Man Notes: Former NFL Lineman Joe Ehrmann

I'm fascinated by the idea of modern masculinity.  The idea appears again and again in this blog, but it also appears repeatedly in my fiction.  Even when I'm working through an idea that is, at least on the surface, not about this theme, it finds a way to exist in between the lines of my creative work.

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On my way home yesterday, I had the pleasure of listening to an interview with Joe Ehrmann, former defensive lineman for the Colts.  He had some fascinating views about masculinity, sports, and spirituality.  The interview began with a quick mention of the three words most men have encountered throughout their lives, "Be a man."  These words, while often used as a way of trying to salve, or suppress, an emotional moment, often find a way to lock men into a box.

The interview quickly expanded to include three lies of masculinity: "athletic ability, sexual conquest, and economic success."  He goes on to talk about how culture sends messages to men about these three categories of life and prioritizes them in destructive ways, especially in the modern era of social media and internet and access.  He speaks about the dearth of "moral clarity and moral courage" and links this back to the Steubenville rape case.  While I assume he understands and deplores the heinous nature of the crime, he expands his analysis of the situation to include the people not directly connected to the crime that occurred that night, but to those complicit in either covering up or advancing the scope of the crime through the sharing of pictures and tweets in the case.  He points to these actions and, rightfully, attaches them to a lack of "moral clarity and moral courage" in the larger community.

When asked directly about what masculinity is, he responds by saying, "It can only be defined by two things.  One, it is your capacity to love and to be loved.  Masculinity ought to be defined in terms of relationships.  Second thing it ought to be defined by commitment to a cause.  That all of us have a responsibility to give back, to make the world more fair, more just, more hospitable for every human being."

This interview brought me an overabundance of comfort for many reasons.  The first is that I wholeheartedly believe in Ehrmann's message.  The second is that Ehrmann speaks with real credibility for men who have a predisposition to the "lies" he mentioned earlier, specifically to the lies of athletic ability and economic success.  I'm always seeking role models in the world, men who stand as positive forces within the world and actively demonstrate the full spectrum of what it means to be a man.

At times, media feels like a cyclops, a singularly-visioned creature that can't see in dimension, in depth.  I applaud NPR, All Things Considered, and Joe Ehrmann for putting this discussion out into the world.  At the end of a long work day and after allowing the interview to wash over me, I felt affirmed and contemplative in all the best sense of the word.  Media reflected something back to me that felt authentic and sincere, which is too infrequently the case.

The discussion is happening out there.  We just need to find it.  I realize now that All Things Considered is doing an entire series on Men in America, and I can't wait to catch up on streaming segments that will, hopefully, allow me to hear a spectrum of voices on the subject of modern masculinity.  A good song possesses more than one note, and a discussion of a complex topic like this requires a range of notes, a choir of voices, in order to bring the richness and vibrancy it demands out into the world.

Again, thanks to all the contributors and producers for making this happen.  If Joe Ehrmann intrigues you, you might think about picking up his book.

Personal Note: Fear and Silence

I've been offline for a couple of weeks now.  This hasn't necessarily been intentional, but it has been necessary.  I recently had a health scare that sent me spiraling into a pit of anxiety, covering all the necessary stops through denial/isolation, bargaining, etc.

It was a lump.

I found a lump on/near one of my testicles.

It scared the hell out of me.  This was weeks ago.  I didn't tell a single person.  Not one.  At first I denied it was there.  Then, I bargained with myself and said, "I'll give it a week or two and if it doesn't go away, then I'll go to the doctor."  Eventually, I realized that it wasn't going away, and I had to do something.  I resigned myself to calling the urologist who did my vasectomy.  I figured skip the general practitioner and head straight to the specialist.  When I called to set my appointment, I set it for the earliest possible date.

I couldn't handle waiting another day or week.  Once I had accepted that this situation was real, that is was worth examining, there was nothing that could have held me back from that appointment.

The appointment revealed that I have a spermatocele, a relatively harmless condition brought about by a blocked tube in my testes.  It is nothing to be alarmed about, nothing that needs any further medical analysis, and I was free and on my way.

This was last week, a week ago to be exact, and for some reason I am still working my way through the news.  While I am in perfectly good health, I still get the jitters, an uneasy anxiousness that sits within the pit of my stomach and reminds me, maybe for the first time, that I'm mortal, really mortal.

The most extreme medical treatment I've ever had was to get my tonsils out, maybe when I had my wisdom teeth removed, but I've never had anything serious, nothing that made me really concerned for my overall well-being.  Those weeks when I didn't tell anyone were some of the most anxious of my life.

The only person who really picked up on it, the only one who really looked me in the eye and said, "What's going on with you?" was a twenty-year-old hostess at my work who often reveals herself to be an astute observer of people's personalities.  Because she persistently asked me what was happening, because she kept insisting something was "going on," I realized that the lump was starting to effect the way I carried myself throughout my day, and I decided to take action.

The first person I told was my wife, and the moment I had the news out of my mouth, I was on the internet and looking up my doctor.  I had an appointment for three days later.

There was no reason for me to delay the appointment, besides a fear of the unknown, a fear of recognizing that there was something potentially serious happening with my health, and I was a fool to let it go on so long.  As I sit her typing these few choppy paragraphs, trying to work my way through the residual relief and fear, I realize, as I often do, that writing would have helped me through all of this.  Writing is processing.  Writing is putting things in order, puzzling out knotted threads, finding a way to navigate difficult situations, and I shouldn't allow things like this to keep me from the computer for so long.  I am really backed up on promise posts (yes, I'm still doing those, even though I've missed two during this time), and I may just march forward instead of trying to catch up on the back log.

I'm feeling more and more like myself with each day.  Today will help.  I'm watching a friends daughter for a couple of hours, allowing Shea and her a couple of hours of play.  In the background as I write this, the girls are creating an original song with an electric keyboard, a pen, and a small pad.  Their giggles and their earnest efforts to commit words to the page serve as an inspiration for this small effort, my effort to somehow capture the complexity of what I've experienced in a blog post.  I have a feeling I'm not done with this subject.  I'm done with it for the blog, but I have a feeling it will find its way into my writing in other forms.  Writing is processing after all.

Thanks for listening.

Teacher Notes: Preparing for Workshop

The day has arrived!  The day where all the days of teaching Composition finally pay off.  I am teaching a fiction workshop this summer at PCC, and I couldn't be happier about it.  I've had the opportunity to teach workshops before at PCC, but this summer feels like serendipity, a coincidence of the fates that conspired to allow me to dive into craft at a moment when I am feeling a creative resurgence.

For me, workshop is a divine space, a space of unadulterated creativity, where writers are allowed to stretch their craft, to dabble, to experiment, to try things they might not have the chance to try when writing in isolation.  In order to model this for my students, I write with them.  I try to show them that the exercises I've produced for them are not just for the "new" writer, but, like any exercise physical or mental, an opportunity to try and try again, to hone and battle, to dive headlong against a task in order to become stronger, more lithe and flexible, to remake ourselves in ways that might be surprising after multiple repetitions.

More than anything, workshop is a chance to write and write a lot.  My workshop classes are full of prompts, of freewrites, of imitations and modeling.  It is a time to read from great works, and then to try our hand at creating our own.  Today is the first day, and I feel like it is the opening of a grand adventure.

Coincidentally, today is also the day I will return to Pacific University's Low-Residency MFA for a faculty reading.  This is the space where I was taught the art of the workshop, the knack of the craft talk, and the unending passion for honing the written word.  The line up for tonight?

Pete Fromm:

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Hopefully reading from his forthcoming novel If Not for This:

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Craig Lesley:

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I'm hoping for new material, but he could read from his nonfiction Burning Fence...

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Or some of his fiction, like Storm Riders...

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The final author is a new one to me: Eduardo Corral

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While unknown to me, a quick search brings the edge of excitement even closer as his poetry promises to ignite me with inspiration.  If he dazzles, then I'll be picking up his collection Slow Lightning.

In preparation for this day full of excitement?  Double barreled coffee.

Promise-ary Note: Party Time!

My last promise found me escaping my own neuroses by positioning myself inside an elemental force of nature in the form of Wahclella Falls, but I was soon to have an encounter with another natural force: thirty seven-year-olds.

The end of the school year has arrived, and first grade has come and gone quicker than I would like.  As such, the end of the school year party for my daughter landed on Wednesday.  The parents had met and decided that Rivercrest Park in Oregon City would provide the perfect space for thirty free-wheeling kids.  With a shady forested section, playground, and waterpark rolled into one, the park came equipped with so many built-in activities that we didn't have to worry about filling every moment with games, prizes, etc.

The day began a little crazy as I overslept a bit, so Tracy was a spark plug of nervous energy.  We left the house about 30 minutes late, and when we arrived at the park, the kids had already arrived.  We were in charge of some of the decorations and the lunch, so it wasn't too bad of a faux pax.  

After slapping some decorations up around the covered picnic area, it was time for the festivities to begin.  Most of the children were immediately enchanted by the balloon artist one of the parents hired, and the line for his services extended into the double digits.  While the kids held it together for the most part, I found myself mitigating a couple of "cutting" conflicts and holding places in line so that each of the students could help finish the teachers' gifts by planting a gooey, paint-covered thumbprint on a ceramic flowerpot.  

I'll admit that this promise was meant as an attempt to get outside my own life and out into the broader community, but time was tight at the end of the term and volunteerism is volunteerism, right?

The reason I chose "Volunteer" as a promise is because I oftentimes find myself navigating only the narrow confines of family and work life.  As such, I too often become consumed with an entirely selfish regard toward my own problems and stresses.  I am a writer, and if there is one thing a writer must be, it is engaged.  Volunteerism is one way of engaging with the broader community, with the world around me.

So, while I volunteered at Shea's school and got to spend the day with my wife and daughter, I also got to spend the day with 29 other 7-year-olds and a slew of parents who I don't see often.  I got to play in the sun, and feed some tiny bellies.  I got to help the kids, to nurture them in a small way.

One thing I have noticed about these functions is that there are almost no fathers there.  The volunteers are almost always made up entirely of mothers.  This day was no exception, and there was only one other father there to help out.  As a result, I find that the boys gravitate toward the men when they are there.  Unconsciously they are looking toward male role models, and I often find a young man standing before me with a soccer ball, or a beach ball, or some other kind of toy, and there is a devilish little glint in their eye as they challenge me to a game of "keep away" or an impromptu soccer scrimmage.

I don't often get to meet the young men of Shea's class, so these events allow me a look inside the wider makeup of her school.  I can see the dynamics at work within their little social circles, and I'm pleased to say that there are many pleasant and well-mannered young men in her class.

Volunteering served its function for me.  It allowed me outside the confines of routine.  It pushed me out into the world and allowed me to have some play time while giving toward the needs of others who were not me or my direct family.  In that way, I feel the promise was well-executed.  Plus, water park...'nough said.

My next promise is another effort to reach outside the confines of routine.

Teacher's Note: End of Term

The last two days have been a whirlwind of essays, late assignments, grades, rubrics, spreadsheets, and exhaustion.  Even in the wee hours of Father's Day, I found myself at the screen, responding to emails, grading online assignments, and drying out my eyeballs.

But...

It is done!  Grades were submitted this afternoon and the term has been put to rest.  As a treat, I allowed myself a meal on the couch as I watched an independent film, Hump Day, by Lynn Shelton and starring Mark Duplass, who is an actor I've come to trust and follow.  Some of you may recognize him from his work on The League.

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I've already cracked the book Ron Carlson Writes a Story and I've started a cursory rewrite of a piece of flash fiction that I wrote a couple of months back.  Every term starts this same way for me.  After I fulfill my obligations to my students, I burst forth in a frenzy of ambition to read, to write, to hike, to spend time with family.  The week after term is often one of my most creative periods as my desk is cleared of essays and grading.  

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I'm looking forward to what the week will serve me.  Ah, the life of a teacher!

Promise-ary Note: Kyle "Falls" into Personal Time

The last promise I drew was to find 3 hours to spend with myself.  It's hard as a father, husband, teacher, and bartender to carve out these little niches of time, so I had to drop everything on Tuesday and rush out of the house in order to get it in.  This meant leaving stacks of grading left ungraded in my bag and rushing out in order to be back in time to get my daughter, but I got it done.

Thanks to a little help from the internet, I was able to find a hike that suited my time frame. I wanted to get out of town, to explore a section of Oregon I had never encountered before, to scout a hike my wife and I could do alongside our daughter, and I found it in Wahclella Falls just outside of Cascade Locks.  Portlandhikersfieldguide.org provides a nice write up of the trail, so I knew what I was getting into. 

It'd been a long time since I'd gone to the Columbia Gorge, either through traveling through it or to explore it, so when the Gorge opened up in front of me past Troutdale, I made sure to soak in scene as I drove.  Some of you might remember my earlier post about my love affair with driving.  I decided to use my block of time to satiate my desire for the road, for open air, for new vistas, and the Gorge did not disappoint.  It was a beautiful sunny day, and I was hellbent on using it.

Just short of Cascade Lakes is Bonneville Dam.  From Highway 84 eastbound, one simply needs to take this exit (Exit 40) and drive south of the freeway.  The road splits east and west, and a sign points the westward way to Wahclella.  The trail is an easy one, one mile in and one mile out in a lollipop formation.  While there is a rise in elevation on the trail, it isn't anything too extreme.  

Since I was pushing time, I huffed it down the trail, quickly working up a sweat once I hit the inclines.  As it was a Tuesday, the trail was almost completely deserted, only a few families and couples appeared along the way.

I don't know what it is about waterfalls, but I'm drawn to them and the landscapes they create.  There is something about the mix of elements that immediately appeals to me.  The intersection of water misting the air in its descent elevates my spirit as I breathe deep the cascading rumble like the sustenance of sound.  As water crashes into earth, my imagination drives forward like an elemental force, and I find inspiration in the violent energies unleashed in the collision.

While I took a lot of pictures of the falls while I was there, I made sure to leave the electronics alone and to perch myself upon a rock inside the plume of mist.  This communion with nature felt like a baptism, a dip into a holy fount.  I reveled in the strain of the hike as I settled into a melting pleasure of idleness.  The goal having been achieved, I rested and I rested well.

Oregon is full of magical nooks and crannies that can transport us outside ourselves while centering us inside ourselves.  Positioning oneself inside external majesty is a great way to provide the essential insignificance of a life.  I find it important to remind myself of my own immateriality, to beat back my ego, and to remind myself that I am small in all the best ways possible.  

We all occupy the space of our own lives, sometimes even eclipsing the lives of those around us, but encounters with the wider, even wilder, world serve as a sometimes gentle reminder that we are not as important as we think we are.

All in all, the trip was a success.  I spent the drive home blasting the radio, driving with the window down, and recounting the multiple ways my life is a blessing.  Not a bad way to spend three hours if I do say so myself.

The next promise I pulled is also an exercise is getting outside myself.

Father Notes: Play Time

I've been feeling a bit disconnected from Shea lately, like I've been working too much and not having enough unstructured time with her.  Unstructured time is the cornerstone of our relationship.  With so much always going on with the family, I've always taken it upon myself to make sure to spend those aimless afternoons with her without an agenda.  Tonight, I found some of that time and I can't even explain how much I missed it.

After I picked Shea up from my mother's house, we came home to find only the dog waiting for us.  We'd beaten Tracy home.  As we came into the house, I asked Shea if she wanted to change out of her school clothes and get into something more comfortable.  She looked a bit sweaty.  She asked if I wanted to come upstairs and make sure she picked out something that was "appropriate" (her words).  She instantly pulled out a purple sundress, and I said, "Why not?"

After she changed her clothes, she asked if she could show me something.  I agreed and she led me out to the backyard.  On the way out the door, I grabbed my wife's camera on a whim.  When we got outside, Shea stood on the tiny paved path between the lower yard and upper yard and simply gestured at the strawberry plants around her.

She wound her way amongst the bushes, careful to not step on any of the ripened, or unripened fruit, until she had collected a good handful.  She offered me up a couple of strawberries like they were the greatest candied confection one could find. Which is kind of true, as strawberries from one's own yard, warm from a late Spring day, dance along the tongue like few things can.

After our quick after school snack.  Shea led me on a walk around the yard, warning me to watch out for dog poop as we walked.  We simply strolled around the yard, looking at the spot where the old play structure used to be.  We talked about maybe setting up garden boxes in its place, and Shea wanted to make sure she would have some say as to what we planted.

Shea then asked me if I wanted to play a game.  Here are the rules as I understand them:

1. I stand in a patch of dandelions while she stands in a patch of dandelions across from me.
2. When she says go, I am supposed to reach her dandelion patch while simultaneously preventing her from reaching mine.  We are on opposing teams.
3. I can't tag her right after she tags me, although the tag element and what it meant to be "it" still eludes me.

This game basically involved the two of us running past each other and standing in the opposing teams dandelions for about 10 minutes.  Somehow she won, and then I attacked her and the whole thing devolved into a tickle fight.  Afterwards, she shoved flowers into her toes and presented them to me as flower flip-flops.

Once she regained her wits and grew bored of the flower flip-flops, she spied a hula hoop left forgotten on the grass from a couple of days previous.  She lit up with an idea.  "Watch me, daddy," she cried from the middle of the lawn.

She spun that hula hoop better than I remembered.  She actually kept the thing afloat for a couple of seconds, which is a grand improvement from where she began.  After she got tired of the hula hoop around the waist, it was around the arm.  When she got tired of trying to swing it around her arm?  We concocted a game to see how many ways we could throw the hula hoop to each other from across the lawn.  She rolled it.

Threw it overhand.

Tossed it like a frisbee (not a resounding success).

Two-handed-over-the-head-axe-toss.  Look at the intensity of the preparation!  This was serious business, people.

At this point, I've lost many people to the overly sentimental musings of a father, but there is a point to all of this.  The point is this.  We had an amazing evening with Shea that night.  She came inside, did all of her chores, ate her dinner, obeyed everything we said, and was in a good mood the entire time.

Our children crave our attention and our time, and most of the parents I know give it to them, but we don't always do it in the free-associating, agenda-free format that kids prefer.  Shea loved careening from one activity to another to another with no sense of a plan.  She wanted to be free of restriction.  She wanted her mind to dance and play from one pleasurable moment to the next without me saying, "Five more minutes," or, "You can play with that after you do this, that, and the other."

The whole endeavor probably took 30 minutes, an instant, an eye blink, a mere pittance of time, but it made all the difference.  I could keep this blog post focused on Shea and how it did great things for her behavior and temperament, but I think the real winner in this situation was me.  The two of us played in the grass together, barefoot.  We ate sun-kissed strawberries and played a game that had almost no rules and no real objective.  Then, we played catch back and forth with a hula hoop.  All of those things, every one, was like an aloe to my often stress-burned heart.  I came inside after playing with Shea, kissed my wife, made a fresh dinner by her side, had a snuggle before Shea went to bed, and simply found myself connecting with my wife.  Talking, at ease, and decompressed from the day.  Play time is important.  Not just for Shea, but for Tracy and I too.  I got a dose today, and I think I'm already jonesing for more.

Thanks, Shea.  You did good, girl.