*
Every small town has one: The slightly off guy or gal who's just enough off-balance that you're never quite sure whether to run away or stick around for a few minutes of entertainment. And of course the entertainment always runs into a half-hour and you're dying to get away but you've been trained to be polite and anyway the person just won't stop talking long enough for you to say your goodbyes and on top of that every now and then they throw in a statement just interesting enough to pull a response from you which then closes off your escape route. So there you stand.
So there Flat Stanley stood at 9:30 pm, Thanksgiving eve, blocking the organic foods aisle at the local Giant Eagle. Jack has a memory like a steel trap, and he remembered FS from a retail position she held at a dollar store six years ago. He also remembered that she worked for a year at the local paper. He's the kind of guy that talks to lots of people, reads a lot, retains facts, and spins it all into a fascinating tale just believable enough to keep one on her tiptoes. It's like remaining poised at the edge of the Grand Canyon waiting for that one final, amazing observation that will surely convince one to leap with Jack hand-in-hand into a grand new understanding of the ordinary.
That is to say, the observant listener knows that much of this stuff might be true. It's quite possible that a guy like Jack has met every president since Eisenhower. Being from around here, it's quite possible that he grew up visiting the Eisenhower farmstead as a child, and that he remains in touch with the Eisenhower granddaughter.
It's quite possible that Jack has an uncle who was attached in someway to the British embassy in Washington. And was an ambassador. Whose neighbor was Colin Powell. Who used to shoot the breeze with Jack when Jack visited his uncle and Mr. Powell was in town. During Viet Nam. And who once explained to Jack just why the US couldn't solve a certain logistics problem involving deployment to Southeast Asia by simply setting about to solve it.
Turns out that Jack, though an open-minded kind of guy, doesn't like the second President Bush. It's personal. It's because, Jack tells FS, that he personally saw the president rape a 17 year old student at a local private school. But that's nothing, according to the backstory Jack provided, compared to why President Bush felt that he could force himself on this helpless student. But Jack overplayed his hand on this one.
This girl's parents were stationed overseas, Jack says. That's certainly easy to believe. They wanted to send their daughter to a very good private school, so they chose -- Academy. They couldn't afford it, but the family was diligent and the girl was awarded a full ride from Merrill Lynch. So far so good.
Merrill Lynch, however, made the award contingent upon the the student signing a document agreeing to provide sexual favors to any US political figure who asked. Even Flat Stanley doesn't buy that one.
The girl signed the agreement. Uh-huh. And Pres. Bush called in his favor. FS's not buying that one, either. Jack didn't happen to explain how it was that he got to watch this go down, or why it was he to whom the girl told her story.
Dang it all. When FS returned home she mixed all the dry ingredients for a double batch of pumpkin bread. At 10:30 pm she discovered that there was not one drop of cooking oil in the house. There will be no gifts of pumpkin bread at the Thanksgiving table tomorrow. But there will be at least one good story.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
dream, dream, go away
*
Sometimes Flat Stanley dreams of things as they happen. She does not know what this is called. It seems to be some kind warp that randomly connects FS to tragedies that happen on the other side of the world (commercial plane crash, Viet Nam, lots of fire, plane on runway, people crying, rushing, burning, dying) or in the next town over (man goes crazy, spends the night slashing and stabbing his family. They survive.) FS does not sleep with a television or radio on, so the glib explanation "You heard about it in your sleep" doesn't explain it. She finds out by accident the next day, which is even odder, as FS does not tune into news shows.
These dreams leave FS wrung out, running over with sadness, the kind she imagines one might feel if the sadness of others were her own. The sadness isn't only tied to the sorrow of the victims and those who love them, but also to the knowledge that as an observer, FS was staked to the scene able to do nothing more than watch the tragedy unfold and feel the sorrow of others. FS spends the first day after these dreams tearful. She functions at a minimum and gives herself plenty of time that day to cry, because, baby, there just ain't much else one can do with that kind of grief.
The attentive reader will note that FS only cites a few events. Until two nights ago, there had only been three. This is a good thing. Otherwise, FS would be strapped to a hospital bed with electrodes trying to fry the bad feelings from the neural network inside her skull.
Two nights ago, FS watched some school children get off a school bus on a highway running through an industrial part of a city. It was mid-winter. Recent snow had left the highway and traffic coated in the thick gray coat of road salt and grit that replaces ice and keeps the economy going. FS was standing along the road, enjoying the kids and their happy after-school sounds. One group hung back and decided to jaywalk across four or five lanes of heavy traffic which was backing up at the light.
One little guy, maybe 9 years old, got the great idea that he'd duck under a tanker truck. As he scooted under, traffic started moving forward. FS started screaming "Stop!" She had no voice. She screamed "Stop!" again. No voice. FS was screaming at the kid as much as she was at traffic. No one could hear her. The kid got run over. Two sets of double tires. FS ran into traffic to keep others from hitting him again. His brown winter coat was gone, his hat had fallen off. His shirt was torn. He was mortally injured, but his body didn't know it yet. FS held him to keep him from running wildly. She cried. So sorrowful, that this could not be stopped. So sorrowful, the sorrow yet to come.
Anyway. This dream was different. It was just as real as the others, but there was no corroborating story the next day. And, the sorrow, instead of being powerful the first day, then fading, was faded the first day and has grown more powerful over the past two days.
So. WTF? What is the point of being tuned in just to observe? What is the point of feeling that intensive sorrow? What is the point of witnessing an event to which there is no connection? And now, why this change, a dream of an event that does not make the news? That makes it just a bad dream, right? Except for the sorrow, and the incredible depth of detail, it's just a dream, and tomorrow the sorrow will have faded.
Based on past occurrences, FS shouldn't have another dream like this for another five or six years. You all take real, real good care. FS does not want to read about you in the funny papers.
*
Sometimes Flat Stanley dreams of things as they happen. She does not know what this is called. It seems to be some kind warp that randomly connects FS to tragedies that happen on the other side of the world (commercial plane crash, Viet Nam, lots of fire, plane on runway, people crying, rushing, burning, dying) or in the next town over (man goes crazy, spends the night slashing and stabbing his family. They survive.) FS does not sleep with a television or radio on, so the glib explanation "You heard about it in your sleep" doesn't explain it. She finds out by accident the next day, which is even odder, as FS does not tune into news shows.
These dreams leave FS wrung out, running over with sadness, the kind she imagines one might feel if the sadness of others were her own. The sadness isn't only tied to the sorrow of the victims and those who love them, but also to the knowledge that as an observer, FS was staked to the scene able to do nothing more than watch the tragedy unfold and feel the sorrow of others. FS spends the first day after these dreams tearful. She functions at a minimum and gives herself plenty of time that day to cry, because, baby, there just ain't much else one can do with that kind of grief.
The attentive reader will note that FS only cites a few events. Until two nights ago, there had only been three. This is a good thing. Otherwise, FS would be strapped to a hospital bed with electrodes trying to fry the bad feelings from the neural network inside her skull.
Two nights ago, FS watched some school children get off a school bus on a highway running through an industrial part of a city. It was mid-winter. Recent snow had left the highway and traffic coated in the thick gray coat of road salt and grit that replaces ice and keeps the economy going. FS was standing along the road, enjoying the kids and their happy after-school sounds. One group hung back and decided to jaywalk across four or five lanes of heavy traffic which was backing up at the light.
One little guy, maybe 9 years old, got the great idea that he'd duck under a tanker truck. As he scooted under, traffic started moving forward. FS started screaming "Stop!" She had no voice. She screamed "Stop!" again. No voice. FS was screaming at the kid as much as she was at traffic. No one could hear her. The kid got run over. Two sets of double tires. FS ran into traffic to keep others from hitting him again. His brown winter coat was gone, his hat had fallen off. His shirt was torn. He was mortally injured, but his body didn't know it yet. FS held him to keep him from running wildly. She cried. So sorrowful, that this could not be stopped. So sorrowful, the sorrow yet to come.
Anyway. This dream was different. It was just as real as the others, but there was no corroborating story the next day. And, the sorrow, instead of being powerful the first day, then fading, was faded the first day and has grown more powerful over the past two days.
So. WTF? What is the point of being tuned in just to observe? What is the point of feeling that intensive sorrow? What is the point of witnessing an event to which there is no connection? And now, why this change, a dream of an event that does not make the news? That makes it just a bad dream, right? Except for the sorrow, and the incredible depth of detail, it's just a dream, and tomorrow the sorrow will have faded.
Based on past occurrences, FS shouldn't have another dream like this for another five or six years. You all take real, real good care. FS does not want to read about you in the funny papers.
*
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Prisoners are People, Too
Flat Stanley is the luckiest piece of cardboard! Every Wednesday night for eight straight weeks she gets to co-conduct a class on communication and leadership for 10-12 inmates at a medium security prison. This is the third group that FS and Richard, a most excellent training partner, have facilitated since last July: About 35 men total.
FS doesn't get to talk about this experience very often because most people have serious issues on the issue of prison. Most people are content with voting for political candidates who whitewash the dynamics of the US justice system by accusing their opponents of being soft on crime. As if being "tough on crime" is synonymous with improving society.
It's like this: You take a man, raise him in a world of skewed social values, bust his sorry ass for pursuing the American dream (happiness), throw him in prison with a bunch of like-minded fellows for several years, then set him loose, refuse to give him a decent job, and expect him to be far better than you, yes, YOU, ever have a hope of being? We on the outside demand that he take on the patience of Job and build a successful life in the face of odds we don't want to admit are there.
So maybe you're thinking that FS must be one of those freakin clueless do-gooder libbrals.
Not.
FS ain't stupid, y'all. These guys did the crime and they know it. Fact is, most of them are glad they're only doing time for what they got caught doing. And yah, it's easy for a man to be repentant when he's in prison. Or when he's got jailhouse religion.
FS and partner only know about the men what they choose to reveal in class. There's premeditated murder. Drug trafficking. Probably some spouse abuse. Drug trafficking. Breaking and entering. Drug trafficking. Drunk driving. Parole violation. Concealed weapon. Third strike. Drug trafficking.
Nobody's innocent, and everybody has a story. But what stories they are.
Boys living on the street at age 12. Or earlier. Boys abused by mothers, fathers, and mothers' boyfriends. Boys raised by good parents but choosing bad anyway. Boys following in their father's footsteps. Boys acting out in rage at themselves, at the world. Men acting like the boys they never were. Men following the code of the street.
Men dealing because they think the flash and the cash is what makes them real men. Men using, abusing, hustling for the next fix, the next hit, the next deal, chasing madly for significance. Men leaving despair in their wake and hopelessness for their future. At some point, if they are lucky, they see this.
This is the gift that FS and Richard provide: Once a week for eight weeks of their four, ten, 20, 40-year sentences, if their behavior is noteworthy, if they are in Chaplain C's domain, if they are selected, if the prison can find a room, if FS and Richard don't have a schedule conflict, a class of 10 to 12 men get to spend an hour or two as students. For that time, they get to be men free of their past and hopeful about their future. They are students, exhilarated that their jailhouse dreams of making the world which formed them a better place for their children and childrens' children is taken seriously.
They themselves, however, are the gift to FS and Richard by paying the highest compliment possible: They pay attention. They learn. They resist. They struggle. They think, consider, weigh. They grow. They improve on their ability to articulate their thoughts. They push each other, hone leadership skills, build upon the incredible inner strengths they will need to be as changed outside prison as they are while inside prison.
Again, FS ain't naive. She knows that not all these guys are gonna make it. She knows that the men in her class are heavily pre-screened -- that's the only way FS would have it. Prison is prison for good reason.
But it's nice. Really, really nice, to have this opportunity to see these men, some of whom who have simply screwed up in big ways, some of whom were bad, as in the bad sense of the word, all of whom, at this particular point in their lives, have regained touch with their innate goodness.
That's the part that's exhilarating, the part that FS wants to share with others but cannot because they do not want to hear: So many of those people behind bars? They are human. Nice, kind, thoughtful, caring, human beings.
FS doesn't get to talk about this experience very often because most people have serious issues on the issue of prison. Most people are content with voting for political candidates who whitewash the dynamics of the US justice system by accusing their opponents of being soft on crime. As if being "tough on crime" is synonymous with improving society.
It's like this: You take a man, raise him in a world of skewed social values, bust his sorry ass for pursuing the American dream (happiness), throw him in prison with a bunch of like-minded fellows for several years, then set him loose, refuse to give him a decent job, and expect him to be far better than you, yes, YOU, ever have a hope of being? We on the outside demand that he take on the patience of Job and build a successful life in the face of odds we don't want to admit are there.
So maybe you're thinking that FS must be one of those freakin clueless do-gooder libbrals.
Not.
FS ain't stupid, y'all. These guys did the crime and they know it. Fact is, most of them are glad they're only doing time for what they got caught doing. And yah, it's easy for a man to be repentant when he's in prison. Or when he's got jailhouse religion.
FS and partner only know about the men what they choose to reveal in class. There's premeditated murder. Drug trafficking. Probably some spouse abuse. Drug trafficking. Breaking and entering. Drug trafficking. Drunk driving. Parole violation. Concealed weapon. Third strike. Drug trafficking.
Nobody's innocent, and everybody has a story. But what stories they are.
Boys living on the street at age 12. Or earlier. Boys abused by mothers, fathers, and mothers' boyfriends. Boys raised by good parents but choosing bad anyway. Boys following in their father's footsteps. Boys acting out in rage at themselves, at the world. Men acting like the boys they never were. Men following the code of the street.
Men dealing because they think the flash and the cash is what makes them real men. Men using, abusing, hustling for the next fix, the next hit, the next deal, chasing madly for significance. Men leaving despair in their wake and hopelessness for their future. At some point, if they are lucky, they see this.
This is the gift that FS and Richard provide: Once a week for eight weeks of their four, ten, 20, 40-year sentences, if their behavior is noteworthy, if they are in Chaplain C's domain, if they are selected, if the prison can find a room, if FS and Richard don't have a schedule conflict, a class of 10 to 12 men get to spend an hour or two as students. For that time, they get to be men free of their past and hopeful about their future. They are students, exhilarated that their jailhouse dreams of making the world which formed them a better place for their children and childrens' children is taken seriously.
They themselves, however, are the gift to FS and Richard by paying the highest compliment possible: They pay attention. They learn. They resist. They struggle. They think, consider, weigh. They grow. They improve on their ability to articulate their thoughts. They push each other, hone leadership skills, build upon the incredible inner strengths they will need to be as changed outside prison as they are while inside prison.
Again, FS ain't naive. She knows that not all these guys are gonna make it. She knows that the men in her class are heavily pre-screened -- that's the only way FS would have it. Prison is prison for good reason.
But it's nice. Really, really nice, to have this opportunity to see these men, some of whom who have simply screwed up in big ways, some of whom were bad, as in the bad sense of the word, all of whom, at this particular point in their lives, have regained touch with their innate goodness.
That's the part that's exhilarating, the part that FS wants to share with others but cannot because they do not want to hear: So many of those people behind bars? They are human. Nice, kind, thoughtful, caring, human beings.
Sunday, November 08, 2009
Large Furry Green Character Must Not Have Done It
Item in today's local paper.
--burg police say there were no reports of a large green furry character in --burg that could be blamed for the smashing of a windshield with a pumpkin after the New York Yankees defeated the Philadelphia Phillies for the World Series title Wednesday,
there were no reports of a large green furry character, so that definitely rules out the possibility of a large green furry character having committed this atrocious act of terrorism against the windshield, an innocent bystander caught up in international conflict far beyond its ability to comprehend.
so they are instead looking for a Phillies fan in mourning.
because that would be the next logical thing to look for, right? Anybody know what a Phillies fans in mourning looks like? Dressed in black, that's for sure. And maybe small, and purple and covered with yellow and orange triangles?
The pumpkin that damaged the 1995 Buick sedan parked in the first block of North Washington Street was painted to recognize the New York Yankees,
wow! They have paint that turns pumpkins into sentient beings capable of recognizing things? WHAT will they think of next???
who on Wednesday won the World Series with their fourth defeat of the Phillies.
Pretty green thinking, eh? The local paper saves paper by combining the police log with national sports. Not to mention the money they save by hiring actual college journalism majors to write. Not sure what they're saving by not hiring editors.
*
--burg police say there were no reports of a large green furry character in --burg that could be blamed for the smashing of a windshield with a pumpkin after the New York Yankees defeated the Philadelphia Phillies for the World Series title Wednesday,
there were no reports of a large green furry character, so that definitely rules out the possibility of a large green furry character having committed this atrocious act of terrorism against the windshield, an innocent bystander caught up in international conflict far beyond its ability to comprehend.
so they are instead looking for a Phillies fan in mourning.
because that would be the next logical thing to look for, right? Anybody know what a Phillies fans in mourning looks like? Dressed in black, that's for sure. And maybe small, and purple and covered with yellow and orange triangles?
The pumpkin that damaged the 1995 Buick sedan parked in the first block of North Washington Street was painted to recognize the New York Yankees,
wow! They have paint that turns pumpkins into sentient beings capable of recognizing things? WHAT will they think of next???
who on Wednesday won the World Series with their fourth defeat of the Phillies.
Pretty green thinking, eh? The local paper saves paper by combining the police log with national sports. Not to mention the money they save by hiring actual college journalism majors to write. Not sure what they're saving by not hiring editors.
*
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