Somewhere along the way, and I can't tell you exactly when, I realized that I'd become what some would call a cranky, old man. Not that I see myself this way, mind you. No, I rather think of myself as a quiet, older white guy who loves to hear people's stories, putz about in my expanding garden, make satisfying and creative music with a few trusted friends, spoil my grandchildren, cherish my wife, and contemplatively walk with compassion through this current madness. I know that's only part of me, the visible, public side that my ego likes; its not my shadow, which poet Juan Ramón Jiménez playfully says is also part of our being but cannot be seen by us. Those who are paying attention, however, see it clearly in all the hidden truths we drag along behind ourselves mostly unawares:
Yo no soy yo. Soy este que va a mi lado sin yo verlo, que,
a veces, voy a ver, y que, a veces olvido...
I am not I. I am this one walking beside me whom I do not see,
whom at times I manage to visit, and whom at other times I forget who remains calm and silent while I talk, and forgives, gently, when I hate, who walks where I am not, who will remain standing when I die.
Yesterday, after our beginners ukulele class, I couldn't help but take stock of my near complete alienation from the status quo. I am now wildly out of step with these times. No more so than say Wendell Berry or Mary Oliver, an august duo if there ever was one, but clearly NOT part of the mainstream culture I once served and cherished. You see, no sooner had I arrived at the elementary school than my pack of little buddies swarmed me. These little guys - and they are all guys - ache for healthy male attention. They're bright, still tender despite their wounds, and so eager to please, learn, and succeede. It's a bit overwhelming how physically affectionate they are which is simultaneously rewarding and frightening. Given the magnitude of child abuse among vulnerable young people - and the litigious nature of a culture aching for somebody to blame - I am always on guard to maintain strict and safe boundaries with my little posse. Perhaps that's one of the reasons I feel overwhelmed with their affection: it is fraught with so many layers of complexity. In another time and place, you see, I would sit down quietly with these boys to listen carefully to their stories. All we can do now is share a few words in passing en route to trying to make a bit of music.
No wonder I'm cranky, yes? These young guys - and their young female peers - need affirmation and formation. They need trusted adults who care for them beyond their families - and beyond their teachers and assistants, too. Without a doubt, the school professionals are compassionate and consciencious. They continue to show up even as covid spikes yet again. They take-on a host of social problems they cannot resolve. And do so with humor, humility, and grace. But as has been said: it takes a village to raise a healthy child and, like most American communities, we don't value our children or education enough to get the whole village mobilized. That makes me cranky. Not resentful or despairing, just cranky because we could do so much better. And just a little bit of caring goes such a long way.
This time next week we're supposed to be doing a "concert" for the parents of our crew. We'll put on a show - three songs - but that's not a concert. What happens too often with poor kids and their institutions is that excellence is forsaken so that showing up can be celebrated. Don't get me wrong: showing up counts. But sitting in a chair alone does not create beauty. Or art. Or even teamwork. I used to say that sitting all night in the garage does not make me a car any more than howling all night at the moon makes me a coyote. So, too with expectations of excellence.
If there were both the time and resources to focus and do some hard work, a real musical event could be crafted over the course of a year. For now, we'll settle for showing up. That's another reason I'm cranky: our culture tends to exagerate the value of the lowest common denominator. Awards are given out every year for things like attendnace or daycare graduation. Really? Small wonder so many of these children say, "I can't do this" when a chord formation is hard. Or there's a bit of discomfort with the pressure from the ukulele strings on their fingers. I keep saying to them: "Really? You can't do this? Or you won't do this? There's a difference. What are you going to do when something REALLY hard happens? Quit? You are smarter and stronger than that, so let's try again." Sometimes they do but twice a week for five weeks is a drop in the bucket when it comes to changing expectations.
While Di and I were away this weekend for our anniversary, I kept thinking about our little uke class. They have touched my heart and I pray that I have touched theirs. Who knows if they'll be a follow up? Who knows who will keep practicing? I am not big on the "random" acts of kindness craze because kindness and compassion are commitments built upon consistency and even strategic discipline. This effemeral, new-age random kindness makes me cranky, too. So, I just have to chaulk this up to yet one more thing I cannot control. Tomorrow, after doing a bunch of hands on gardening, I'll venture back to our ukulele posse and give it one more shot. Lord, grant me the serenity to accept this as real.
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