My father died this morning. It was sudden and unexpected. I'll write more about that later, I suppose.
For now, though, I want to share these. A few years ago I was contemplating making a documentary of my family's history, and I created these two brief videos as a sort of proof of concept. They're short, but they say a lot about the kind of man my father was.
I'm still reeling. I'll write more later.
(I can't see video 1).
(I can't see video 2).
Monday, November 29, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Unashamedly Moderate
A couple of days ago I was in the hospital visiting a relative. I was there along with the patient and two other visitors. A lab technician came in, and he seemed like a chipper enough fellow at first. "Good morning!" he said in a loud voice. "How's everyone feeling today?"
"Fine," one of the other visitors said. "How are you?"
"Fantastic!" the technician said in that fake, cheery voice that so many hospital staff members use. He continued in that same voice: "At least, I'm doing a lot better than the 20 percent of Americans who are out of a job this Thanksgiving!"
It was a weird comment, and if it had been the ONLY weird comment he'd made, I'd have probably not given it a second thought. And at first, I thought it WAS going to be the only weird thing he said, because he followed that up with, "I'm going to have to get around you here and check his blood pressure and other readings." It was a small room, and he slid around me and the other visitors to get over to where the machines are. He began fumbling with the equipment in the corner, and then he continued, "Yeah, the government wants you to think that unemployment is 10%, but they're just rigging the numbers to make it look that way, you know what I mean?"
I didn't know what he meant, so I answered him honestly. "No, I don't know."
His eyes got wide. "Oh yeah! The government's wanting to count all of the 16 and 17 year old who just got a summer job and are working. They want to hide the fact that there are hundreds of thousands of benefited workers who are losing their jobs every month." He got the blood pressure cuff on the patient and started taking the readings. "That's just the kind of deceit you can expect from a government, though, whose President isn't even an American citizen. Know what I mean?" He laughed a little, as if this was the most absurd and obvious fact.
"How's he doing?" I said, pointing to the patient, trying to change the subject.
"What?" the technician said. After a moment of blankly starting at me, he realized what I was referring to and said, "Oh him? He's fine. Which is better than I can say for all of these people who have to try to go through whole body scanners at the airports or else get sexually abused by some TSA agent!" He laughed again at his own joke. "Can you believe that stuff? These liberals want to take away all of our freedoms! They want to make this a socialist nation, like the USSR!"
"It's a little crowded in here," I said to the man. "I'm going to step outside and let you finish your job." It probably wasn't the bravest thing to do, to leave the other three in the room at the mercy of this guy. But I couldn't take him anymore. Eventually, one of the other visitors got tired of the man and joined me in the hallway as well, and finally the guy left. I went back inside, and everyone in the room was laughing and rolling their eyes. "I thought that guy was joking at first," I said, and everyone nodded in agreement, "but then he kept going and going."
"He was fired up," someone said.
I don't know when everyone got so angry about politics that it now bleeds over into the chit chat of hospital personnel. As someone mentioned a few minutes after the guy left, what if the patient had been a die hard liberal? It seemed like completely inappropriate behavior, but I think it's just a sign of the times. Americans have become so combative, and it seems there's no one left who is willing to compromise and work with people of different ideology. We've voted all of those people out of office, and we're left with only the hard liners who view the other side as the uninformed enemy. I guess I blame Fox News and MSNBC and Rush Limbaugh and Al Franken and anyone else who just wants to shout over top of others without listening.
I said above that no one wants to compromise anymore. I'll go a step further than that, and say that for many people, words like "compromise" and "working together" and "forging middle ground" are now dirty words, signs of weakness and lack of conviction. And it's a shame, because it's the people who ARE willing to do those things who actually get things done.
A couple of months ago on Facebook I changed my profile so that my political views are listed as "Unashamedly moderate." I added the first word because I refuse to be made to feel like a wishy washy person just because I see some sense to what the Democrats say and some sense to what the Republicans say. No one out there--and no party, either--has a monopoly on common sense. And the sooner we can all realize that, and all start working together again, the sooner we can start working on the very real problems that face this nation, and the sooner we can all stop being so hateful to people who think differently from us.
"Fine," one of the other visitors said. "How are you?"
"Fantastic!" the technician said in that fake, cheery voice that so many hospital staff members use. He continued in that same voice: "At least, I'm doing a lot better than the 20 percent of Americans who are out of a job this Thanksgiving!"
It was a weird comment, and if it had been the ONLY weird comment he'd made, I'd have probably not given it a second thought. And at first, I thought it WAS going to be the only weird thing he said, because he followed that up with, "I'm going to have to get around you here and check his blood pressure and other readings." It was a small room, and he slid around me and the other visitors to get over to where the machines are. He began fumbling with the equipment in the corner, and then he continued, "Yeah, the government wants you to think that unemployment is 10%, but they're just rigging the numbers to make it look that way, you know what I mean?"
I didn't know what he meant, so I answered him honestly. "No, I don't know."
His eyes got wide. "Oh yeah! The government's wanting to count all of the 16 and 17 year old who just got a summer job and are working. They want to hide the fact that there are hundreds of thousands of benefited workers who are losing their jobs every month." He got the blood pressure cuff on the patient and started taking the readings. "That's just the kind of deceit you can expect from a government, though, whose President isn't even an American citizen. Know what I mean?" He laughed a little, as if this was the most absurd and obvious fact.
"How's he doing?" I said, pointing to the patient, trying to change the subject.
"What?" the technician said. After a moment of blankly starting at me, he realized what I was referring to and said, "Oh him? He's fine. Which is better than I can say for all of these people who have to try to go through whole body scanners at the airports or else get sexually abused by some TSA agent!" He laughed again at his own joke. "Can you believe that stuff? These liberals want to take away all of our freedoms! They want to make this a socialist nation, like the USSR!"
"It's a little crowded in here," I said to the man. "I'm going to step outside and let you finish your job." It probably wasn't the bravest thing to do, to leave the other three in the room at the mercy of this guy. But I couldn't take him anymore. Eventually, one of the other visitors got tired of the man and joined me in the hallway as well, and finally the guy left. I went back inside, and everyone in the room was laughing and rolling their eyes. "I thought that guy was joking at first," I said, and everyone nodded in agreement, "but then he kept going and going."
"He was fired up," someone said.
I don't know when everyone got so angry about politics that it now bleeds over into the chit chat of hospital personnel. As someone mentioned a few minutes after the guy left, what if the patient had been a die hard liberal? It seemed like completely inappropriate behavior, but I think it's just a sign of the times. Americans have become so combative, and it seems there's no one left who is willing to compromise and work with people of different ideology. We've voted all of those people out of office, and we're left with only the hard liners who view the other side as the uninformed enemy. I guess I blame Fox News and MSNBC and Rush Limbaugh and Al Franken and anyone else who just wants to shout over top of others without listening.
I said above that no one wants to compromise anymore. I'll go a step further than that, and say that for many people, words like "compromise" and "working together" and "forging middle ground" are now dirty words, signs of weakness and lack of conviction. And it's a shame, because it's the people who ARE willing to do those things who actually get things done.
A couple of months ago on Facebook I changed my profile so that my political views are listed as "Unashamedly moderate." I added the first word because I refuse to be made to feel like a wishy washy person just because I see some sense to what the Democrats say and some sense to what the Republicans say. No one out there--and no party, either--has a monopoly on common sense. And the sooner we can all realize that, and all start working together again, the sooner we can start working on the very real problems that face this nation, and the sooner we can all stop being so hateful to people who think differently from us.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Blind as a Bat, Part Two
As I mentioned in yesterday's blog entry, I used to be terribly nearsighted (So much so, in fact, that if you aren't severely nearsighted yourself, you might want to read yesterday's blog entry to get a feel for what it's like to be practically blind), and that fact led me to an interesting discovery about non-verbal communication.
It happened in December of 1996. At the time I normally wore contacts, but I had a pair of glasses that were three or four prescriptions old and that I would occasionally wear around the house. Because the prescription was so old, though, these glasses were a tad blurry, enough so that if I needed to look more than a few feet ahead of me I'd quickly get a headache. I decided that I needed to go to an optician and get a new pair. But I had a problem: the optician that I'd used since I'd moved to Northern Kentucky six years before had moved out of the area. So I needed to find a new place. Since my family lived in Florence at the time, I decided to go to the Lenscrafters inside Florence Mall.
I called Lenscrafters and made an appointment, and they told me that since it was my first time visiting they did NOT want me to wear my contacts to the appointment. So I left them at home, put on my glasses, and drove in a slightly blurry haze to the mall (thank goodness I didn't get in an accident or get pulled over).
I had planned to purchase new lenses AND frames, but I found I really couldn't afford them. My wife had just given birth to our first child a few weeks before, and we were both just starting to get used to the idea that she wouldn't be working anymore and that money was tight. And I knew that glasses would be expensive, but I didn't think they'd be as expensive as they turned out to be. As heavy as my prescription was, the optician advised me (wisely) to purchase "Featherweight" lenses, which were brand new at the time. They were thinner and lighter than traditional glass lenses, but they cost several hundred dollars. Working on a budget derived from a six year teacher's salary, I just couldn't afford an additional two hundred dollars for frames.
"That's no problem," the woman working at the counter told me. "We can make new lenses and put them in your old frames." That seemed like a great idea to me, so I gave her my frames. She put them in an envelope, stuck my prescription in the envelope as well, and stuck it all in a tray. "They'll be ready in an hour." Then she hesitated. "As busy as we are today, it may be a little more than an hour. Come back in an hour and a half."
"Sure," I said happily. "Thanks." And I headed out of the store, oblivious to the obvious problem that hit me about four seconds later.
I was blind as a bat.
I stood at the entrance of the Lenscrafters store for about 20 seconds, staring out at the rest of the mall. Lenscrafters was on the second floor, so I slowly made my way to the overlook of the first floor and saw something that looked like this:
I carefully worked my way back into the Lenscrafters store and asked if I could borrow their phone (Yes, this was in that magical time BEFORE cell phones). I called my house, and my wife answered.
"Hello?" she said unsurely (Yes, this was in that magical time BEFORE Caller ID), but in a VERY soothing voice.
"It's me," I said. "What are you doing?"
Again she spoke in that soothing voice. "I am lying on the couch with the baby on my chest. She has FINALLY fallen asleep." Before I'd left for Lenscrafters my wife and I had literally spent hours trying to get our daughter to fall asleep. Rocking, singing, swaying the baby--nothing had worked. But it sounded like Lisa had succeeded at long last.
"Uh, can you come to the Florence Mall?" I asked.
"Why? What's happened?" Lisa asked. Still the calming voice.
"Nothing's happened," I said. "They're making my lenses now, but they're putting the new lenses in my old frames, so I don't have my glasses. I'm kind of stuck here in Lenscrafters because I can't see anything."
"So what do you want ME to do?" she asked. I could tell she was irritated by the request, but she still spoke in a soothing voice.
"I don't know," I said. "I just don't want to sit here all alone for an hour and a half with nothing to do. Maybe you could come talk to me."
"Why don't you walk around and do some Christmas shopping?" she asked me.
"Because I CAN'T SEE!" I told her. "I'm liable to walk into one of the pillars holding up this place!"
"Well, why don't you just sit in the waiting area, then," she said, "and read magazines?"
"Because I don't have my glasses," I said.
"You're nearsighted," she said. "You don't need glasses to read."
"Yes I DO," I said emphatically. "My vision is so bad that I can't see a page of text without my glasses unless I close my left eye and hold the text about four inches from my right eye!" (And this was the truth, by the way, not an exaggeration.) "I'll look like an escapee from the insane asylum!"
"Listen," she said to me in a voice that was of a low volume but no longer soothing, "I just spent half a day getting our daughter to fall asleep. She's laying on my chest right now. You better believe there is NOTHING that would get me up from this couch. You are on your own." She stretched out this last sentence for emphasis.
Before you get judgmental about my wife, let me ask you this: have YOU ever spent half a day trying to get an 8 week old baby to fall asleep? If not, count yourself lucky. If you have, you know there's not much that would make you wake up that sleeping infant. And I knew better than to press the issue.
"All right," I told her. "I'll see you in about an hour and half."
"That's fine," she told me, and then hung up.
I gave the receptionist back the phone, and I sat in one of the waiting room chairs. I sat there for what felt like hours. I couldn't see anything. I couldn't hear anything but the offensive Christmas Muzak playing on the mall sound system. And the seat back was hard. I finally couldn't take it any more, so I walked up to the receptionist and asked her what time it was.
I'd been in the chair 15 minutes.
I couldn't sit there for another hour and 15 minutes. I decided I HAD to get out of there. I'd thought about it in the 15 minutes that I'd been sitting in the chair, and I'd come up with a plan: If I could make my way to the railing overlooking the first floor again, I could put my hand on it and use it to guide me around to the elevator. The mall was only two floors, so I'd be able to use the elevator even if I couldn't read the buttons: the top button would be "Up" and the bottom button would be "Down." I'd go down the elevator and immediately to the left when I came out of the elevator was a coffee shop (This was BEFORE Starbucks had completely taken over the world--I think the name of this coffee shop was The Great American Coffee Company or something like that). I'd order a large coffee and sit in one of the chairs there at the coffee shop and wait for the hour and fifteen minutes.
And I managed to do this without too many problems, though I'll admit that when I ordered I wasn't entirely sure whether I was at the "Order Here" or the "Pickup Here" counter, but I got my cup of coffee so it didn't matter. What DID turn out to be the problem was how quickly I drank my coffee. If I'd had distractions like someone there to talk to me or--say, I don't know--vision, it would have been a stretch anyway to spend an hour and fifteen minutes drinking a cup of coffee. Alone with just my thoughts and the cup of coffee, I drank the whole thing in about ten minutes. I still had more than an hour to wait. So I decided that I would try to make my way over to the bookstore at the mall and--even if I DID look like an escapee from an insane asylum--try to read something. Maybe there were extra large print books there or something.
And this is where the interesting thing happened.
As I made my way to the bookstore, I passed maybe a total of 15 or 20 people heading in the opposite direction. And as the first of those people approached, I was immediately cognizant that something was wrong, something was missing. Some piece of communication was missing that I couldn't put a finger on. I had a feeling that I was going to walk into this person. As the person quickly approached I actually almost panicked. Then I decided that I would just sort of hug the rightmost wall and sort of lean in that direction and that I'd stare straight ahead as I walked, and I'd depend on the approaching person to take the other side of the open area.
It didn't matter. The person (a man, it turned out) and I walked directly into one another. Hard.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm really sorry."
"Watch where you're going!" the guy said gruffly and went on about his way.
Why should I watch where I was going? I thought. Why didn't HE watch where HE was going? He was just as much to blame for our collision as I was.
Or was he?
As I said before, I passed maybe a total of 15 or 20 people on the way to the bookstore, and in every case I tried to go to the right of the approaching person. And about half of the time I succeeded, and about half of the time I nearly collided with the oncoming person. I hadn't been imagining things when that first person had come towards me. There WAS some key piece of communication that I wasn't picking up on. And whatever I was missing was important, because I could tell that several of the people were--like the first man--VERY irritated by my actions.
I never made it into the bookstore. By the time I made it to the entrance of the store I was so intrigued by my new discovery (also, there were some bargain bin books in the open area just outside of the bookstore, and one look at them told me that trying to read without my glasses was going to be a lost cause) that I just kept walking around the mall, trying to figure out why I was almost running into people, or why--rather--people were almost running into me. What was I doing or not doing, or what was I not seeing, that was causing this?
Eventually I DID get my glasses and I was able to leave the mall. And I've had 14 years to continue my research (a.k.a. watching people as they walk towards me), and here is what I've concluded:
When we find ourselves walking head on towards each other and there are no clear rules about who should go in which direction, we actually quickly negotiate in non-verbal language with one another to determine who is going in which direction. And it's as effective as a blind bat's sonar, but apparently it requires sight.
This non-verbal language is almost universally the same:
And I think the reason I messed things up so royally that day at the mall is because I don't squint. My vision used to be SO bad that I never learned to squint to see better because I STILL couldn't see anything even if I squinted. As a result, as I approached people, I was looking them in the eye, at least as far as they could tell. I wasn't squinting. I didn't have my eyes closed. I was looking right at them. They had no way of knowing that what I saw was this:
So no wonder they were irritated when I was ignoring the communication they were sending me about where they were going.
I now surmise I would have been better off if I had NOT looked in their direction. If I had stared up at the ceiling, or looked down at my pants leg while walking, pretending to brush some non-existent dirt off of my pants, those same people probably would have known that I couldn't see them and would have steered clear of me. But by looking in their direction I gave the impression that I was communicating with them with nonverbally, and thus their irritation when we nearly collided was entirely justified.
As I mentioned yesterday, I've been wanting to write about this on my blog for 2 1/2 years, and wanted to write about it in general for 14, but I never have. And one of the reasons that I haven't is that I've never really been able to figure out how--if I did write about it--I'd finish that blog entry. What's the point of all this? What are we supposed to learn? How can we synthesize the things I learned that day to come to a new understanding about man and God and man's place with God?
I don't know.
This is just something I noticed once, and that I've been paying attention to ever since. That's all. Nothing exciting. Which isn't a very satisfying way to end an essay, either.
But it's the only way I can.
It happened in December of 1996. At the time I normally wore contacts, but I had a pair of glasses that were three or four prescriptions old and that I would occasionally wear around the house. Because the prescription was so old, though, these glasses were a tad blurry, enough so that if I needed to look more than a few feet ahead of me I'd quickly get a headache. I decided that I needed to go to an optician and get a new pair. But I had a problem: the optician that I'd used since I'd moved to Northern Kentucky six years before had moved out of the area. So I needed to find a new place. Since my family lived in Florence at the time, I decided to go to the Lenscrafters inside Florence Mall.
I called Lenscrafters and made an appointment, and they told me that since it was my first time visiting they did NOT want me to wear my contacts to the appointment. So I left them at home, put on my glasses, and drove in a slightly blurry haze to the mall (thank goodness I didn't get in an accident or get pulled over).
I had planned to purchase new lenses AND frames, but I found I really couldn't afford them. My wife had just given birth to our first child a few weeks before, and we were both just starting to get used to the idea that she wouldn't be working anymore and that money was tight. And I knew that glasses would be expensive, but I didn't think they'd be as expensive as they turned out to be. As heavy as my prescription was, the optician advised me (wisely) to purchase "Featherweight" lenses, which were brand new at the time. They were thinner and lighter than traditional glass lenses, but they cost several hundred dollars. Working on a budget derived from a six year teacher's salary, I just couldn't afford an additional two hundred dollars for frames.
"That's no problem," the woman working at the counter told me. "We can make new lenses and put them in your old frames." That seemed like a great idea to me, so I gave her my frames. She put them in an envelope, stuck my prescription in the envelope as well, and stuck it all in a tray. "They'll be ready in an hour." Then she hesitated. "As busy as we are today, it may be a little more than an hour. Come back in an hour and a half."
"Sure," I said happily. "Thanks." And I headed out of the store, oblivious to the obvious problem that hit me about four seconds later.
I was blind as a bat.
I stood at the entrance of the Lenscrafters store for about 20 seconds, staring out at the rest of the mall. Lenscrafters was on the second floor, so I slowly made my way to the overlook of the first floor and saw something that looked like this:
I carefully worked my way back into the Lenscrafters store and asked if I could borrow their phone (Yes, this was in that magical time BEFORE cell phones). I called my house, and my wife answered.
"Hello?" she said unsurely (Yes, this was in that magical time BEFORE Caller ID), but in a VERY soothing voice.
"It's me," I said. "What are you doing?"
Again she spoke in that soothing voice. "I am lying on the couch with the baby on my chest. She has FINALLY fallen asleep." Before I'd left for Lenscrafters my wife and I had literally spent hours trying to get our daughter to fall asleep. Rocking, singing, swaying the baby--nothing had worked. But it sounded like Lisa had succeeded at long last.
"Uh, can you come to the Florence Mall?" I asked.
"Why? What's happened?" Lisa asked. Still the calming voice.
"Nothing's happened," I said. "They're making my lenses now, but they're putting the new lenses in my old frames, so I don't have my glasses. I'm kind of stuck here in Lenscrafters because I can't see anything."
"So what do you want ME to do?" she asked. I could tell she was irritated by the request, but she still spoke in a soothing voice.
"I don't know," I said. "I just don't want to sit here all alone for an hour and a half with nothing to do. Maybe you could come talk to me."
"Why don't you walk around and do some Christmas shopping?" she asked me.
"Because I CAN'T SEE!" I told her. "I'm liable to walk into one of the pillars holding up this place!"
"Well, why don't you just sit in the waiting area, then," she said, "and read magazines?"
"Because I don't have my glasses," I said.
"You're nearsighted," she said. "You don't need glasses to read."
"Yes I DO," I said emphatically. "My vision is so bad that I can't see a page of text without my glasses unless I close my left eye and hold the text about four inches from my right eye!" (And this was the truth, by the way, not an exaggeration.) "I'll look like an escapee from the insane asylum!"
"Listen," she said to me in a voice that was of a low volume but no longer soothing, "I just spent half a day getting our daughter to fall asleep. She's laying on my chest right now. You better believe there is NOTHING that would get me up from this couch. You are on your own." She stretched out this last sentence for emphasis.
Before you get judgmental about my wife, let me ask you this: have YOU ever spent half a day trying to get an 8 week old baby to fall asleep? If not, count yourself lucky. If you have, you know there's not much that would make you wake up that sleeping infant. And I knew better than to press the issue.
"All right," I told her. "I'll see you in about an hour and half."
"That's fine," she told me, and then hung up.
I gave the receptionist back the phone, and I sat in one of the waiting room chairs. I sat there for what felt like hours. I couldn't see anything. I couldn't hear anything but the offensive Christmas Muzak playing on the mall sound system. And the seat back was hard. I finally couldn't take it any more, so I walked up to the receptionist and asked her what time it was.
I'd been in the chair 15 minutes.
I couldn't sit there for another hour and 15 minutes. I decided I HAD to get out of there. I'd thought about it in the 15 minutes that I'd been sitting in the chair, and I'd come up with a plan: If I could make my way to the railing overlooking the first floor again, I could put my hand on it and use it to guide me around to the elevator. The mall was only two floors, so I'd be able to use the elevator even if I couldn't read the buttons: the top button would be "Up" and the bottom button would be "Down." I'd go down the elevator and immediately to the left when I came out of the elevator was a coffee shop (This was BEFORE Starbucks had completely taken over the world--I think the name of this coffee shop was The Great American Coffee Company or something like that). I'd order a large coffee and sit in one of the chairs there at the coffee shop and wait for the hour and fifteen minutes.
And I managed to do this without too many problems, though I'll admit that when I ordered I wasn't entirely sure whether I was at the "Order Here" or the "Pickup Here" counter, but I got my cup of coffee so it didn't matter. What DID turn out to be the problem was how quickly I drank my coffee. If I'd had distractions like someone there to talk to me or--say, I don't know--vision, it would have been a stretch anyway to spend an hour and fifteen minutes drinking a cup of coffee. Alone with just my thoughts and the cup of coffee, I drank the whole thing in about ten minutes. I still had more than an hour to wait. So I decided that I would try to make my way over to the bookstore at the mall and--even if I DID look like an escapee from an insane asylum--try to read something. Maybe there were extra large print books there or something.
And this is where the interesting thing happened.
As I made my way to the bookstore, I passed maybe a total of 15 or 20 people heading in the opposite direction. And as the first of those people approached, I was immediately cognizant that something was wrong, something was missing. Some piece of communication was missing that I couldn't put a finger on. I had a feeling that I was going to walk into this person. As the person quickly approached I actually almost panicked. Then I decided that I would just sort of hug the rightmost wall and sort of lean in that direction and that I'd stare straight ahead as I walked, and I'd depend on the approaching person to take the other side of the open area.
It didn't matter. The person (a man, it turned out) and I walked directly into one another. Hard.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm really sorry."
"Watch where you're going!" the guy said gruffly and went on about his way.
Why should I watch where I was going? I thought. Why didn't HE watch where HE was going? He was just as much to blame for our collision as I was.
Or was he?
As I said before, I passed maybe a total of 15 or 20 people on the way to the bookstore, and in every case I tried to go to the right of the approaching person. And about half of the time I succeeded, and about half of the time I nearly collided with the oncoming person. I hadn't been imagining things when that first person had come towards me. There WAS some key piece of communication that I wasn't picking up on. And whatever I was missing was important, because I could tell that several of the people were--like the first man--VERY irritated by my actions.
I never made it into the bookstore. By the time I made it to the entrance of the store I was so intrigued by my new discovery (also, there were some bargain bin books in the open area just outside of the bookstore, and one look at them told me that trying to read without my glasses was going to be a lost cause) that I just kept walking around the mall, trying to figure out why I was almost running into people, or why--rather--people were almost running into me. What was I doing or not doing, or what was I not seeing, that was causing this?
Eventually I DID get my glasses and I was able to leave the mall. And I've had 14 years to continue my research (a.k.a. watching people as they walk towards me), and here is what I've concluded:
When we find ourselves walking head on towards each other and there are no clear rules about who should go in which direction, we actually quickly negotiate in non-verbal language with one another to determine who is going in which direction. And it's as effective as a blind bat's sonar, but apparently it requires sight.
This non-verbal language is almost universally the same:
- The instant eye contact is made, the approaching person will then glance in the direction he/she wishes to go.
- The person will turn his head slightly in that direction.
- The person will then lean in that direction.
And I think the reason I messed things up so royally that day at the mall is because I don't squint. My vision used to be SO bad that I never learned to squint to see better because I STILL couldn't see anything even if I squinted. As a result, as I approached people, I was looking them in the eye, at least as far as they could tell. I wasn't squinting. I didn't have my eyes closed. I was looking right at them. They had no way of knowing that what I saw was this:
So no wonder they were irritated when I was ignoring the communication they were sending me about where they were going.
I now surmise I would have been better off if I had NOT looked in their direction. If I had stared up at the ceiling, or looked down at my pants leg while walking, pretending to brush some non-existent dirt off of my pants, those same people probably would have known that I couldn't see them and would have steered clear of me. But by looking in their direction I gave the impression that I was communicating with them with nonverbally, and thus their irritation when we nearly collided was entirely justified.
As I mentioned yesterday, I've been wanting to write about this on my blog for 2 1/2 years, and wanted to write about it in general for 14, but I never have. And one of the reasons that I haven't is that I've never really been able to figure out how--if I did write about it--I'd finish that blog entry. What's the point of all this? What are we supposed to learn? How can we synthesize the things I learned that day to come to a new understanding about man and God and man's place with God?
I don't know.
This is just something I noticed once, and that I've been paying attention to ever since. That's all. Nothing exciting. Which isn't a very satisfying way to end an essay, either.
But it's the only way I can.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Blind as a Bat, Part One
Here's a blog entry I've considered writing several times over the last 2 1/2 years I've had this blog. It's an incident that happened 14 years ago, and I've wanted to tell people about it, but it's so long and complicated and I'm not sure that anyone cares and I'm not really sure how to make it interesting, so I've always considered writing it and then abandoned the idea.Today, though, I guess I'm in a "What the hell!" mood, and I'm going to go for it.
Uh, that isn't an opening paragraph that grabs you and makes you want to read on, is it? Too bad. It's the one I wrote.
Anyway...
In the spring of 2004 I had LASIK surgery to correct my nearsightedness, so I don't wear glasses or contacts anymore, and I don't need them anymore. But I used to.
Oh boy, did I used to.
Before my surgery my left eye's prescription was -7.25 and my right eye's prescription was -6.50. I was SEVERELY nearsighted. It's difficult to explain to people who aren't nearsighted--heck, it's even difficult to explain to slightly or moderately nearsighted people--how debilitating vision like that is. The only way to show you, I think, is with pictures.
Here's a photo that I took in a teacher's classroom a few years ago. If a person with normal vision stood about 5 feet away from this wall, this is what that person would see:
The person with 20/20 vision would be able to read the classroom rules above the bulletin board, AND the "Make a Good Choice" sign on the bulletin board itself. Even the black on white "boxcars" on the train above the bulletin board are readable.Compare that with the photo right below here, which is what someone with mild nearsightedness--say -2.5 or so--might see:
The typical nearsighted person would not be able to read the boxcars and would have to struggle to read the classroom rules but would have no problem reading the bulletin board sign. Finally, here's what I used to see when I wasn't wearing glasses or contacts:
Not only could I not have read the classroom rules from a reasonable distance, I couldn't even have read the bulletin board. I would literally have had to get inches away from the bulletin board to see those 4 inch high letters. And the "boxcars?" Forget it! I couldn't even see that there was type on them at all. They would just look like white blobs on the wall to me.
And that fact used to get me in trouble. I remember an elementary teacher telling the class to do something, and when I asked for a clarification, she pointed at the blackboard and said sarcastically, "Can't you read the writing on the wall?"
"What writing?" I asked sincerely. The blackboard was a solid wall of black to me. But the teacher didn't think I was being sincere. She thought I was being a wise guy. And I ended up in the corner of the classroom trying to figure out what I'd done wrong. Eventually I think the teacher figured out that I couldn't see and moved me to the front of the classroom. But that didn't help. My vision was so bad that I couldn't see any better in the front of the classroom than I had in the back. Soon after I got my first pair of glasses, and I couldn't believe the detail in the world that I'd been missing before. There were ducks on the pond that I could see in the distance from the kitchen of my house. DUCKS! The day before I hadn't even known they were there, and now I could see their wings and beaks!
I'm not writing this in an attempt to make you feel sorry for my 10 year old self, though. I wrote all of the above to give you some background information before I tell you the story that I wanted to tell you today.
Uh.
Except that I know that people don't read really long blog entries. I've already exceeded the recommended length, I think. So I'm going to have to split this up into two entries. TOMORROW I'll tell you the story I've been waiting 14 years to tell!
What's one more day?
Uh, that isn't an opening paragraph that grabs you and makes you want to read on, is it? Too bad. It's the one I wrote.
Anyway...
In the spring of 2004 I had LASIK surgery to correct my nearsightedness, so I don't wear glasses or contacts anymore, and I don't need them anymore. But I used to.
Oh boy, did I used to.
Before my surgery my left eye's prescription was -7.25 and my right eye's prescription was -6.50. I was SEVERELY nearsighted. It's difficult to explain to people who aren't nearsighted--heck, it's even difficult to explain to slightly or moderately nearsighted people--how debilitating vision like that is. The only way to show you, I think, is with pictures.
Here's a photo that I took in a teacher's classroom a few years ago. If a person with normal vision stood about 5 feet away from this wall, this is what that person would see:
The person with 20/20 vision would be able to read the classroom rules above the bulletin board, AND the "Make a Good Choice" sign on the bulletin board itself. Even the black on white "boxcars" on the train above the bulletin board are readable.Compare that with the photo right below here, which is what someone with mild nearsightedness--say -2.5 or so--might see:
The typical nearsighted person would not be able to read the boxcars and would have to struggle to read the classroom rules but would have no problem reading the bulletin board sign. Finally, here's what I used to see when I wasn't wearing glasses or contacts:
Not only could I not have read the classroom rules from a reasonable distance, I couldn't even have read the bulletin board. I would literally have had to get inches away from the bulletin board to see those 4 inch high letters. And the "boxcars?" Forget it! I couldn't even see that there was type on them at all. They would just look like white blobs on the wall to me.
And that fact used to get me in trouble. I remember an elementary teacher telling the class to do something, and when I asked for a clarification, she pointed at the blackboard and said sarcastically, "Can't you read the writing on the wall?"
"What writing?" I asked sincerely. The blackboard was a solid wall of black to me. But the teacher didn't think I was being sincere. She thought I was being a wise guy. And I ended up in the corner of the classroom trying to figure out what I'd done wrong. Eventually I think the teacher figured out that I couldn't see and moved me to the front of the classroom. But that didn't help. My vision was so bad that I couldn't see any better in the front of the classroom than I had in the back. Soon after I got my first pair of glasses, and I couldn't believe the detail in the world that I'd been missing before. There were ducks on the pond that I could see in the distance from the kitchen of my house. DUCKS! The day before I hadn't even known they were there, and now I could see their wings and beaks!
I'm not writing this in an attempt to make you feel sorry for my 10 year old self, though. I wrote all of the above to give you some background information before I tell you the story that I wanted to tell you today.
Uh.
Except that I know that people don't read really long blog entries. I've already exceeded the recommended length, I think. So I'm going to have to split this up into two entries. TOMORROW I'll tell you the story I've been waiting 14 years to tell!
What's one more day?
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Here to Whine
I'm in Louisville today for a conference, which is taking place at the Louisville Marriott. It's a very nice hotel, probably the nicest hotel I've ever visited in downtown Louisville (minus the REALLY upscale hotel whose name escapes me at the moment and that I only visited the lobby of a few years ago). My favorite hotel in Louisville is the Hyatt, and I guess I've spent the most time at the Galt House, but this hotel feels newer, cleaner, and more upscale than either of them. It might just be my new favorite!That said, my visit here brings up a complaint that I have with hotels in general: Why is it that the MORE upscale and expensive a hotel is, the MORE they charge you for every little service? If I stay at a Super 8 motel for $40 a night I get free parking, free Internet, and a free continental breakfast (albeit usually a nasty free breakfast). If I stay at a hotel like the Louisville Marriott, though, I'm charged $10-$20 for each of those. It makes a hotel room, which might not seem like a bad deal at $140 a night, turn out to be VERY expensive.
At least I wasn't charged to use the fitness room. The Galt House charges for that, too.
I didn't get much sleep last night. Can you tell?
Friday, November 12, 2010
Words to Live By
The skit below aired on Saturday Night Live a couple of weekends ago, just before the elections. And though it's being played for laughs here, I think the Vice-President may be on to something. It's not a bad philosophy for living life!
P.S. Sorry about the 30 second ad that plays before the video.
(I can't see the video.)
P.S. Sorry about the 30 second ad that plays before the video.
(I can't see the video.)
Sunday, November 7, 2010
An Open Letter to Carly Simon
A few posts ago I made a veiled reference to Carly Simon's song "You're So Vain." Ever since I made that post I've been thinking about that song, and I've even listened to it a couple of different times. And what struck me about the song is this: I feel sorry for the poor schmuck who is the subject of of the song. Thanks to Simon's tight lipped reluctance to reveal who the subject is, the fellow has been getting roundly abused for almost 40 years now with no chance to defend himself.
That doesn't seem fair, and so, I decided that I would write a rebuttal letter for this poor soul. And here it is:
Dear Carly,
It has come to my attention that, after nearly 4 decades of mystery, you have finally revealed the subject of your song "You're So Vain." You can imagine my shock when I found that I was revealed as the subject of your song. While I find the whole matter flattering, I nonetheless feel compelled to correct several assertions that you have made in your song.
First, at no time and in no way did I ever think that the song was about me. Like pretty much everyone else, I assumed that the song was about Warren Beatty. Why, Carly, would I ever think the song was about ME? You and I went on one date. ONE! At that was in 1967, five years before the song came out! And it was hardly even a date. We met for coffee after a friend of mine insisted that I meet you, told me how hip you were, and that I would love you. So we met at a diner on the corner of some street in New York City, and I regretted the meeting almost instantly. First, we looked ridiculous together, me in my business suit, and you in your bell bottoms, love beads, and tie-dye shirt. "Well, don't we make a pretty pair," I said just after hellos, as a way to break the tension.
You grabbed both of my hands hard and stared into my eyes with an over earnest look and said, "Do we? Do we really?" It was a little freaky, to be honest, and I decided then and there that, out of respect for my friend, I would sit and talk for a few minutes, but that I'd get out of there as soon as I could.
It was a miserable twenty minutes. Every time I'd try to talk about something sensible, like the war in Viet Nam or the economy, you'd start going on about something ridiculous, like shapes you could see in your coffee, or dreams you'd had the night before and what they might mean. As soon as I found an opening, I said, "Carly, this has been lovely, but I'm going to need to leave. I'm in kind of a hurry and--"
"--Yes, yes!" you interrupted. "Let's hurry out of here now. Let's leave without paying the check. Let's go back to my house and spend the rest of the day talking and--"
I stopped you, told you that I would never leave a restaurant without paying, and then I got up, paid the waitress, and walked out. That was the last time I ever saw you.
Second, I've only been to the Saratoga race track once, and that was in--oh, I'm not sure--but it was either 1971 or 1972, years after our date! How long were you following me? And yes, I was unbelievably lucky that day, and my horse won almost every race. But how close were you to me to know that? The more I think about your song, the more it freaks me out!
Third, it really bothers me, Carly, that you make me out to be some flamboyant, conceited, wealthy person. I'm not part of the uber-rich. I went to Nova Scotia because it's where my family on my mother's side originated, and I was trying to get back to my roots. It just happened that my visit coincided with a total eclipse of the sun. And I flew there business class! I don't own a Lear jet, and I've never been on a yacht, so I have no idea what I'd look like walking onto one. And as far as my scarf being apricot goes--I like bold colors. Get over it.
Oh, and I had to look up the word "gavotte" just now, so I'm pretty sure that--no matter what party you're referring to in the song--I wasn't doing that.
Finally, I can now only assume that you are the Carl E. Simmons that keeps sending me friend requests on Facebook. Please, Carly, leave me alone. Get on with your life. To quote from one of your own songs, "I haven't got time for the pain."
That doesn't seem fair, and so, I decided that I would write a rebuttal letter for this poor soul. And here it is:
Dear Carly,
It has come to my attention that, after nearly 4 decades of mystery, you have finally revealed the subject of your song "You're So Vain." You can imagine my shock when I found that I was revealed as the subject of your song. While I find the whole matter flattering, I nonetheless feel compelled to correct several assertions that you have made in your song.
First, at no time and in no way did I ever think that the song was about me. Like pretty much everyone else, I assumed that the song was about Warren Beatty. Why, Carly, would I ever think the song was about ME? You and I went on one date. ONE! At that was in 1967, five years before the song came out! And it was hardly even a date. We met for coffee after a friend of mine insisted that I meet you, told me how hip you were, and that I would love you. So we met at a diner on the corner of some street in New York City, and I regretted the meeting almost instantly. First, we looked ridiculous together, me in my business suit, and you in your bell bottoms, love beads, and tie-dye shirt. "Well, don't we make a pretty pair," I said just after hellos, as a way to break the tension.
You grabbed both of my hands hard and stared into my eyes with an over earnest look and said, "Do we? Do we really?" It was a little freaky, to be honest, and I decided then and there that, out of respect for my friend, I would sit and talk for a few minutes, but that I'd get out of there as soon as I could.
It was a miserable twenty minutes. Every time I'd try to talk about something sensible, like the war in Viet Nam or the economy, you'd start going on about something ridiculous, like shapes you could see in your coffee, or dreams you'd had the night before and what they might mean. As soon as I found an opening, I said, "Carly, this has been lovely, but I'm going to need to leave. I'm in kind of a hurry and--"
"--Yes, yes!" you interrupted. "Let's hurry out of here now. Let's leave without paying the check. Let's go back to my house and spend the rest of the day talking and--"
I stopped you, told you that I would never leave a restaurant without paying, and then I got up, paid the waitress, and walked out. That was the last time I ever saw you.
Second, I've only been to the Saratoga race track once, and that was in--oh, I'm not sure--but it was either 1971 or 1972, years after our date! How long were you following me? And yes, I was unbelievably lucky that day, and my horse won almost every race. But how close were you to me to know that? The more I think about your song, the more it freaks me out!
Third, it really bothers me, Carly, that you make me out to be some flamboyant, conceited, wealthy person. I'm not part of the uber-rich. I went to Nova Scotia because it's where my family on my mother's side originated, and I was trying to get back to my roots. It just happened that my visit coincided with a total eclipse of the sun. And I flew there business class! I don't own a Lear jet, and I've never been on a yacht, so I have no idea what I'd look like walking onto one. And as far as my scarf being apricot goes--I like bold colors. Get over it.
Oh, and I had to look up the word "gavotte" just now, so I'm pretty sure that--no matter what party you're referring to in the song--I wasn't doing that.
Finally, I can now only assume that you are the Carl E. Simmons that keeps sending me friend requests on Facebook. Please, Carly, leave me alone. Get on with your life. To quote from one of your own songs, "I haven't got time for the pain."
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Lack of Civility
I am so sick of the lack of civility in people these days. Three instances of it really got under my skin in the last few days. And I think I'd be just about ready to give up on the human race if it weren't for one thing I saw happen in that same span......I don't know. Maybe it's the political season that just ended. Maybe that's what's really gotten me fired up about it. I know that a few month ago I would NEVER have considered voting for Rand Paul. I even posted an entry on this blog asking Kentuckians not to vote for him. But then his opponent, Jack Conway, came out with that stupid TV ad questioning Paul's religion and making weird references to a time when Paul supposedly kidnapped a woman and made her pray to "Aqua Buddha." It was a dumb thing to do, it was decidedly uncivil, and it made me think twice about voting for Conway. In the end I grudgingly did so, but I certainly understand the people who moved away from him after that ad ran, an ad that turned a "dead even race" into a blowout.
But it's not just the political season that has gotten to me. Sunday morning I was at the grocery store stocking up on refrigerated goods (my refrigerator had been left open the day before and gotten to room temperature). I was in line at the check out register behind a Bengals fan who had a Chad Ochocinco jersey on. A man in his fifties--not some teenager, mind you, but a grown man halfway through his life--walked into the store wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey, and when he saw the guy in front of me, he shouted--shouted!--in an angry voice, "Hey! You Bengals are a bunch of losers! Take that jersey off and I'll give you the jersey of a real team!" He grabbed his own jersey at his chest with both hands and tugged on it a couple of times. "Go on! Take off that piece of crap!"
At first I thought maybe the guy in front of me and this bellicose gentleman were friends, but it was apparent when the guy in front of me turned away from the man, looked at me, and said, "Who the hell IS that guy?" that he had never seen the man before.
"I don't know," I said simply as the Steelers fan, satisfied that he had gotten the better of the conversation, walked around the corner and into the produce section. "That's why I hate Steelers' fans."
But the thing that bothered me the most happened online, where a lack of civility is just the norm. I don't know why it is that way. I guess the seeming anonymity of posting things online makes people forget that they're human beings. I'm used to it.
But this time it got to me. As I mentioned a couple of posts ago (and as my Facebook friends and family are sick of hearing about), my daughter's high school marching band won the state competition Saturday. A local TV station covered the victory in a short 30 second segment, and then posted that story online. I went to the website to watch the video because I missed it on TV, and I couldn't believe the negative comments that users had posted at the bottom of the story. Many of the comments belittled the CHILDREN who had worked 3-4 hours a day five and sometimes six days a week for four months to build a show that would win state. Commenters said the band had cheated, that there was obvious favoritism, that the "little rich brats from Fort Mitchell" had paid off the judges because there were much better bands in the competition. Luckily, the news station monitors its comments, and they were all removed, so you won't see them if you look at the link above, though you will see the comments ABOUT the negative comments.
I just couldn't believe that people would be so petty, uncivil, as to make those kinds of comments about kids, especially my kid. I know that some of the users leaving comments may have been teenagers themselves, but still, didn't their parents teach them manners?
I would be just about ready to give up on humanity if it weren't for one thing that happened. And it happened at the marching band championship. Beechwood (my daughter's school) has a strong rivalry with Williamstown, a band from not too far away, who competes in the same class. Every year the two schools finish in the top four in the state competition. Sometimes Beechwood wins, sometimes Williamstown wins, and occasionally some other Class A school in the state wins. But the two schools definitely want to best each other.
Prior to the finals competition Saturday night, the bands had gone head to head three times. At a competition in early October Beechwood had won and Williamstown had finished second, but at the regional competition two weeks ago and then again at the semi-finals this past Saturday afternoon, Williamstown had come out on top. So both bands knew they were close to one another going into the finals.
Beechwood was the first band to perform in the finals Saturday night, and they gave an almost PERFECT show. The entire band left the field giddy with excitement: they KNEW how well they had done. After their band director said a few words for them, they began the 1/2 mile trek (literally) from the field entrance of Papa John's Stadium to the parking lot where the band buses were all parked. I was with them, pushing a giant, oversized drafting table (Don't ask). I was walking alongside the color guard, who were all jumping up and down, laughing, and telling one another how great they'd done. About halfway back to the buses we encountered, coming in the opposite direction, Williamstown. They were the third band of the night, and they were marching to the field entrance that we had just left.
A couple of the younger girls in the color guard jumped in front of the other laughing girls and one of them whispered, "Hey, stop laughing! We don't want them to know how well we did!"
"Yeah," the other girl said, "let's all pretend to be crying. Let's pretend we blew it!"
There seemed to be a growing enthusiasm for this idea until the senior leader of the color guard stepped in front of all of them, held up her hands to stop them, and then said--with the tone of a school marm--"That is NOT what we're going to do." She motioned over her shoulder to the approaching band. "We're going to stand here, and as they pass by we're going to clap for them and wish them good luck. It's the right thing to do." And they did. I stopped just to watch, and then I joined in as the Williamstown band passed between the color guard and myself. The applause spread to the other members of the "prop crew" behind me and to the other Beechwood band members. As the Williamstown band passed by, there were no jeers, no shouts to take off those Williamstown uniforms and put on a "real" Beechwood uniform. All they heard were expressions of "Good luck, Williamstown!" and "Go get 'em, Williamstown!" and "We love your show!"
I don't think I've ever been prouder of a group of kids, and of one kid in particular who took a stand for civility.
Monday, November 1, 2010
More Over the Top Halloween
Last year I made a post about Halloween that included a short video about a neighbor down the street (actually, a couple of neighbors) who go all out at Halloween. I thought I'd share their decorating again this year.
They easily have a hundred dollars invested in their Halloween decorations...
(I can't see the video.)
They easily have a hundred dollars invested in their Halloween decorations...
(I can't see the video.)
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