An Incomplete Analogy: The Road to Authenticity

    As I’ve been “stuck” with my own thoughts these past weeks, just “chillaxing” with not much else to do save watch the tide roll in, my ruminations have turned philosophical. The passage of time and the inevitability of mortality (COVID serves as a constant reminder) have also contributed to my retrospection, although I haven’t just been looking backward. An optimist (a realistic optimist, I think, but an optimist nonetheless), I firmly believe there’s a road ahead that stretches farther than I can see. But….

Here’s the secret (and it’s not really a secret because certainly I’m not the first to reach this conclusion). There is no road – at least no single road. And it’s also no secret that your road won’t look much, if anything, like mine. Some roads are narrow with clearly defined borders, while others are broad and expansive, like the Amazon River, constantly changing its channels, requiring endless updates for its pilots. I doubt that we share some predetermined and recognizable destination. At least that is my (non-conformist) hope.

Some paths appear smooth, well paved with a clear beginning and end, others filled with obstacles, potholes, hidden traps. Be warned, however; both may be illusory. Your perception of another’s road can often be, probably is, deceiving. That smooth road may be far more daunting than you can realize and that hardscrabble path an inspiration to its traveler. There is no manual, no road map; only with work and introspection can we discover our own road, the only road we can truly hope to know. And even that hard-earned knowledge, like the best of our highways, needs constant maintenance as we adapt to our lives.

Here’s another sort of secret. You don’t have complete control of your road and almost zero control of anyone else’s. Multiple factors, when, where, how, and to whom you are born place you on your road, provide you with your starting point. None of those factors, however, define your road’s final destination. In fact, few of us will ever quite reach the end of our road of self-discovery, of authenticity. It may become clearer in the distance, but, if we’re doing it right, our road will always be in flux, because there will be events on that road that force us to concentrate on moving from Point A to Point B without distraction. Those events may even require us, like a maps app, to “recalculate.” 

None of that changes our ultimate goal, however, if that goal is unearthing our authentic selves, living our authentic lives, true to our values and beliefs.

You might ask: What about those who travel with us, share our journey? I confess the analogy sort of breaks down a bit here. But those loved ones, while perhaps even sharing the same mode of transportation, have their own awareness of the road ahead. My wife and I have discovered we perceive colors very differently (just one reason I pretty much let her decide on my wardrobe components), but if we are both/all on the road to authenticity, we’ll notice different landmarks in different ways and be impacted differently. Not that that’s a bad thing. Sharing those differing perceptions makes the journey richer, more joyous, in fact, for all the travelers.

I offer this because I have been, and imagine always will be, in some way, a teacher, a teacher who needs to share life lessons, with the full knowledge that my audience may not be interested or ready to learn, and that’s okay, because if that describes you, then you have your own road to travel and you’re free to ignore the billboards, no matter how valuable and enlightening, along the route.

I may no longer have a classroom (and under current circumstances I guess I’m kind of happy about that), nor even a playing field, from which to disseminate my random thoughts. So, in today’s world I choose to use social media to share my journey, my path, sometimes forcing personal reveals because I believe that the only way we can truly achieve authenticity is openly and honestly, prepared to accept that others may not understand, may not agree, may not even accept. And all that’s okay, because, in the end, I’m the only one who needs to fully see, and accept, what my authenticity really looks like, although having a travel partner who accepts my journey is definitely a plus.

I’m thankful that, after fits and starts based on fears that were more imaginary than real, I’m truly beginning to see, not the finish line, of course, because that’s a moving target, but a clearer, if still kind of uncharted, path to that destination. My hope is that by sharing these and other thoughts you can start on your path sooner than I.*

Best wishes to all on your respective journeys. May you find as much of the same peace as I have, although ideally with an earlier start!

* If you don’t know where you’re going, you'll end up someplace else. – Yogi Berra

Hollow Victory — No Joy in Mudville

I suppose I should feel better about the 2020 presidential election outcome than I do. I really wish I could. After all, it was Trump who struck out (probably primarily because of his tendency to lash out).

As the process unfolded, I had one, and really only one, overriding concern – defeat the incumbent, a man so despicable that I’m repulsed to be lumped in the same gender category as him. 

He was, from my perspective, the worst president of my lifetime – 72 years, so, since Truman, although I obviously don’t have any real memories of HST other than his post-presidency, but I do read and know, have even taught, our nation’s history. In my view, no previous modern occupant of the White House comes even close.

While I think Trump was a bad president (again, the worst in my lifetime), he was a worse person, one who brought out the worst instincts in both his supporters and opponents, who enabled and encouraged white supremacists, who made even our friends abroad ask, “What the hell, America?” It will take a long time to rehabilitate our reputation abroad, to restore the trust and leadership that once was ours, to, pardon the expression, Make America Great Again. You can discount the opinions of your enemies, your rivals, but when friends and allies roll their eyes (Hello, Lincoln Project), you might want to rethink your choice. 

Donald.Trump.Is.A.Bad.Man.

Being anti-abortion doesn’t change that; he stands behind cruelty. Not that his supporters will likely believe them, but the revelations that will flow from the toxic waste dump that was his administration will probably surprise even me. To be clear, I don’t want to see him charged with any crimes (there’s little doubt in my mind that there are multiple legitimate possibilities). But then I also supported President Ford’s pardon of Richard Nixon. Because Ford put healing the country ahead of politics, he may have cost himself the election of 1976. I hope President-elect Biden pushes all the tempting revenge scenarios to the bottom of his (necessarily lengthy, thanks to his predecessor) agenda, and encourages states’ attorneys general and governors to do the same.

Nor does the failure of the mythical “Blue Wave” to materialize discourage me, although I would have welcomed it. And I have little hope that Mitch McConnell will be anything other than what he’s been for the past 10 years, a Machiavellian politician with a private agenda to recreate a 1950s America (which was probably pretty good for a straight, middle class, white male, considerably less so for most everyone else). So I am resigned to a miserable stretch of at least two years, maybe longer if the 2022 elections follow recent patterns,  but I’ve managed to survive charting new depths of despair for the past four years....

So what disturbs me most about this election? The one thing it absolutely proves is that 2016 wasn’t an aberration. I had hoped, a false hope it is now obvious, that 2016 was a visceral reaction to frustration with the state of the country, to feeling ignored and invisible, to feeling like a pawn to be sacrificed. I conjured up various explanations, based on my own observations, based on what I thought I knew about those who voted for him. You know, “fine people on both sides.” I worked to understand why some of those people, people I knew to be decent and honorable, voted for Despicable He. I excused, rationalized, tried to defend their decision. Most of the people I knew weren’t 5th Avenue Trumpists; they may have been fooled once, or were so antagonistic toward his opponent that they voted AGAINST her, but these were good people who would come to their senses after witnessing the bullying, lying, and aggressive ignorance that consistently characterized our 45th president.

2020 has made it obvious that, once again, I’m a hopeless optimist not grounded in reality. 2016 is who we are, because in 2020, HALF of the American voters wanted to return this not very bright, incompetent, vulgarian bully to the White House. The most (and, quite frankly, only) charitable explanation that I can come up with (but recognizing my own blinders) is partisan blindness, a belief that only one political party cares about the future (and only their vision of that future) of the country. Trump’s rejection by a majority of the voters is a small relief, but that so many wanted the opposite, that so many continue to defend him, does not make me hopeful in the slightest about the future USA in which my daughter and granddaughter will live.

What can I do? My first action: abandon any hope that maintaining even FB relationships with those outside my belief system might open their minds. That was a fruitless and frustrating 4-year endeavor. So I will leave them to their hyper-partisan echo chambers, their Fox News, PJ Media, Daily Caller, Daily Wire, Breitbart, InfoWars, etc., etc. If that’s where they choose to live, so be it, but I don’t have to visit or even walk past their house, because my presence clearly changes nothing except to make me feel worse. 2020 has been bad enough – I don’t need to get burned by adding fuel to a dumpster fire.

Even if I think I know, I will not ask about your vote. I am not actively looking to shed connections, but if you insist of posting stupid, insulting, political memes, repeating absurd conspiracy theories, or echoing Doomsday/End of the World prophecies, sheepling (bleating) the words of others instead of your own, well, I have better ways to waste my time and fill up my feed. Bye, Felicia.

The Stuff of Memories

Patience, please, as I sort this out. I’m also digitizing slides from 35-40 years ago, so memories have been bubbling to the surface. But the primary motivation was....

As the Webster Groves softball girls reveled in their victory a couple weeks ago, securing our program’s first ever trip to Final Four of the state tournament, my friend, and the head coach, Bryan Gibson, handed me the game ball. Seventeen of the 19 girls on the team had played for me, and they graciously applauded the honor. It was a touching moment, one I appreciated, one that will stay with me for as long as I have my memory.

Shortly thereafter I passed the ball to the de facto team captain and tearily tasked her with collecting the girls’ signatures and returning the ball to its rightful place, in the home of the head coach who has committed himself to building an enviable program and is reaping his well-deserved reward, because teams don’t win championships so much as programs do, the trophy holders standing at the finish line on the shoulders of those who paved the path in previous seasons.

Don’t misunderstand, the last thing I want is to seem ungrateful or unappreciative. His gesture (and our friendship) made my heart happy, brought me to tears, especially when combined with missing our irreplaceable Tim Cerutti* and the heartfelt post-game hug (we’ve joyfully shared several hugs recently!), plus the many kind words from individual players and their parents as we celebrate this historic journey of our Statesmen winning the school’s first ever state championship in softball, only the second WG girls’ sport to accomplish such a feat. 

It would be silly to try to deny my sentimentality; it’s been on full display too many times in front of too many people. My WG softball girls know they can pretty much count on me choking up at least once or twice every season. Because I knew fairly early on that this year would likely be my last, the 2020 season had perhaps a few more leaky-eye moments than others. And if you ever given me a note, picture, or card, you can be sure I still have it. I’m on my second tote bag of storage.

But I don’t need stuff to keep my memories alive, although I’ve saved all of that, too. Over the years I’ve accumulated numerous mementos from appreciative students, players, and parents. Most sit in a crate in the attic. I have plaques galore, balls, gavels, pictures, a framed newspaper, and more, plus, of course, all the yearbooks I sponsored. Those, along with the cards, pictures and notes, can perhaps be repurposed by my daughter as decorations at my (not imminent) funeral party. While all are capable of stimulating joyful memories, those memories live on in my soul without any need for physical, tangible clues. 

The medal is great, but it's the people
I shall remember and cherish.

Bottom line, it will always be the people I remember, and almost all those memories are connected with specific individuals and/or groups. My fellow teachers and coaches with whom I’ve had the privilege to work at four different schools, all the students, the young men and women, several who are now personal friends, some who are no longer young, and too many who are no longer alive, endure almost immutably in my brain, an immortality which I hope I have been able to pass on to the those I have encountered on my life marathon.

The brilliant Isaac Asimov said human immortality is about the mark we leave on life, through our progeny and through those whose lives we have touched. That is a core component of my belief system, but it’s a two-way street. Because if I somehow touched you, you can be fairly certain that you touched me, changed me, as well. The interconnectedness of people and of this earth also lives in me as a core value. We are bound together, for better and worse. We cannot isolate or separate ourselves, we cannot afford to compete in a “Winner Take All” life. If my winning comes at your expense, I believe, in my soul of souls, that it’s a zero sum equation in Life’s Big Picture, and, therefore, no real victory at all.

I cannot, will not try to predict what new memories await, but my cup runneth over (a mess in which I reside happily) from those with which I’ve already been blessed. While I’m not yet ready to live in the past, as we age our minds naturally tend to wander backward more frequently (and, really, Facebook, you’re not helping having all those “Your Memory on this Day,” uh – stuff pop up multiple times a week). 

I know, and express frequently, that I’ve lived a blessed life, and while I don’t need “stuff” to remind me of that, the abundance of so many joyous memories keeps the awareness of my bounty alive.

Many thanks and much love to all with whom I’ve been so lucky to share this journey.

*We have confided among ourselves, and the feeling has been reinforced, unsolicited, by several players, the comforting belief that, somehow, Tim was able to share this joyous journey with us.