Man Up: Lesson #3

Here is the thing, gentlemen. I have an attitude problem. I am very quick to get offended and I am the type of person who will use confrontation in order to resolve it. So, when I say this, I am coming from a place of caring and understanding.

The lesson of this post: Live to see another day.

This is a line that could save your life, your career, or your marriage.

Storytime:

I was driving home with both kids in the van when a car cuts across two lanes and almost puts me into a snowbank. Being the person that I am, I follow the car for another mile before the car pulls over and a young man gets out. Two things become obvious at this point:

1. I can kick his ass for sure.
2. I am going to kick his ass for sure.

So what did I do?

I drove away.

Here’s why.

First, I don’t know what this guy may have had on him. He could have had a weapon, and if he did, what was  I prepared to do about it — especially with kids in the van?

Second, I knew that I could kick this kid’s ass, but then what? Sure, I would have immediately felt better — until the consequences hit. People are not built like they used to. They admit wrongs and take their deserved lickings. He would have gone to the police, and I would have been arrested for assault, which may have resulted in the loss of my job and/or career. That would have messed with my money; and doing that is a no-no.

Third, he could have retaliated in an unforeseen way — always a bad deal.

Fourth, what example would I show my kids? That if you can overpower a person who offends you, kick their ass? Let me be clear; if there is a person who threatens the well-being of you and/or your loved ones. Kick their ass, enjoy kicking their ass, and make them remember it so you don’t have to kick their ass again. But, if what the person did was only offended you, keep walking.

So, what is my point?

It is super easy to get mad, threaten violence, and even act on that violence. But, in the end, where does that leave you? Always hurting yourself. When people get in trouble for violent acts, it is often because of a split-second lapse of judgment. By the time their wits are about them, they realize that they did something that they are unable to fix or take back. Don’t take the easy way out. I am not saying that you will not want to, I am saying try your best not to. In any given situation, you have more to lose than they do.

Public Figure

Previously, I had written about my pet-peeve of complaining about a situation without having a call to action. I discussed how the mentality that “somebody should really do something about that” is far too commonplace in our society. Individuals should get off of their butts and do something, rather than talking about what others should do.
It seems that I have arrived at one of those instances where I need to put my money where my mouth is. It is time for me to take the next step in being involved in my growing community. It is time for me to take the reigns and become a leader that envokes change and accepts constructive criticism.
It is time for me to run for public office.

No, I am not running for Mayor.

Not yet…

But I am going to run for a position on the City Council.

Never in a million years did I think I was going to run for office. However, as the years have gone by (and my house became more crowded), I realized that a person has to get involved in the community to improve it. So, I have worked to build our community and make an impact. But I want to make a more significant difference. A seat on the City Council can do that.

Running for office is not about me. This is about having the ability to make a powerful difference for the good of the community.

• I want to improve the overall economic health of the community.
• I want to be a person who actively listens to the community and votes with their considerations.
• I want to create opportunities for our children to grow up in a community that gave them every opportunity to become successful citizens.

We live in a wonderful city. I want to help make it even better.

K.I.D.S. = Kleptomaniacs Invading, Devising, and Scheming

So, there I am. Sitting alone in the living room when an argument breaks out between my two daughters. My dear, bold, wife has informed them that their room is a pigsty, and she would like it clean. NOW.

“These are all her clothes!”
“These are all of her books!”
“That is her side of the room!”

All of this culminates in:

“If I had my own room, it would be spotless!”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t believe that bullshit for a minute. Instead of worrying about one room, I will now have to worry about two separate bedrooms, two separate attitudes, and two separate sets of excuses. Ultimately, this will result in too many glasses of wine at night.

But, being that both of my daughters are as tall as I am, and have appetites the size of two high school middle linebackers; they should probably get the chance to prove the inevitable, right?

Here is my point:

Nothing is my own.

Space
My child is taking over my beloved office, and she has requested that I clear the walls of all pictures, relics, and memories (probably so that she can put up posters of the latest boy band — heaven forbid).

Food
I sit down after a hard days’ work with a plate of food. All of a sudden, I am the most famous person in the house. “What’s that?” “Can I have some?” “I am hungry.”
(Or, if you are my youngest, you just grab whatever you want to any person’s plate).

Time
I want to go to the gym, but my child needs me to take them sledding/to the park/ to an event/ to get something for school/ to get something from school/etc. Me time? What me time? What the hell is that?

Sleep
Just when you think that you are ready to call it a day, you hear a cough, a gag, and…puke. Now it is a quick change of bed and bath time at 2 in the morning. Work is going to go so well tomorrow morning.

Nice things

Imagine. You finally get enough money squared away to replace all of the cabinetry in your kitchen. You get the work done, and when completed, you love what you see — custom cabinetry that is exactly like you envisioned it. Now imagine one of your little cherubs finding a permanent marker and playing Pablo Picasso using the cabinets as a canvas.

The Little Shit.

ManUP Lessons For My Sons #2

Boys,

It is my duty as your father to teach you how to be a man. Honestly, I do not know how to do it because, other than having a penis, I really don’t know how to be a man. So, I am going to do my best to figure this out and teach you. Most of the lessons will be based on my experiences and my mistakes.

Hopefully, by the end, you will still have some resemblance of respect for me.

I am not going to bore you with statistics or anything (you can find the numbers to justify anything). But I will give you an honest answer. Like I said before, I do not know how to be a man. People tell me that I am a good man, but I really don’t know what that means. And my personal definition of being a man has changed as I have grown older.

When I was in elementary school, I thought that to be a man was to be physically tough. Girls liked the tough guys. If people were too scared to mess with you, you were perceived to be a badass. Badass boys aways had girls that hung around them. Being a chubby elementary kid, I thought I would attempt to be a tough guy to increase popularity. This would have been successful, but for a couple of things:

1. I was a nice guy and definitely not a fighter.
2. I was afraid to get hit in the face.
3. I was not very cute.
4. I was prohibited by my parents to sag my pants.

In junior high school, I thought that being a man had a lot to do with the sports you played. Girls loved the boys who could jump high, run fast, or lift the most weight over their head. They also enjoyed sneakers — really dope sneakers. I thought to myself, “Hey, I play sports, I should be able to do this. I just need a pair of fresh kicks!” There were a few problems with this:

1. I had only played streetball; organized ball was another story (I would never make the junior high varsity team).
2. My mother did not believe brand-name shoes were necessary (especially Jordans). Hey, shoes are shoes!
3. So, she bought me a pair of Kevin Johnsons instead. 
4. Oh wait, she decided to get the knockoffs from Walmart. “They look just like them!”
5. As the basketball season went on, the stitching in my “FakeJ’s” started to come undone. By mid-season, my shoes were shedding all over the court and looked like I was wearing a pair of Air Chia Pets. No Shit.

And then, there was high school. I started lifting weights, I got better at basketball, and I began to play football and track. And, I was sporting a pair of “Allen Iversons.” Surely, I had made it. I was on my way to popularity, which would put me on a sure path to manhood. Look at me! When I flexed, you can see a line in my bicep! Look at it.

It was not meant to be. Although my popularity grew, it was not until I went to college that my real journey into manhood would begin.

At first, I believed that I should be a strong, confident college man that have women swooning all over him, which was what I read in all of the men’s magazines: 

“How to get abs,”

“How to get the girl that is out of your league,”

“How to know her socks off in bed,”

“What foods you should eat to live longer and look good doing it,”

“What places you should visit before you die, what careers offer you the best payday….”

So that became my mission, to live up to what those magazines said was the ideal life. And you know what? I achieved most of what the magazine said I should. I had the abs, I had women, I spent a lot of money on travel, and I was in college and working towards my career. I believed that I was living the life that I was supposed to. But, as they said, if you tell God your plan, he laughs. 

What I was shown was that I was living a superficial lifestyle. I was shown that I was headed in the wrong direction. And then, I was taught that what I wanted was stupid.

Who showed me this? Your mother. And, she was nothing like I had ever imagined. And so, I married her.

I read a book that your mother gave me called Chasing Skinny Rabbits. Although it is not a “knock your socks off” book, there were takeaways within that book that would ultimately change my life. The author discusses people’s perceptions of what is fulfilling in their lives. People are always chasing after the next thing only to find that when they achieve it, the sense of accomplishment is not there, so they move onto the next thing. The skinny rabbit is impossible to catch. Manhood, or the perception of it, is a skinny rabbit. Manhood is subjective, so chasing after it only means that you are chasing after something else — whether that be love, lust, money, or material things. All of which lead to destructive behaviors.

The Lesson:

1. Be kind
2. When you make a mistake, own it
3. Be chivalrous 
4. Create realistic goals
5. If you start something, finish it

For my Sons: ManUP lesson #1

“Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang!” – John Proctor, The Crucible

Your last name is everything. It may not seem like it now, but it is one thing that will carry more with it than you can imagine. It is not only an identifier, but it is an identity. That is why it is extremely important that you take ownership of that last name very seriously.

You are your own company

Pick a company — any company you want. Would you purchase the company’s product if it had very bad reviews? Would you purchase products from a company that treated you in a negative way? Would you spend your hard-earned money on that company’s product if you knew that it would make you look like an idiot? I believe you would answer no to all of these questions.

Think about it, your last name is your company.

There are millions of people in the world that wish that they could own companies. They think about the possible financial freedom that comes with it, the awesomeness of being your own boss, and the ability to influence others within the “company.”

The problem is, they cannot keep their own names clean. Seriously, if your company sold a product that was intended to be used on infants, do you trust yourself enough to buy the product and use it on your own newborn. If the answer is no; you have to seriously analyze who you are as a person. Being able to think of yourself as a business is something that athletes have to learn. Some learn it the easy way, and some learn it the hard way. Either way, reality usually hits them like a ton of bricks. They often find out that becoming an athlete and making the team was the easiest part of the journey. They find that teachers, bosses, community members, and teammates hold them to a totally different set of expectations — higher expectations. Talent is not enough to get them through, they need hard work, a set of values and beliefs, and a moral compass. Those who step up to those expectations find that the journey may become a little easier for them. Those who choose to go the other direction often find themselves in trouble the institution and/or the law.

Burning Bridges

There is going to come a time in your life when you are going to need someone to help you achieve a goal. Maybe it is a recommendation for a position that you wish to have, or maybe you need to get into a program and want one of the “higher-ups” to put in a good word for you. Here is a question: Did you do everything you could to make sure that the person you are asking sees you in a positive light? Like I said before, your last name is everything; that person’s last name is everything to them. When you ask somebody for a recommendation, you are asking a person to put their name, credibility, and reputation on the line in order to vouch for you — that is a big deal.

But how are you to know whom you would need a recommendation from? You’re not, which is the reason why you should be very careful about burning bridges.

“It takes a lifetime to build a reputation and only a second to destroy it.”

Diary Entry from a Junior High Dad

Dear Diary,

Junior high sucks so far. First of all, why do the hallways of the school smell like teen spirit, angst, armpit, elbows and toes, and Axe? Every time I walk into a junior high school, I wonder how the custodians are going to clear the building of that smell. Do they open all of the doors and windows to the school for an hour before school starts and for an hour after school ends?

Nope. That odor is in the paint. Yup, definitely in the paint.

Like seriously, what is going on here?! First of all, my loving, innocent child is now doing everything to not noticeably be my child.

Attitude

She rolls her eyes at me;

she sucks her teeth at me;

she is constantly mumbling under her breath after I tell her to do the smallest task;

and, she has become a parenting guru — often stating how other parents “do not treat their children this way.”

This child is literally walking around my house as if I don’t pay for shit – like I am not her lifeline – like I am only her landlord, and she is my tenant. She barely looks up at her phone when discussing anything with us.

Cell Phone

Yes, the phone: The social connection with the virtual outside world that is ironically keeping her from physically connecting with the actual outside world. It is like pulling teeth to get her to part with that thing.

When an actual person talks to her, like, I don’t know, her mother and me; she stays fixated on the phone, smiling. The only time I get a response is when she looks up at me — usually with a scowl.

Screw it, she should move out. That will show her.

Shit. That is illegal.

Wait. Is it?

Chores

The chores are always half-assed completed. For example:

“Hey, can you put this in the garbage in the kitchen for me?”

(looks up from her phone, the one I pay for, sucks teeth) “Fine. Whatever.”

“Hey, thanks.”

(inaudible mumble)

Where do I find that item that was supposed to be in the garbage? Oh look, it is on the damn counter!

Next to the garbage can.

She’s trying to kill me.

Yup, that’s it. She is trying to kill me. She wants my blood pressure to go through the roof. She is trying to make me have a cardiac arrest. That has to be it – because there is no viable reason why she would be doing this to me, right?

Wait.

Money

There is a positive. My child is sweet to me when she wants money. Yup, money is definitely a motivator. I can get her to do a lot of chores for a dollar.

But she wants a $10 bill? Oh, hell, no!

Ope, there we go. I am the biggest asshole in the world again. I can hear her saying it under her breath.

And really? The entire world? All the people in this world, and I am the biggest asshole?

On second thought, maybe she is right, but that is not the point.

Holy shit, we are not even halfway through the year!

Pray for us.

A Force to be Reckoned With

When I was in junior high, I had the opportunity to take part in an accelerated language arts program. This meant that I was able to handle a bigger workload and take on more responsibility. The teacher was a plump man with a round face, facial hair, and a ponytail that went down to the middle of his back. He looked like the type of guy who loved books.

No, I love books.

I mean, LOOOOVES books.

The first assignment he gave us on the very first day of school (really, who does that!) was to read Fahrenheit 451 within the first two weeks of school. As I shockingly gazed at the thickness of the book, along with the “further required reading” list that accompanied the book. I knew that this class wasn’t for me.

I went to my counselor.

So my counselor took me out of the program and placed me in one of the regular classes. I walked into the class and gave the transfer sheet to the teacher. This was no ordinary teacher, this was a woman — a black woman, which was weird because I had only ever once encountered a black female teacher throughout my academic career (at that point).

She took the slip from me.

“Mmmmm-hmm. You can sit over there.”

I sat — still in shock.

She had a personality that was bigger than life, she had a loud, booming voice, she had a slight southern twang to her voice, and she did not take shit from anyone.

…and I mean anyone.

To tell the truth, I was scared of this woman for the first quarter of the school year. Every time she asked for a volunteer, I sank a little lower in my seat. When she wanted one of the students to diagram a sentence, I would stare directly at my paper, trying my damnedest not to make eye contact. When it was time to go, I would hurriedly get my shit together and get the hell out of that room.

One day, everything changed. That day, I did not get my shit together fast enough.

“How come you never give the answer?”

She smiled.

Oh, shit.

“What do you mean?”

“I know you have the answer. I know you came from the accelerated class. You need to start answering the questions in class. Don’t hide your genius.”

I was confused as hell. Although I have been trying to avoid her, she has been paying attention to me.

“Tell your mom and your sister, I said hello.”

Fuck.

From that moment on, she would push me academically and personally. She would be one of the most influential people in my life — often giving me lessons not only on being a man but a black man as well. She would teach me about responsibility, she would teach me about perseverance, and she would also teach me about respect for myself and for others. I had a mother at home, and I had a mother at school.

What started out as a teacher to student relationship would years later become a relationship as colleagues as I was hired in the same district that I grew up in, and that she still taught in. What I did not know was that she was always looking out for me and doing what she could to give me every opportunity to succeed.

Sixteen years after I sat in her classroom, moved to another state, and started a family, I embarked on a mission to attain my doctoral degree. In the orientation class, we were tasked with writing a letter of appreciation to the person who got you to this point. To tell the truth, many helped me along the way. But there was one person who took it upon herself to not only discuss just how successful I could be but to hold me to a higher standard based on that potential.

I found out that Mrs. Francine Jackson passed away on May 11th.  I never knew if she received that letter in particular, but I think she knew the impact that she would have on my life and the lives of countless students in our area. I can only hope that I am living my life in a way that would do her memory justice.

Return on Investment

In the financial world, return on investment refers to the ratio between net profit (over a period) and cost of investment (resulting from an investment of some resources at a point in time). A high return on investment means the investment’s gains compare favorably to its cost. As a performance measure, return on investment is used to evaluate the efficiency of an investment or to compare the efficiencies of several different investments.
Recently my wife and I have come to terms with the fact that, because we have kids, we will not:
a) live forever. As a matter of fact, we think the “kids make you live longer” research is bullshit,
b) never get enough sleep,
c) never have the nest egg in our bank account that we desire.
So, we both figured. Fuck it, maybe we should throw caution to the wind a little and invest in our kids’ experiences. Perhaps we should show them some things that might be in the history books instead of them being told about it in school. We did set parameters:
We will not clear out our bank account;
We will not spend any of our retirement;
We will not borrow money from anyone or any entity.
We scrounged up the little money we had in investments from when I was younger, budgeted the funds that we had, and picked up some odds-and-ends jobs. But, most importantly, we had to redefine what an investment meant.
When I was younger, with not much money, I started to dabble in things such as ETFs, bonds, and futures, I loved looking at ways that I could grow my wealth. I would read the prospectus of different companies (who the hell actually reads those), look through the tickers on all of the financial networks, and check out the financial history of prospective companies that I could invest in. I was really hardcore!
But as I got older, I started to question how long I would hold these investments. I began to wonder what an investment really was. Especially after having our first child and needing a bigger house, a more dependable car, and diapers. God! Diapers!
Is a child an investment? In what? Futures?
What is the rate of return? When do I start to account for profit or loss?
How will I know if the current rate is running in the positive or negative?
The answer: You don’t, and you never will.
A child is a super heavy, crazy large investment. One that is hard to analyze or compute your return on that investment. Sure, it is all nice and dandy to say, “Every child is a gift that will last a lifetime,” but it is really freaking hard to keep telling yourself that when your rate of return is rolling their eyes when you have a simple request. Or, when your precious investment breaks a different investment because they won’t stop bouncing the damn ball in the house as you told them not to do 100. But, I am not angry.
Not that angry…
okay, angry.
Now that we have decided to invest in family, what does that look like?

Basically, it looks like us saying yes to a bunch of expenses that we would normally say no to. It looks like we are going to spend our money on experiences rather than things, which is good, because it allows me to go into the house and announce, “Okay, we are getting rid of your shit! We are minimizing! Round up the stuff you plan to donate!

My wife says, “You will need someone to push that wheelchair to the home, you know?” I hope that is true. Yes, I hope they are good people. Yes, I hope they give me grandkids, but I would be lying if I did not admit that I would love it if they would place me in a charming home and come visit me every now and then.

14 Years of Marriage to an Extrovert

The following post was written and submitted by my uber-talented wife, Heather…

Nothing surprises me.  It’s not because my husband is all that predictable.  No, he’s acted on plenty of off the wall ideas during the tenure of our marriage.  It’s just that I’ve come to expect literally anything from him.  What will David do today?  Will he buy a foosball table?  Will he spray paint our patio furniture on our concrete driveway?  Will he go to Scheel’s and to purchase NDSU jerseys for our daughters while I am in the hospital in labor with one of them?  Will he snap his Achilles’ tendon when I’m 39 weeks pregnant?  Will he claim that Trey’s interest in the game is what drives him to continue playing Pokémon Go?  Will he join an adult soccer league in a fit of a midlife crisis?  Will his plan of attack for any problem or situation be totally different than the one I would choose?  The answer to all of these questions is:  Yes.  And I’m not surprised.

A few years ago, I told David I thought we should write each other a love poem for Valentine’s Day.  We’re both English teachers; we can admire a beautiful piece of writing.  Why shouldn’t we immortalize our love in verse?  He said no; but I suspected he was secretly creating his masterpiece so I started work on my own.  Valentine’s Day came and went and neither of us mentioned the poems.  But I wasn’t surprised when I woke up on February 15^th and saw that he had posted his free verse, narrative, comical, yet sincere litany of love 11:59pm the night before.  This is my life with an extrovert; it’s what I’ve come to expect.  That evening, in true introvert fashion, I presented him privately with a compact ten-line poem complete with couplets.

 

Not much ever changes.

 

Fast forward to mid-November that year.  A few days after giving birth to our fourth child, David went to Fargo to see a tattoo artist.  He wanted to incorporate Reese’s name into an existing tattoo.  I want to take a moment to describe the state I was in when he came home that evening.  I was six days into recovery from my third C-section and my body was in shambles.  I couldn’t yet tie my shoes and stairs hurt.  Child number four hadn’t yet slept more than two hours in a row and I was nursing exclusively.  November is a tough time to have a baby.  The first three had summer birthdays; it’s easier to enter into new motherhood when daylight isn’t in short supply.  Once the November sun goes down, a feeling of hopelessness set in and the nights were long.  When David returned from his tattoo appointment late that afternoon, it was already dark.  “I have a surprise for you!” he crooned, grinning.  I asked the only question a woman in my state could: “What?  Did you get me a burrito from Qdoba?”  My recollection of the new few minutes plays back in slow motion.  He peels back the plastic covering his arm to reveal a new tattoo.  My poem is forever memorialized on my husband’s forearm.  I was surprised, speechless and horrified.

In Susan Cain’s Ted Talk about introversion, she says that we all fall at different points along the introvert/extrovert spectrum and that no one is a pure introvert or a pure extrovert.  This is true, but there’s a good amount of distance between David’s “dot” on that line and mine.  It’s one of the things I love about him and it keeps marriage interesting.  Just like that old Diamond Rio song and so many aspects of our union, “Meet in the Middle” and “that’s what love’s about.”   Happy anniversary, honey.

 

So far, it has been one hell of a ride.

 

The Letter She Received this Morning

Look at you! My first-born in her first varsity competition! I have dreamed about this day since you were born… although I did not think it would come this soon.

You were so nervous when you found out that you were chosen, you freaked out and started crying. You started the dangerous game of playing all of the “what if” scenarios in your head.

What if I miss?

What if I do the wrong thing?

What if I suck?

It was funny to watch such a composed girl, a girl who I have viewed countless times score baskets in numerous situations, freak out about something that seems so trivial.

But then I remember how young you are. I often forget that. You have conducted yourself in such a way that it is easy for anyone to forget that you are a year or more younger than girls in your grade.

As you are traveling to the venue, I know you are nervous, so I am going to give you some advice:

• You are going to suck; embrace it – It is your first crack at some real competition. Newsflash: you may not win. The coach believes in you but understands that you are very green. You do not have a target on your back, so you are in a low risk/high reward situation. Just go out there and compete.

• Have fun in the moment – There are many who would love to be in your shoes. Next week, it could be someone else; but today, it is all you. Live in the moment, and everything will be fine.

• Take notes – There is going to be a lot of good athletes out there. Most of them have been playing this sport a lot longer than you. Take notes on the best or the ones that you favor. Look at their routines, study their approaches, emulate their techniques so that later you can make those same techniques work for you.

• Do not try to live up to any other athletes’ standard – As I said before, these athletes have been doing this a lot longer than you have. Don’t try too hard to outplay them. You are here to gain varsity experience so that you can learn the game at a different level and with a different pace. If you make this a head game, you will be terrible. Relax, slow down, and play like this is recreational. Winning is nice, but it is not the point.

• It is really about the small victories – Playing a sport that you just picked up 2 months ago is a win; daring to join the school team is a win; being chosen for varsity is a win. Enjoy the small victories. The big ones will come later, don’t look for them now. If they happen – great, but if they don’t, learn from it, count yourself fortunate, and move on.

Your mother and I are proud of you. And we cannot wait to hear about the day.

Now, go have fun.