still use the camera as backup to a Pentax Super Program I purchased used a few years back, and they still produce great shots.
The digital SLR hype was something I wished to avoid for the remainder of my life—too expensive—and their photos looked too fakey, with hyper-kinetic colors. Even the digital black and white photos from the white house looked flat and disappointing, especially compared to those of the Nixon and Kennedy eras.
While browsing Pentax camera reviews on the internet I finally, finally, finally found digital black and white photos with the snap that I crave. Turns out that for these, Pentax digital color photos were converted to black and white via a PC software that mimics black and white (and color) films. And they were all set to mimic my all-time favorite: tri-x.
Why is it that superior doesn't always equal greater enjoyment? Why is it that we are sometimes drawn and attracted to the imperfect in art or beauty? Marilyn Monroe's mole? Venus de Milo's missing arms? JFK's distinctive accent? Hemingway's clipped prose?
The human mind has the amazing capacity to fill-in-the blanks—to complete a sentence before someone has finished saying it, to read into a poem more than was written, to feel more deeply about a painting than the subject matter alone. It is this filling-in-of-the-blanks that I believe often draws audiences in, involves them, and increases their enjoyment. Because, after all, nothing is more boring than in-your-face perfection.
Digital is here to stay, but there will always be room for imperfect analog—and by that I mean that which mimics the imperfect in art or in the world. Regrettably, vinyl records and photographic film will soon enough disappear, but pens, pencils, paintbrushes, and traditional musical instruments will stay for awhile longer—perhaps until the arrival of suitable digital substitutes. Although I donated my record player and will probably one day do likewise with my cameras and other analog devises, a part of me will always prefer the warmth and personality of phonograph albums, film photography, handwritten letters, original paintings, and live musicians. Old fashioned instruments, no matter how technically superior their microchip-enhanced replacements may be, will also always trigger fond memories for me.
A few years later, post-college, I rented a room in a house in which the owner allowed me to use his stereo system with CD player. I did a side-by-side comparison of vinyl album vs. digital CD—same song playing at the exact same time through otherwise identical equipment and switchable at will between the two, convinced analog was superior. To my disappointment and surprise, digital won, hands down: it's highs and midrange were crisper and livelier, and its lows a lot less muddy. Henceforth, whenever I had the choice, I always selected CD over albums. But my listening pleasure didn't increase, it decreased. I attributed it to nostalgia and grief over my obsolete equipment.
But after I moved out, I went back to my albums and found them as enjoyable as ever.
About that time, I bought my first camera—a Pentax SLR—that shot great photos and was fun and easy to use. I got into black and white photography, and did my own developing and print processing in a rented darkroom. Some of my photos taken on grainy tri-x film blew me away—forceful, timeless, and immediate—no Ansel Adams or Henri Cartier Bresson, but plenty satisfying considering my humble amateur hands and equipment. I still use the camera as backup to a Pentax Super Program I purchased used a few years back, and they still produce great shots.
The digital SLR hype was something I wished to avoid for the remainder of my life—too expensive—and their photos looked too fakey, with hyper-kinetic colors. Even the digital black and white photos from the white house looked flat and disappointing, especially compared to those of the Nixon and Kennedy eras.
While browsing Pentax camera reviews on the internet I finally, finally, finally found digital black and white photos with the snap that I crave. Turns out that for these, Pentax digital color photos were converted to black and white via a PC software that mimics black and white (and color) films. And they were all set to mimic my all-time favorite: tri-x.
Why is it that superior doesn't always equal greater enjoyment? Why is it that we are sometimes drawn and attracted to the imperfect in art or beauty? Marilyn Monroe's mole? Venus de Milo's missing arms? JFK's distinctive accent? Hemingway's clipped prose?
The human mind has the amazing capacity to fill-in-the blanks—to complete a sentence before someone has finished saying it, to read into a poem more than was written, to feel more deeply about a painting than the subject matter alone. It is this filling-in-of-the-blanks that I believe often draws audiences in, involves them, and increases their enjoyment. Because, after all, nothing is more boring than in-your-face perfection.
Digital is here to stay, but there will always be room for imperfect analog—and by that I mean that which mimics the imperfect in art or in the world. Regrettably, vinyl records and photographic film will soon enough disappear, but pens, pencils, paintbrushes, and traditional musical instruments will stay for awhile longer—perhaps until the arrival of suitable digital substitutes. Although I donated my record player and will probably one day do likewise with my cameras and other analog devises, a part of me will always prefer the warmth and personality of phonograph albums, film photography, handwritten letters, original paintings, and live musicians. Old fashioned instruments, no matter how technically superior their microchip-enhanced replacements may be, will also always trigger fond memories for me.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Public Appearances
Success
has its price. Back in the 1980s when I
was a brand new “E” staff accountant at a Big Eight CPA firm in Seattle, rumor
had it that one of the firm's former partners had been fired for disreputable
behavior: mowing his front lawn while
topless. I doubted the veracity of the
story and deemed it a ploy to get us new E's in line with the firm's
prestigious, straight-arrow image.
Then, at a lunch break during a training seminar, the office's managing partner graciously asked if he could join a coworker and I, already seated at a small table eating our hand held cold cuts sandwiches enfolded in elegant paper napkins. We of course said yes, please do, so he sat and to my surprise, began to use a fork and knife to arrange the sliced meats on open bread slices and to eat as if an open-faced hot sandwich lay on his plate.
I glanced at my fellow E, who continued to hold his sandwich in hand before him. The rest of the accountants in the room that I could see from the corners of my eyes did likewise, so I relaxed, continued to eat as before, and refocused on our conversation.
But the managing partner, perhaps sensing my momentary hesitancy, appeared self-conscious and ill at ease with his informal steak eating technique (upside down fork lifted prongs-down to mouth with left hand) and managed to eat only a half sandwich (and this was thin, light fare) before dismissing himself early. I marveled that we lowly E's enjoyed a full and satisfactory meal, whereas our office's top official (a fine man, by the way) had to suffer and go hungry because his lofty position precluded him from hand-eating sandwiches like everyone else.
Comparably, at an office party many years ago, a coworker and I were standing near the buffet line waiting for later arrivals when the then chief executive strode up to us in full suit and tie regalia and after obligatory hand-shakes and greetings said in true local fashion with a smile and much gusto, “Ay, I no can eat this food,” gesturing toward the modest (we paid for it ourselves) but ample catered and donated offerings. In true local fashion I shot back with a smile and much gusto, “Why? What's wrong with the food?” gesturing back toward the serving trays and tables, expecting a response recounting doctor's orders, diet restrictions, or some other food-related limitations. Instead, a wall went up, as if he'd caught himself, and, back stiffened and hands gathered together in front, he said with measured temperament and cadence, low and even, eyes fixed henceforth on only my coworker, “I had a bowl of oxtail soup this morning. It was a big bowl.” Coincident with the word “big”, his head went forward for emphasis. Then, wishing us well, he departed.
What price success? I later wondered. Can't successful people even be themselves at a business gatherings or in public? Do they always have to watch what they say or do lest someone say this or that about them? Can't they just do what they like without fear of others' opinions—as if they even cared?
A wise man once said, “When you're twenty years old, you care about what others think of you. When you're thirty, you don't care. And when you're fifty, you realize they weren't thinking of you at all.”
I have been blessed to date by kids who are not overly obsessed with fitting in or looking or acting like their peers, though they do have their own fashion preferences. My oldest son has at times preferred long, disheveled hair and scuffed-up shoes. My daughter wears girly active wear and nary a dress (she who once loved summer dresses). And my youngest son enjoys T-shirts, polo shirts, and shorts, comfort being his prime objective.
And I? I wear standard business aloha attire and bring home lunch (a big no-no at most CPA firms) to work. In public, I just try to relax, be myself, and enjoy, knowing no one's really looking at, or thinking or talking about me anyway--just another middle-aged man in the crowd who sure looks skinny.
Then, at a lunch break during a training seminar, the office's managing partner graciously asked if he could join a coworker and I, already seated at a small table eating our hand held cold cuts sandwiches enfolded in elegant paper napkins. We of course said yes, please do, so he sat and to my surprise, began to use a fork and knife to arrange the sliced meats on open bread slices and to eat as if an open-faced hot sandwich lay on his plate.
I glanced at my fellow E, who continued to hold his sandwich in hand before him. The rest of the accountants in the room that I could see from the corners of my eyes did likewise, so I relaxed, continued to eat as before, and refocused on our conversation.
But the managing partner, perhaps sensing my momentary hesitancy, appeared self-conscious and ill at ease with his informal steak eating technique (upside down fork lifted prongs-down to mouth with left hand) and managed to eat only a half sandwich (and this was thin, light fare) before dismissing himself early. I marveled that we lowly E's enjoyed a full and satisfactory meal, whereas our office's top official (a fine man, by the way) had to suffer and go hungry because his lofty position precluded him from hand-eating sandwiches like everyone else.
Comparably, at an office party many years ago, a coworker and I were standing near the buffet line waiting for later arrivals when the then chief executive strode up to us in full suit and tie regalia and after obligatory hand-shakes and greetings said in true local fashion with a smile and much gusto, “Ay, I no can eat this food,” gesturing toward the modest (we paid for it ourselves) but ample catered and donated offerings. In true local fashion I shot back with a smile and much gusto, “Why? What's wrong with the food?” gesturing back toward the serving trays and tables, expecting a response recounting doctor's orders, diet restrictions, or some other food-related limitations. Instead, a wall went up, as if he'd caught himself, and, back stiffened and hands gathered together in front, he said with measured temperament and cadence, low and even, eyes fixed henceforth on only my coworker, “I had a bowl of oxtail soup this morning. It was a big bowl.” Coincident with the word “big”, his head went forward for emphasis. Then, wishing us well, he departed.
What price success? I later wondered. Can't successful people even be themselves at a business gatherings or in public? Do they always have to watch what they say or do lest someone say this or that about them? Can't they just do what they like without fear of others' opinions—as if they even cared?
A wise man once said, “When you're twenty years old, you care about what others think of you. When you're thirty, you don't care. And when you're fifty, you realize they weren't thinking of you at all.”
I have been blessed to date by kids who are not overly obsessed with fitting in or looking or acting like their peers, though they do have their own fashion preferences. My oldest son has at times preferred long, disheveled hair and scuffed-up shoes. My daughter wears girly active wear and nary a dress (she who once loved summer dresses). And my youngest son enjoys T-shirts, polo shirts, and shorts, comfort being his prime objective.
And I? I wear standard business aloha attire and bring home lunch (a big no-no at most CPA firms) to work. In public, I just try to relax, be myself, and enjoy, knowing no one's really looking at, or thinking or talking about me anyway--just another middle-aged man in the crowd who sure looks skinny.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Modes of Communication
My
wife is from South East Asia. Our first encounters were two brief
conversations during her short stay in Hawaii for her brother
Gerard's graduation from H.P.U., but since I knew she was heading
back, I left it at that. (Gerard and I were friends from church.)
Three years passed and Gerard was at Texas A&M pursuing an MBA degree when he wrote me a letter that mentioned in passing how Deanne still remembered me. I wrote back and mentioned in passing that I remembered her and would love to hear from her again. Five months later, I received a letter from Deanne and thus we began our correspondence.
We started with snail mail—the best—then moved on to faxes to speed things up. She had a work e-mail account (rather high-tech at the time), but since I hadn't an e-mail hookup or even a computer at home, I sent faxes, which I transmitted from fee-for-service businesses at about a dollar per (handwritten) page.
And we made phone calls, eventually, that averaged five hundred dollars a month. I hadn't yet heard of phone cards, still in their infancy, so I lost out on substantial savings but never regretted it since the phone bills came in handy when it came time to establish the legitimacy of our relationship when I later applied for a fiance visa for her to come over for us to marry.
My first personal e-mail account came about a decade later—required of all parents of cub scouters. My son had been acting out in school, so we decided he needed outside interests, so I signed him up for something we both could enjoy. (As a kid, I had enjoyed scouting's fun, life-enriching experiences.)
I immediately detested the medium. Fifteen plus messages would regularly appear in my in box, ninety percent of which were unnecessary and wasted my time to open, read, and discard. Some parents made a habit of “responding to all”, so I had to open all these irrelevant side conversations, FYI's, and links to items of (dis)interest. And computer face-time, which I always deemed a necessary evil, became even more burdensome. “Lazy correspondence” is what I consider e-mails. Rather than a nice, friendly phone call or hand-written personal letter (remember that?), I stare at hard-to-read colored lights on a cold, partial screen that has to be scrolled down just to view an entire message which is nearly always poorly written, and full of grammatical and spelling errors and misinformation. And rarely do thing get settled timely. There's all too often a back-and-forth, trying to decide on good dates, times, activities, facilities availability, and other have-to-get-it-right minutia. (Who will bring a starch? I'll bring Costco pizza. Do we have cups? I can bring juice syrup if someone has pitchers. Will we need ice? I have ice chests if...)
I've thought about this some and rate e-mail to be about the lowest form of communication, based largely on the well-established fact that over ninety percent of communication is non-verbal. The highest form of communication is, thus, in-person, face-to-face. Being a visual person, I love it the best. Everything's out in the open, no hiding behind a screen or off in a room somewhere. Facial expressions, body language, even scent, dress, demeanor, and eye contact all count.
Quite a bit lower on the scale (not counting Skype and teleconferencing, which I have never done) is telephone communications. At least you can hear the person's voice, cadence, pauses, and breathing and thus, perhaps, decode some emotions (angry? happy? chipper? down?), although I suggest never, ever to fight with a loved one over the phone where it's much too easy to get carried away and act far worse than in person. Some of the worst conversations in my life have been over the phone. Just remembering the angry hurt and bitter exchanges—it's hard to believe how uncivil things got. And being hung up on is like having a door slammed in your face—it's difficult to take and recover from.
A bit lower on the scale but sometimes even better, are hand-written letters. Here you actually can see, touch, feel, and smell a piece of original art (even if it's just scribbles) that the other created. It may include tear or ketchup stains, lipstick smears, or even perfumed fragrance. The space, neatness and size of alphabets and words, and the paragraphing and corrections can suggest speed of writing, thoughts, and emotions. And they make wonderful keepsakes (e.g. love letters and birthday or anniversary cards). Handwritten letters also allow time for and almost force thoughtful composition—you can only write so fast, which tends to improve expressiveness and eliminate hurtful words and passages.
Last of all are the cold and all-too-often impersonal mass e-mails. The worst correspondences I have ever received were through this medium. My best friend misinterpreted an e-mail response I sent him that ridiculed his taste in a certain book (we talk on the phone this way all the time and share guffaws) and he shot back one of the most insulting, belittling invective filled harangues I have ever received. I almost shot back an equally belittling counter-offensive when I realized this is not worth losing our twenty-five year friendship over. With angry, thumping heart, I gave an even, measured response that allowed us both to save face (retain our self dignities). We haven't exchanged an e-mail since and it's just as well as there's been no further hard feelings between us.
A recent study found that electronic communications (including e-mails, twitter, and facebook posts) topped the list of things that can cause marital discord, meaning, don't use it as a substitute for face-to-face communications.
I'm not surprised. If I had my choice, we'd eliminate the medium. Life wasn't any worse without it. As a youth, we'd have scout meetings every Tuesday, seven o'clock. You'd be told at each meeting what to expect or prepare for the next meeting. Occasional friendly phone calls settled last minute details—even these were seldom urgent: if someone couldn't be reached, we'd just make do and be prepared to improvise. Doing without may have required a bit more planning (a good thing) and sometimes more individual interaction (phone calls, usually), but isn't improved interpersonal relationships worth it?
Three years passed and Gerard was at Texas A&M pursuing an MBA degree when he wrote me a letter that mentioned in passing how Deanne still remembered me. I wrote back and mentioned in passing that I remembered her and would love to hear from her again. Five months later, I received a letter from Deanne and thus we began our correspondence.
We started with snail mail—the best—then moved on to faxes to speed things up. She had a work e-mail account (rather high-tech at the time), but since I hadn't an e-mail hookup or even a computer at home, I sent faxes, which I transmitted from fee-for-service businesses at about a dollar per (handwritten) page.
And we made phone calls, eventually, that averaged five hundred dollars a month. I hadn't yet heard of phone cards, still in their infancy, so I lost out on substantial savings but never regretted it since the phone bills came in handy when it came time to establish the legitimacy of our relationship when I later applied for a fiance visa for her to come over for us to marry.
My first personal e-mail account came about a decade later—required of all parents of cub scouters. My son had been acting out in school, so we decided he needed outside interests, so I signed him up for something we both could enjoy. (As a kid, I had enjoyed scouting's fun, life-enriching experiences.)
I immediately detested the medium. Fifteen plus messages would regularly appear in my in box, ninety percent of which were unnecessary and wasted my time to open, read, and discard. Some parents made a habit of “responding to all”, so I had to open all these irrelevant side conversations, FYI's, and links to items of (dis)interest. And computer face-time, which I always deemed a necessary evil, became even more burdensome. “Lazy correspondence” is what I consider e-mails. Rather than a nice, friendly phone call or hand-written personal letter (remember that?), I stare at hard-to-read colored lights on a cold, partial screen that has to be scrolled down just to view an entire message which is nearly always poorly written, and full of grammatical and spelling errors and misinformation. And rarely do thing get settled timely. There's all too often a back-and-forth, trying to decide on good dates, times, activities, facilities availability, and other have-to-get-it-right minutia. (Who will bring a starch? I'll bring Costco pizza. Do we have cups? I can bring juice syrup if someone has pitchers. Will we need ice? I have ice chests if...)
I've thought about this some and rate e-mail to be about the lowest form of communication, based largely on the well-established fact that over ninety percent of communication is non-verbal. The highest form of communication is, thus, in-person, face-to-face. Being a visual person, I love it the best. Everything's out in the open, no hiding behind a screen or off in a room somewhere. Facial expressions, body language, even scent, dress, demeanor, and eye contact all count.
Quite a bit lower on the scale (not counting Skype and teleconferencing, which I have never done) is telephone communications. At least you can hear the person's voice, cadence, pauses, and breathing and thus, perhaps, decode some emotions (angry? happy? chipper? down?), although I suggest never, ever to fight with a loved one over the phone where it's much too easy to get carried away and act far worse than in person. Some of the worst conversations in my life have been over the phone. Just remembering the angry hurt and bitter exchanges—it's hard to believe how uncivil things got. And being hung up on is like having a door slammed in your face—it's difficult to take and recover from.
A bit lower on the scale but sometimes even better, are hand-written letters. Here you actually can see, touch, feel, and smell a piece of original art (even if it's just scribbles) that the other created. It may include tear or ketchup stains, lipstick smears, or even perfumed fragrance. The space, neatness and size of alphabets and words, and the paragraphing and corrections can suggest speed of writing, thoughts, and emotions. And they make wonderful keepsakes (e.g. love letters and birthday or anniversary cards). Handwritten letters also allow time for and almost force thoughtful composition—you can only write so fast, which tends to improve expressiveness and eliminate hurtful words and passages.
Last of all are the cold and all-too-often impersonal mass e-mails. The worst correspondences I have ever received were through this medium. My best friend misinterpreted an e-mail response I sent him that ridiculed his taste in a certain book (we talk on the phone this way all the time and share guffaws) and he shot back one of the most insulting, belittling invective filled harangues I have ever received. I almost shot back an equally belittling counter-offensive when I realized this is not worth losing our twenty-five year friendship over. With angry, thumping heart, I gave an even, measured response that allowed us both to save face (retain our self dignities). We haven't exchanged an e-mail since and it's just as well as there's been no further hard feelings between us.
A recent study found that electronic communications (including e-mails, twitter, and facebook posts) topped the list of things that can cause marital discord, meaning, don't use it as a substitute for face-to-face communications.
I'm not surprised. If I had my choice, we'd eliminate the medium. Life wasn't any worse without it. As a youth, we'd have scout meetings every Tuesday, seven o'clock. You'd be told at each meeting what to expect or prepare for the next meeting. Occasional friendly phone calls settled last minute details—even these were seldom urgent: if someone couldn't be reached, we'd just make do and be prepared to improvise. Doing without may have required a bit more planning (a good thing) and sometimes more individual interaction (phone calls, usually), but isn't improved interpersonal relationships worth it?
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Anticipation
Last year, Christmas cheer didn't hit me when I lugged out our artificial tree from the garage closet, set it up, hung decorations—string lights, our children's handiworks, and hand made heirloom ornaments—about the house, or watched the kids trim the tree to the accompaniment of festive holiday melodies—though these were all joyfully subdued moments. Nor when I bought gifts, or wrapped them behind closed doors as if some deep secret were afoot, then had the kids arrange them beneath the tree. Nor when I wrote, then mailed, once-a-year letters to seldom-heard-from friends and relatives. Nor when we received cards and updates of who did or is doing what.
Nor when we shopped as a family to select our kids' presents at K-Mart where I told them, “If you see anything you're interested in, let me or Mom know.” Last year our daughter had a school class get-together, so we went without her, so she was surprised for once by her gifts. Jaren, our youngest, chose his own two gifts—one each for Christmas and his late December birthday, whittled down from a dozen or so mostly too expensive or inappropriate toys. But I did find him a fun something a few days later that I wrapped and stuck unbeknownst to him beneath the tree. When he went to look at the gifts the next morning, he noticed his name on this new gift's tag. But he remembered seeing his name on a different gift and it took him several go-rounds and gentle hints from me to comprehend that he had two presents under the tree. The delight I had in seeing him touch the new package (concealing two walkie-talkies on cardboard backing overlaid with hard plastic), wondering at its contents, and saying, “I don't know what this is. I know what the other one is and what my birthday present is, but not this one...” over and over again—that's when it hit me.
Later that afternoon—Jaren's always noisy, talking—things got unnaturally quiet with crinkly noises near the tree. There he was, hunched over the mystery present wrapped in blue, unfolding an envelope shaped corner that wasn't taped down.
I walked over and said, “Hey, don't peek.” It startled him—caught with his hand in the cookie jar—but he eased when he saw my smirk. I seized it from him and said, “I better hide this till Christmas,” and stuck it beneath my bed.
It's that delicious, “I have to know. I can't wait. What is it? I know I'm not supposed to,” that his body language shouted that made me recall my days as a youth doing the exact same thing. My parents had had a laissez-faire attitude: “If he wants to spoil his surprise, let him.” Furtively, I'd peeked when they weren't looking, resulting in accidentally torn wrappers, which I retaped to conceal the incriminating evidence. Both times I'd peeked, I'd felt disappointed, guilty, and later, remorseful.
I wasn't about to let that happen to him, much preferring he suffer in not knowing anticipation. Cool thing is, we always celebrate Christmas festivities at my sister's, so the kids can't nag us first thing they wake up to open presents, which we leave at hers the night before where we celebrate Christmas Eve dinner. Even cooler, a couple of recent Christmas mornings we've joined a ministry to help feed the homeless at Ala Moana park. This really re-tuned our thinking to the reason for the season and renewed our spirits early Christmas morning before the inevitable gift, football, and frenetic hype-frenzy to come. And both times, our morning at Ala Moana park (that really had been peaceful and quiet) turned out to be among our favorite memories of the day—the kids handing out gifts to humble, appreciative men, women, and children, the guests playing organized games for prizes, and us all singing out-of-tune, but joyous Christmas carols.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Human Wealth
The
Hawaiian song “Kanaka Wai Wai” (Human Wealth) by the Sons of Hawaii is one
of my favorites. Most locals don't even
know what it's about, and neither did I until a few years back when I borrowed
the CD from the library to learn the song on guitar. The CD's insert had the original Hawaiian
words and their English translations.
Turns out it's about the man who runs up to Jesus, falls at his feet,
and asks what he must do to have everlasting life? Jesus answers follow God's law. The man says I have done so since I was a
little boy. Jesus says there's one thing
more: sell all your possessions, give
the money to the poor, then come, follow me.
But the man walks away sad, because he is rich.
The part of the song that paraphrases the Hawaiian bible and quotes Jesus as saying (English translation):
“To give...to give it all
Of your great wealth
But turn with caution
To receive your everlasting life”
really got to me. Having grown up as a fourth generation Hawaii resident, I feel emotionally attached to the Hawaiians and grieve their plights. Though my ancestry is Japanese and I consider myself Japanese-American, I feel more at home in Hawaii—largely due to its people and culture—than anywhere else in the world. Hearing the chorus, I felt as if all the Hawaiian people were being told to give everything away, which they already have, generous beyond reason. They did so by giving first of their love and aloha, then of their possessions, then of their lives, then of their land. They now have so little and things look so bleak, yet it's as if they're being asked to once again give it all—pride, dignity, resistance—everything. Must they? Should they?
By the way, I don't believe the Sons of Hawaii wrote the song as political polemic or rallying cry (there isn't a note of bitterness or irony throughout the entire song that I can detect). To the contrary, it strikes me as a straight-forward Christian song of the moral imperative of generosity. After the rich man walks away sad, the bible says that Jesus turns to his disciples and says, “It is easier for a camel to walk through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.”
They ask him, “How can anyone enter the kingdom of heaven?”
He answers, “Through God, all things are possible.”
We Americans are rich. Filthy rich. No one likes to admit it, but we are. None of us will likely ever have to go a day hungry, or without clothes or shelter. This places us within the upper echelons of the wealthy in the world and especially throughout history. And with today's medical technologies (vaccines, penicillin, drugs, and surgery)—things people would have paid a king's ransom for in the past—not to mention access to modern transportation, communication devises, heating, cooling, and cooking appliances, clean running water, indoor plumbing, beds, comfortable footwear, prescription glasses, etc., we're incomprehensibly wealthy compared to those living in Jesus' time.
So we must give generously. Until it hurts. If it doesn't hurt or require sacrifice, it's not generous enough.
Can we afford it?
As John Steinbeck said, there are only two states of money: no money and not enough money. Or as Pastor Wayne Cordeiro said, “The problem with saying, 'If only I had this much, then I'd be satisfied and give generously,' is that we'll always raise the bar, again and again, and enough will never be enough.” Mother Theresa defined true love as, “Through God's grace, a starving woman received a bowl of gruel. Rather than go in and partake with her starving children, she crossed the street. When asked where she was going, she replied, “To the neighbors—to share some with them.” Generosity, then, can be seen as a key not only to humanity, but also to happiness, for nothing brings greater happiness to self and others than true love.
The part of the song that paraphrases the Hawaiian bible and quotes Jesus as saying (English translation):
“To give...to give it all
Of your great wealth
But turn with caution
To receive your everlasting life”
really got to me. Having grown up as a fourth generation Hawaii resident, I feel emotionally attached to the Hawaiians and grieve their plights. Though my ancestry is Japanese and I consider myself Japanese-American, I feel more at home in Hawaii—largely due to its people and culture—than anywhere else in the world. Hearing the chorus, I felt as if all the Hawaiian people were being told to give everything away, which they already have, generous beyond reason. They did so by giving first of their love and aloha, then of their possessions, then of their lives, then of their land. They now have so little and things look so bleak, yet it's as if they're being asked to once again give it all—pride, dignity, resistance—everything. Must they? Should they?
By the way, I don't believe the Sons of Hawaii wrote the song as political polemic or rallying cry (there isn't a note of bitterness or irony throughout the entire song that I can detect). To the contrary, it strikes me as a straight-forward Christian song of the moral imperative of generosity. After the rich man walks away sad, the bible says that Jesus turns to his disciples and says, “It is easier for a camel to walk through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.”
They ask him, “How can anyone enter the kingdom of heaven?”
He answers, “Through God, all things are possible.”
We Americans are rich. Filthy rich. No one likes to admit it, but we are. None of us will likely ever have to go a day hungry, or without clothes or shelter. This places us within the upper echelons of the wealthy in the world and especially throughout history. And with today's medical technologies (vaccines, penicillin, drugs, and surgery)—things people would have paid a king's ransom for in the past—not to mention access to modern transportation, communication devises, heating, cooling, and cooking appliances, clean running water, indoor plumbing, beds, comfortable footwear, prescription glasses, etc., we're incomprehensibly wealthy compared to those living in Jesus' time.
So we must give generously. Until it hurts. If it doesn't hurt or require sacrifice, it's not generous enough.
Can we afford it?
As John Steinbeck said, there are only two states of money: no money and not enough money. Or as Pastor Wayne Cordeiro said, “The problem with saying, 'If only I had this much, then I'd be satisfied and give generously,' is that we'll always raise the bar, again and again, and enough will never be enough.” Mother Theresa defined true love as, “Through God's grace, a starving woman received a bowl of gruel. Rather than go in and partake with her starving children, she crossed the street. When asked where she was going, she replied, “To the neighbors—to share some with them.” Generosity, then, can be seen as a key not only to humanity, but also to happiness, for nothing brings greater happiness to self and others than true love.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Cost of Living
I
grew up in Hilo, in an upper middle class neighborhood, in a three bedroom,
two-and-a-half bathroom house with two long hallways, dining room, family room,
kitchen, separate living room, and two-car carport. Located at the end of a cul-de-sac, the lot
features a large yard that surrounded two-thirds of the house, a long driveway,
and landscaping throughout. The entire
cost was $15,000, which was a lot of money in the mid-1960's, but Hawaii
Planing Mill, which acted as the general contractor, provided an architect who
drew up blue prints to my parents' specifications. Through the years, my dad, an elementary school
principal, paid the mortgage off plus college
educations for my two siblings and I, my mom having worked part-time,
then full-time only much later at little above minimum wage.
Fast forward forty-plus years to present and such a redwood house with oak floors throughout built to spec in a comparable neighborhood in Oahu would easily top $2,000,000. Though I have saved diligently over the past twenty-plus years—ever since I started working—I can not afford any such house, not by a long shot.
Though the nation's housing bubble burst in 2008, Oahu's housing prices apparently barely nudged downward. My real estate friend recently estimated the median three bed, two bath home price at about $600,000 (barely ten percent down from the peak price pre-2008).
So I have been (and will likely remain, if I continue to reside in Oahu) a lifetime renter.
I tell myself it suits my personality. I'm not into maintaining, repairing, and replacing—I struggle and resist doing so for the sole used car we own. The thought of doing so for an entire property and house conjures images of termites, leaking roofs and pipes, cracked foundations, dry rot, dishonest repairmen, demanding yard work, property insurance and taxes, etc. My parents, up to a decade ago, had maintained their house and property immaculately, but now that they've slowed due to old age and health issues, the house at times slips into gross disrepair. Even if neglected for two years, it seems to age ten, due in large part to Hilo's incessant rain and humidity.
Although I have often desired a house (and even had occasional fanciful notions of building one myself), I don't feel the least bit cheated out of one. It’s a matter of could of, should of, would of. The timing wasn't right when I could have. Then, the sudden extreme price rises that seemed unreal and unsustainable—they still do—priced me out of the local market in just over a year. Had I known in advance of this impending price rise, I probably should or maybe even would have bought earlier, breaking my own policy of, “Don't even think of buying unless you plan on living there for at least the next twenty-five years.”
In response to the squeeze between ever-rising costs (of rents, utilities, food, fuel, etc.) and stagnant salaries, I've looked longingly, on occasion, to the outer islands, U.S. Mainland, and even some foreign countries. Right now—right now!—we could afford a fabulous house (comparable to what I grew up in, say) in an exciting, memorable, and fun locale. But I've concluded, it's not best for my family and I. After all, there's more to life than having cool stuff and good fun.
And I've also concluded there's something about Hawaii, and more specifically Oahu, that's kept us here. Relatives. The people. Local food and culture. Nice weather. Kid-friendly schools and activities. It's important to us that they know our heritage. Also, God has given us a purpose and meaning here, and our positive (albeit small) contributions have led to so much fulfillment. Oahu has given us just enough excitement, but not too much, and plenty of stability. A guy could do a lot worse than living in a decent rental in Honolulu, right? The cost of living in paradise is high, but not too high for us, at least not for now.
Fast forward forty-plus years to present and such a redwood house with oak floors throughout built to spec in a comparable neighborhood in Oahu would easily top $2,000,000. Though I have saved diligently over the past twenty-plus years—ever since I started working—I can not afford any such house, not by a long shot.
Though the nation's housing bubble burst in 2008, Oahu's housing prices apparently barely nudged downward. My real estate friend recently estimated the median three bed, two bath home price at about $600,000 (barely ten percent down from the peak price pre-2008).
So I have been (and will likely remain, if I continue to reside in Oahu) a lifetime renter.
I tell myself it suits my personality. I'm not into maintaining, repairing, and replacing—I struggle and resist doing so for the sole used car we own. The thought of doing so for an entire property and house conjures images of termites, leaking roofs and pipes, cracked foundations, dry rot, dishonest repairmen, demanding yard work, property insurance and taxes, etc. My parents, up to a decade ago, had maintained their house and property immaculately, but now that they've slowed due to old age and health issues, the house at times slips into gross disrepair. Even if neglected for two years, it seems to age ten, due in large part to Hilo's incessant rain and humidity.
Although I have often desired a house (and even had occasional fanciful notions of building one myself), I don't feel the least bit cheated out of one. It’s a matter of could of, should of, would of. The timing wasn't right when I could have. Then, the sudden extreme price rises that seemed unreal and unsustainable—they still do—priced me out of the local market in just over a year. Had I known in advance of this impending price rise, I probably should or maybe even would have bought earlier, breaking my own policy of, “Don't even think of buying unless you plan on living there for at least the next twenty-five years.”
In response to the squeeze between ever-rising costs (of rents, utilities, food, fuel, etc.) and stagnant salaries, I've looked longingly, on occasion, to the outer islands, U.S. Mainland, and even some foreign countries. Right now—right now!—we could afford a fabulous house (comparable to what I grew up in, say) in an exciting, memorable, and fun locale. But I've concluded, it's not best for my family and I. After all, there's more to life than having cool stuff and good fun.
And I've also concluded there's something about Hawaii, and more specifically Oahu, that's kept us here. Relatives. The people. Local food and culture. Nice weather. Kid-friendly schools and activities. It's important to us that they know our heritage. Also, God has given us a purpose and meaning here, and our positive (albeit small) contributions have led to so much fulfillment. Oahu has given us just enough excitement, but not too much, and plenty of stability. A guy could do a lot worse than living in a decent rental in Honolulu, right? The cost of living in paradise is high, but not too high for us, at least not for now.
Monday, November 4, 2013
NCLB Politics—Part III
Because
NCLB was a political act, not an act of academic necessity, it helps
to understand its reason for being. And that, I believe, boils down
to gold medal envy.
Remember when the Soviet Bloc countries dominated the Olympics and the U.S. bemoaned its also-ran status in the medal count standings? Sure, U.S. apologists would justifiably complain about unlevel playing fields, hand-selected athletes trained since youth at professional-style facilities, performance enhancing drugs, biased judging, and the like. Yet the U.S. couldn't help but envy and admire the strength, agility, speed, finesse, adroitness, and beauty of their enemies' superior athletes.
The same has been true for decades with international standardized test score rankings, where the U.S. usually finishes somewhere near the middle or lower half among developed countries, and yet ranks near the top in dollars spent per student, meaning, we are getting poor returns for our dollars. The inescapable conclusion has been: Something's got to change! How do the more successful (Asian & European countries, especially) do it? Why not adopt some of their practices in our schools?
In business school, students learn the importance of measuring what's desired to be changed. Basic human nature obsesses over whatever is being measure—whether reducing costs, increasing sales, or increasing market share. The unintended consequence, however, can be over-emphasis on measured results and disregard of the means by which they are obtained, perhaps resulting in poorer customer service, ethical violations, lowered morale, or, in extreme cases, lying, cheating, or fraud in order to “hit” targeted expectations or goals.
NCLB could be a business school's case study of the law of unintended consequences, though all could easily have been foreseen. My children and the children of friends and relatives (all bright students) have hated studying Everyday Math and Wordly Wise (see my prior essays NCLB Politics & NCLB Politics—Part II) ad nauseum in endless preparation for their four-times-a-year standardized tests (highest score only counts). Subjects that have been proven very beneficial for both mind and body have been cut (in funding and hours) such as P.E., art, band, cursive writing, home economics, choir, cooking, automechanics, shop, etc.--all useful, life-long skills and fun besides. The concept of developing well-rounded, independent, and creative thinkers seems to have taken a back seat to producing stunted standardized test taking conformists to both their and our country's detriment. (E.g. the childhood obesity rate continues to balloon, yet schools have become sit-and-shut-up-style cram institutes, concerned about promoting healthy and active lifestyles more in word than in deed.)
Certain mainland school districts have been found guilty of widespread cheating on standardized tests whereby teachers prompted students during tests to change erroneous answers, posted answers on exam room walls, and held “parties” to correct erroneous answers. And as the old adage says, for every one caught, a hundred gets away.
Among middle and high school students (including achievers at all levels), over seventy percent admit to cheating on class tests and/or term papers. It's safe to bet this cheating carries over to all-important standardized tests as well.
Such blatant, brazen cheating raises the question of just how fair a comparative measure standardized test scores really are. China graduates hundreds of thousands of engineers every year, but most are considered unhireable (by U.S. Companies) because of underqualification (http://www.engineeringuk.com/_resources/documents/Engineering_Graduates_in_China_and_India_-_EngineeringUK_-_March_2012.pdf), suggesting schooling of inferior quality. Likewise, when foreign countries report superior average standardized test scores, can they be relied on? If cheating happens occasionally in America, how much more so might it be happening in other countries where the politics of international competitive academia compels best-of-the-best type standings?
Rather than stuffing students' heads full of boring memorize-and-forget knowledge—as if childrens' minds were lab beakers that must be filled to arbitrarily designated levels by arbitrarily designated grades—then, educators should instead seek to instill a lifelong love of learning. My favorite teachers included Mrs. Lau, a fourth grade teacher that demonstrated her love of life, her students, and academia; Mr. Ishimoto, a middle school science teacher that showed the joy of scientific verification via reference books (he calculated for me that the distance to the moon and back is far less than a google plex subatomic particles line up in a row; he didn't accept my assumption that a big hissing propane torch burns hotter than a puny, unimpressive alcohol lamp—he looked up the fuels' burning temperatures); and Mr. Hilliard, my A.P. English teacher in high school who pushed me to expand the limits of my comprehension (and love) of literature. For the paltry time I spend with each of them, they taught me to grow my mind for the sheer joy of it, which I have done unreservedly (for the most part) to this day.
Students who view learning as waste-of-time drudgery will be far less likely to acquire a lifelong love of learning. Unfortunately, teaching to the test epitomized waste-of-time drudgery.
Remember when the Soviet Bloc countries dominated the Olympics and the U.S. bemoaned its also-ran status in the medal count standings? Sure, U.S. apologists would justifiably complain about unlevel playing fields, hand-selected athletes trained since youth at professional-style facilities, performance enhancing drugs, biased judging, and the like. Yet the U.S. couldn't help but envy and admire the strength, agility, speed, finesse, adroitness, and beauty of their enemies' superior athletes.
The same has been true for decades with international standardized test score rankings, where the U.S. usually finishes somewhere near the middle or lower half among developed countries, and yet ranks near the top in dollars spent per student, meaning, we are getting poor returns for our dollars. The inescapable conclusion has been: Something's got to change! How do the more successful (Asian & European countries, especially) do it? Why not adopt some of their practices in our schools?
In business school, students learn the importance of measuring what's desired to be changed. Basic human nature obsesses over whatever is being measure—whether reducing costs, increasing sales, or increasing market share. The unintended consequence, however, can be over-emphasis on measured results and disregard of the means by which they are obtained, perhaps resulting in poorer customer service, ethical violations, lowered morale, or, in extreme cases, lying, cheating, or fraud in order to “hit” targeted expectations or goals.
NCLB could be a business school's case study of the law of unintended consequences, though all could easily have been foreseen. My children and the children of friends and relatives (all bright students) have hated studying Everyday Math and Wordly Wise (see my prior essays NCLB Politics & NCLB Politics—Part II) ad nauseum in endless preparation for their four-times-a-year standardized tests (highest score only counts). Subjects that have been proven very beneficial for both mind and body have been cut (in funding and hours) such as P.E., art, band, cursive writing, home economics, choir, cooking, automechanics, shop, etc.--all useful, life-long skills and fun besides. The concept of developing well-rounded, independent, and creative thinkers seems to have taken a back seat to producing stunted standardized test taking conformists to both their and our country's detriment. (E.g. the childhood obesity rate continues to balloon, yet schools have become sit-and-shut-up-style cram institutes, concerned about promoting healthy and active lifestyles more in word than in deed.)
Certain mainland school districts have been found guilty of widespread cheating on standardized tests whereby teachers prompted students during tests to change erroneous answers, posted answers on exam room walls, and held “parties” to correct erroneous answers. And as the old adage says, for every one caught, a hundred gets away.
Among middle and high school students (including achievers at all levels), over seventy percent admit to cheating on class tests and/or term papers. It's safe to bet this cheating carries over to all-important standardized tests as well.
Such blatant, brazen cheating raises the question of just how fair a comparative measure standardized test scores really are. China graduates hundreds of thousands of engineers every year, but most are considered unhireable (by U.S. Companies) because of underqualification (http://www.engineeringuk.com/_resources/documents/Engineering_Graduates_in_China_and_India_-_EngineeringUK_-_March_2012.pdf), suggesting schooling of inferior quality. Likewise, when foreign countries report superior average standardized test scores, can they be relied on? If cheating happens occasionally in America, how much more so might it be happening in other countries where the politics of international competitive academia compels best-of-the-best type standings?
Rather than stuffing students' heads full of boring memorize-and-forget knowledge—as if childrens' minds were lab beakers that must be filled to arbitrarily designated levels by arbitrarily designated grades—then, educators should instead seek to instill a lifelong love of learning. My favorite teachers included Mrs. Lau, a fourth grade teacher that demonstrated her love of life, her students, and academia; Mr. Ishimoto, a middle school science teacher that showed the joy of scientific verification via reference books (he calculated for me that the distance to the moon and back is far less than a google plex subatomic particles line up in a row; he didn't accept my assumption that a big hissing propane torch burns hotter than a puny, unimpressive alcohol lamp—he looked up the fuels' burning temperatures); and Mr. Hilliard, my A.P. English teacher in high school who pushed me to expand the limits of my comprehension (and love) of literature. For the paltry time I spend with each of them, they taught me to grow my mind for the sheer joy of it, which I have done unreservedly (for the most part) to this day.
Students who view learning as waste-of-time drudgery will be far less likely to acquire a lifelong love of learning. Unfortunately, teaching to the test epitomized waste-of-time drudgery.
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