The Hyphen House

"When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares." --Henri Nouwen

In countless conversations this week, the above ideas have been expressed. It's so important to me to share my life with my loved ones and not just be tangentially involved. Finding those with whom we can achieve that depth, particularly as a married couple, can be difficult. But we are profoundly grateful for those that do.

"Bereavement is a universal and integral part of our experience of love."
- C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

Someone I'm close to lost someone unexpectedly today. Today also marks the four year anniversary of my friend D.J.'s death. These words are my attempt to start processing it all...


Hope
Is more like cracks in the pavement
Than bursting sunlight.
When the big picture is so bright,
It's hard to count the losses.
Hope
Is the people who hold you
And don't try to make sense of it.
Just let the pain pronounce,
Let it take root.
Hope
Is the opposite of reason
When reason says doubt.
Give me faith for the step,
Not the staircase.
Hope
Is the never-ending cycle of words
That soothe with encouragement.
Build connections with prose
And start to find healing.
Hope
Is my God,
Who never forsakes me.
My soul finds rest in God alone,
He is my fortress.
Hope
Is remembering that I'm a little girl,
Small enough to curl up in my Mother's lap.
Possessing the emotional freedom
To cry whenever needed.
Hope
Can be a dark cloud,
When it promises to hover.
Embrace it,
Don't push against it.
Hope
Springs eternal,
Or at least bubbles to the surface.
Grief is like a mystical rain
When it mixes the memories with the tears.
Hope
Feels less like fear,
And more like love.
Intimacy triumphs
Over all the distractions and obstacles.
Hope
Believes anything is possible
(But allows doubt)
Hope
Rises above
(But allows wallowing)
Hope...
Endures.

We live in the coolest and strangest neighborhood in Houston. It is a very artsy and diverse area. One of my first memorable neighborhood moments was standing in line at a local grocery store behind a man in spandex biker shorts, a businessman in a tie, and a mother with a stroller. That is a fairly typical experience. A few days ago, we had another strange neighborhood experience that was less typical but still very much in character with where we live.

Lauran was going to the local Wendy's for some Frosties. On the way home, she got rear-ended at a stop sign. She was okay, but her car was not. They pulled into a nearby gas station and waited for the police to arrive. Now the particular intersection where this occured happens to be the central hub of activity in the neighborhood. If it had been a weekend night, our experience would have been a thousand times weirder. Lauran called me, and I headed over immediately. As she was waiting for me, standing beside her obviously-wrecked car, a man rode up on a bike and asked her for money. This same guy has asked me for money at the very same gas station. I even watched the store manager chase him away with an automated warning message that he played over the loudspeakers outside. On one hand, I have to admire the guy's persistence.

When I pulled up, I parked in front of a homeless woman who began yelling at me. At least I think she was yelling at me. After a while, she got over it and started singing Elvis songs to us, notably "Love Me Tender" and "You Ain't Nothin' But a Houndog." We waited 30 minutes for the police officer. Fortunately, we were serenaded the entire time. The guy who hit Lauran was also very apologetic and kind. He seemed very distraught because he had never hit anyone before. After the whole incident, he thanked us for being so gracious, saying that we had restored his faith in humanity. That was a nice thing to hear at the end of a rough day.

The police officer finally showed up. He was very helpful and sorted things out fairly quickly. For a while we stood by his car as he filled out the accident report. During this time period, an acquaintance of ours pulled up and waved. We really can't go very far in the neighborhood without seeing someone we know, pretty cool in a city the size of Houston. A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman approached us (as we were standing by the police car clearly talking to the officer). She asked us if we knew where any good bars or clubs were in the area. I was a little surprised by the question, and off the top of my head, the only bars and clubs I could think of were the gay clubs just a couple blocks away. I just told her that the bars and clubs were not really our scene. Clearly, we had other things on our mind anyway. Shortly after this, the guy on the bike returned, but this time he left just as quickly as he saw the police car.

All in all, it was just a routine neighborhood experience in the world's weirdest neighborhood, but it is experiences like these that we treasure because they are so unique and memorable. It lightened a pretty crummy experience.

Knock on wood, I just returned from my last research trip. I spent three days in a medical school library in San Antonio, thumbing through medical journals from 1945-1965. Of course I found lots of good stuff that actually applies to my dissertation, but I also saw some pretty funny things. Oh, and I'm glad I'm not a doctor... all the detailed photos made me squeamish.

1) A cigarette ad from Phillip Morris (circa 1952) directed to physicians. "Ask yourself, which cigarette is most soothing to the throat?" Of course, it's PM. So apparently the main concern was the throat, not the lungs or any of the other gross maladies cigarettes can create.

2) I really hope this was said tongue-in-cheek, but I'm not sure. Here's an excerpt on the ideal doctor's wife:
“A doctor’s wife should be like a cigarette always ready to soothe, like an ashtray always ready at hand, sympathetic, with a keen ear for the telephone, discreet, and one who loves to be bounced out of sleep at night and left cold on one side. The ideal wife of a doctor could not last very long, she would die of internal combustion…” (from “The Doctor's Wife” by C.G. Learoyd, 1953)

I just realized both of these are about cigarettes. The 1950s had issues.

I just finished up my first year teaching a new subject at a new school, so I thought I would reflect on the past year.

I will spare you all from the detailed analysis of my school and teaching abilities and instead share some of the fun moments from the past year.

I danced hip hop in front of about 50 students with 8 of my colleagues, including a 6-foot-tall, 70-year-old nun. The highlight was my jackhammer solo near the end of the performance.

On my student evaluations, one girl said, "You were down to earth and down to us." I have no idea what the last part means, but I couldn't help but laugh when I read it.

I always try to find new ways to humiliate myself in front of my students each year. It doesn't matter how much good material you teach them; what they remember the most are the stupid things you said and did. In the past, I have laughed like Scooby Doo, impersonated a Power Ranger, mistakenly thought I had split my pants open, naively asked a student if a lot of action occurred in his bedroom, and heated packaging materials that I thought were chemicals. This year, I added some more gems to the collection (aside from the hip hop dancing that is). I talked far too frequently about unicorns, the Jonas Brothers, Hannah Montana, and High School Musical. I baked the world's most pathetic excuse for a cake. I impersonated yoda in order to teach my students about how not to change passive voice to active voice. I took a picture with a Zac Efron cutout. Overall, not too humiliating a year from me. In fact, out of my six years of teaching, I would say this was one of the least humiliating of all. I am going to have to work on that next year.

My wife came up one day to show my Journalism class our wedding album. The collective pitch of their voices got higher and higher as they flipped through it, culminating in an 18-year-old girl reading our wedding vows out loud while the rest of the class let out a variety of squeals, coos, and other sounds only heard in the halls of an all girls' school.

The students in my Journalism class wrote a "secret" article about me that was never nearly as "secret" as they thought. For example, when they showed me the list of articles for approval, they skipped over the "secret" article simply labeled "Eric" as if I don't know my first name. It was fun to let them think that I had no clue what they were doing.

One bragging point that really isn't bragging because I deserve no credit. I took this job without any journalism experience or education at all. The girls ran the entire operation with a few nods of approval from me, and they managed to place first at state competition. I rewarded them with a cake that might make people cry, not for its beauty. Still they devoured it (food is a pretty strong motivator at my school), and told me they really liked it. I still think they were just being nice although I can say that it tasted better than it looked.

I added to my already substantial collection of classroom mascots. Joining the prestigious ranks of the Rally Monkey and Rutherford the Mad Hamster were a paperdoll Jigglypuff, a butterfly to complement my creepy rooster (made out of real feathers), a High School Musical Zac Efron doll that you can sing along with, a Ben Franklin bobblehead, and a large metallic-looking unicorn.

Overall, it was a really fun year, and I am blessed to have such a great job. Still, I am glad it's summer.