Michael Morton is an educator and community advocate. He teaches! And when he’s not doing that he’s a philosopher. He is an alumni of Rowan University.
As a former firefighter with the Gouldtown Volunteer Fire Company, Michael supported his fellow firefighters in innovative ways. In 2012, he ran for public office in his township to help advocate for life-saving, property-preserving equipment. As the top vote-getter in that election, he pledged to uphold the Constitution. He did this by pursuing positive change for his community. He's lived in Cumberland County for nearly 35 years.
He's been a teacher for 18 years. He’s taught at every level (at least he’d like to think so). He teaches social studies (the “forgotten subject”) and language arts literacy in a “post literate” society.
Before that, he taught early education at the district preschool for a year. He’s taught 8th grade Civics for a short period of time. Not to omit his experience teaching special education in the Millville School District, he figures that he will continue to teach until he retires (or until it is socially acceptable to mock the profession like most people who have no idea what it takes to be a dedicated educator). Alas, the most interesting teachers are entertainers too.
As a former employee of the State of New Jersey, Michael has held the responsibility of case worker and juvenile probation officer. So his observation of the world around him is not only from the lens of an educator, but also inspired by his experience working with needy families and civil servants.
Imagine a world where nothing goes right. Abandon the fantasy that all of your dreams could come true. Replace hope with hopelessness, just for a moment.
In a world with no balance, all of the wrongs are permanent, lasting, and unwavering. But this is not the world that we live in. Thank goodness for this.
Balance provides a positive outcome in even the worst situations. Unpredictable and sometimes unfathomable circumstances occur and shift our world. Conversation, if we were able to predict some of the horrendous moments in our lives, we’d live in a state of panic. OR if awful things happened frequent enough, we’d become lethargic.
Younger generations don’t worry. Their overly protective parents shielded them from harm. Feeling safe promotes an arrogance that nothing can happen that will cause discomfort. This maybe the biggest criticism from older generations. Living without worry seems almost careless. And being unprepared for what could go wrong could lead to real problems not being resolved. There’s just no “ounce of prevention” and probably no “pound of cure.”
Depending on which generation we belong to, the range between panics and lethargy often disappoint. The older generations were born into being prepared for some of the most challenging moments in life. Their parents deprived them (or maybe weren’t able to spoil them). Life was dangerous. Knowledge of what could go wrong provided guidance.
Unrealistic? Perhaps. But living in a state of panic causes problems too. Not much is resolved by constantly preparing for the inevitable.
By definition, evolution results when things don’t go as planned. Regardless of your beliefs, no one can deny that opportunity peeks around the corner of any dilemma. How we respond is up to us.
It’s the failure to respond that haunts us. That’s lethargy.
Now imagine a world where nothing goes wrong. Abandon the idea that your dreams will ever have obstacles. Hope is needless when everything is guaranteed. In those moments of suspended belief, life seems less interesting.
Growth is the result of overcoming adversarial conditions. Is most cases, adversity is required! A seed that isn’t thirsty doesn’t get watered. That same seed won’t grow without being covered in dirt. Each challenge requires a counter measure for growth to occur. Occasionally, through the course of events, evolution occurs. When the finished product survives, thrives, and develops into something better, evolution has occurred.
We can’t be lethargic! Doing so feigns balance. Counter measures produce better results. Good judgement helps a lot too.
Being married has reminded me that I am more accountable. Prior, I had grown accustomed to making decisions for myself that usually have little-to-no consequences for anyone else. I didn’t need to confer with anyone else. Even if I sought advice from a friend, I was still free to choose for myself what decisions I needed to make on a daily basis.
Getting married changed that for me. It’s a welcome change though. I love that someone else cares. It’s important that I still be able to exercise discretion, but simultaneously be accountable enough not to be reckless. I love my wife. I wouldn’t want to do anything that would harm her or cause any pain, worry, or concern.
I carry myself with a renewed, yet remarkably familiar level of accountability. I care just a little bit more. I have something to lose. I have someone waiting for me. I look forward to returning safely to her arms.
My wedding band is a reminder that the world still recognizes; that there is value in a committed relationship. My demeanor is no longer perceived as flirtatious. Instead, others observe a happier man; a secure man; a confident man. When I step into a room, I’m taken seriously. Others know that I am about my business. I’m not seeking new friends. I’m not looking for a partner. I’m settled and allowing the meaningful part of my life the space needed to be worth more.
I inadvertently increased my value by saying, “I do.” And I believe that I may have enhanced her life too.
I can no longer hold myself accountable for not living up to the imagine you envisioned (for me). It took too long for me to realize who I truly was (or who I had the potential to be), and that it had less to do with me and more to do with you. Taking back my life affirms that it was always my life. I was leasing you space in my head. And to fully embrace this analogy; I will never again lease space to anyone who can’t afford to pay the full price. I took all the risk. I made all of the investment. And yet reaped none of the reward.
Oh that little peace of attention, that flavor you added to my ego? Tasteless really. Empty calories. I enjoyed the pursuit about as much as…
As much as…you enjoyed the lies you told yourself…and the embellishments you told about me. It doesn’t matter really. The distance between us allows my memory to fade. Sleepless nights are less sleepless. Any semblance of pain is dull now.
Not my pain! I have none! I’m not hurt by the circumstances. Just disappointed in how it played out. Just surprised at how long I invested trust in situations that hadn’t earned my devotion.
As important as integrity is to me, I can’t believe how easily I let you rob me of my dignity. I can’t believe how gullible I was. And from my perspective it was never about you. It was about me! I fell short of what you wanted—not what I wanted. Because I never envisioned anything greater than a few moments.
When I walk by a mirror now, I see my life without you. I see the old me. I see the new me. I see the “evolved” me.
Seven years is a long time. Eight years is even longer. Good bye hair.
Before (we met)Our time (together)Living to the Fullest(Our) Time Has Come
My son once asked me why his mom hated me so much. I told him very calmly that success is the best revenge. The word revenge triggered my son’s interest. Of course, he wanted to know precisely why anyone would need revenge against me. Instead of recounting the history of what I consider trauma, focusing on the present seemed to be more valuable.
I don’t want to blatantly project my perspective onto my children, but it’s hard to convey our family values without implying some kind of bias. Focusing on the present invites my son to decide for himself where the problem might be. It was essential to develop discernment. By asking “why” or “how,” he might develop a better understanding of his circumstances.
I asked him, “why do you think that she dislikes me?”
He said that she tells him that it’s my fault that they don’t have…
She told him that I don’t help her; that I don’t pay child support.
He needed clarification. Without being defensive, I asked him his understanding of what it means to help. What kind of help is needed? How does one seek help? What must someone do to get help? These questions caused him to pause.
I asked him to explain to me his understanding of child support. He thought that I was supposed to hand-deliver cash to his mom weekly. He’d never seen that happen and therefore believed his mother’s claim. When I explained that support comes in many forms, but my support is very specifically prescribed in the divorce decree from the judge. I explained that all of the financial support comes directly out of my paycheck; that his mother gets her money before I get mine. I shared with him that any other support is a condition that is met through email communication between his mother and myself.
There would be no change without communication. It’s essential! And even more important is direct communication–not communication through someone else; not cynicism nor passive aggression. It’s one thing to be unhappy with a circumstance. It’s quite another to complain rather than develop a plan of action. Closed mouths don’t get fed.
And I was so proud of him for communicating with me. Sadly, that change he sought was the responsibility of someone else.
The emotion that he observed was what drove him to ask. He needed his mother to be happy. And sadly, that change was (again) the responsibility of someone else.
Conversely, years later my son offered me similar wisdom. The night before my wedding, my best friend let me down. My son was my best man. That night, he saw me try to work through some disappointment. Instead of basking in the sorrow, my son saw me struggle to “fix” a problem that I had not created. He saw me need to change something that was the responsibility of someone else. He watched me offer to help someone who wasn’t ready or even capable (yet) of appreciating my effort.
He asked me, “Why are you trying to help someone who doesn’t want to be helped?”
He added, “when someone shows you who they are, believe them.”
This wasn’t a new concept, but it meant so much coming from my son.
Wisdom itself is not a destination. It is a component of experience. It lives. It grows. And its application is fluid. It can be applied liberally and with flexibility.
My son is a great guy! He’s a great listener. He’s a helper. He’s a friend. He tries to help his mom. He drives his grandmom to doctor’s visits. He listens to them and their perspective of the world.
And although he rarely questions their motives, he does recognize that their views are not the only views.
He once asked me, “Why don’t you and mom-mom not get along?” My response was, “because I survived!” On my worst day, no one will kill my spirit. No one can take from me what they haven’t given me. And in regards to my life, it was given to me, and is my responsibility to nurture it. Some of the same people who believe that I owe them unyielding loyalty hold me in the highest contempt. But what they don’t realize is that when I learned better, I did better.
We won’t get out of life alive. We can’t take it too seriously, but we must be focused enough to thrive. We must survive. And when we overcome obstacles in our lives, when we meet challenges (and don’t give up); our adversaries are disappointed. There aren’t many people in our lives actually rooting for us. So we’ve got to be our own biggest cheerleaders. We must humbly move on and away from anyone who is hoping that we will fail. In the end, our victory is a product of resilience.
Survival is the best revenge. The world would like nothing more than to see you fail. It’s the drama that we tune into. It’s the drama that steals our joy and challenges our souls. It’s the drama that the world wants to see. And most often in the fairy tales, the real fight is too often omitted.
I am almost 50 years old. I look around my house at nearly a half century’s worth of memorabilia. Compact discs, cassette tapes, and even vinyl albums have made their way to the garage or the basement. Long gone are the days when I would get excited to buy a new album and listen to it for hours while enjoying the album art and the printed lyrics.
Not too different is the feeling of owning those movies on VHS or DVD. I have so much music and so many films. I’d like to be able to brag that I am getting rid of them, but instead I must confess that I am only narrowing my collection. I should probably describe it as refining my collection. The ones I don’t want any longer, I sell. My delusions embrace an idea that these have a value. Sadly, sentimental value is not nearly intrinsic; and intrinsic value is worthless on Facebook Marketplace.
Interestingly enough, I haven’t tried to get rid of the books. Most of which I still haven’t read. From textbooks to bookstore titles that look great on a shelf, I may never read or fully enjoy what I have. My spare room has become the library. Media fills the shelves. With a big screen on the wall and media players on the dresser drawers, I’ve merely created the guest room that I wished I lived in when I was a teen.
My days off are spent categorizing (while listening to music. Occasionally, I will take a break and watch an old movie. These same movies that I purchased just to brag about are now being enjoyed for the first time. Sure I watched them, but I didn’t really understand the content. I didn’t see the nuances. I didn’t listen to the scores. I couldn’t fully understand the dialogue. But now, it’s like watching these for the first time.
It’s as if 35 years of life experience was a prerequisite. The chemistry between actors or the similarities between films based on either production companies or directors is all new to me. I actually pay attention to the opening credits. The end of the film has me waiting to see the cast. Forget outtakes! I don’t need them. Instead, I am not concerned with whether there is a teaser to a sequel. I already know… and I’ve probably already seen the entire saga.
My “why” is changing. Why I rewatch these films is not out of boredom. It is more because I’m eager to see something that I missed the first few times. I have more questions now. How was this film made? When in time is this story taking place (and how is that era different from the time period we currently live in). Who are the actors? Haven’t I seen them in other films? I analyze the dynamics of their craft. I know more about the world now. I can ask myself where the story takes place and actually know something about that place.
I come to realize that the films that I enjoy the most have much more in common. I no longer categorize them by genre, but by director. To see how I organize them on the shelf would seem chaotic. But there is a method. Not only do I know what I own, but how to easily access it.
I am not certain whether this is a maturity I have developed or a madness. Either way, I like it. It doesn’t harm anyone. It enlightens me and allows me to do something that I feel is valuable for me. That’s important too.
I suppose the next stage will be to re-listen to all my albums in various formats. Vinyl will be a blast! Making distinctions between artists and musicians, their producers, and enjoying their craft. I think that a greater appreciation for performing art as well as physical art is on the horizon.
To have time is more beautiful than I’d ever thought. Pardon me while I cue up the next flick. I am doing it again for the first time.
There’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance. The line is blurred between arrogance and ignorance. But the boldness of demanding what belongs to you is unquestionable. Too often we believe that we are entitled (to things that we’ve not earned nor inherited clear title too). When we believe something so much that we convince ourselves that our truth weighs more than facts, herein lies the foundations of delusion.
Here is some personal context. I didn’t know that I was born to be a leader until that seed was planted in me by my hopeful family. My identity wasn’t solid until after I began to question it. My sanity wasn’t challenged until I developed beliefs that were more aligned to my lifestyle. The psychology of nature verses nurture had more meaning once I realized that my nature was toxic. Insecurity is of the world and not of the spirit. So once my faith increased, my fears decreased. Once my confidence increased, my tolerance for negativity diminished. I had to find a warmth within my mind and a coldness in my heart to be able to say no to mistreatment and yes to self worth.
I had to feel pain in order to recognize hurtful behavior. I am disappointed that I needed to hurt to have a better understanding of empathy. I eventually accepted the responsibility of modeling love in leu of rejecting it. Sadly I caused a fair share of hurt along the way. The harm I’ve caused forces me to be more accountable. But it does not sentence me to a lifetime of regret. Because I can forgive, I allow myself to accept forgiveness. But what I will not do is beg. I will never again invite manipulation, or regret, or guilt back into my life. I can not become the prey of narcissists nor the victim of oppression. This is neither a promise nor a prediction. I simply have no time left for the power struggles that wage stress over my own happiness.
Taking our lives back requires that we first assert that our lives belong to ourSelves. To love self is not arrogance. Lest we honor moderation and feign excess. Love others too. Love them so much that their heart overflows onto another. We experience our cup running over when we’ve not been selfish. When we pour into our family, our true friends, and our community we earn the opportunity to witness that love flow a little bit farther. A few times in our life, we may even glean value from it. We could (one day) receive recognition or a warm thanks.
Some of us require reciprocity. When we love, we want it back. When we believe in someone else, we hope that they reach their goals…that they blossom. But our flowers rarely come in the living. The cycles of life relate to each of us differently. We are perennials or evergreens. We are roses or tulips, bushes or tall oaks. Defined by our core but assimilated by those planted near us.
I apologize to those I’ve hurt, but I do not apologize for falling short of someone else’s expectations. I affirm that my love for myself is as great (or greater) than the love others have for themselves. Our hearts want more than they get, and we believe that we deserve more than we’ve earned. Let’s not let our entitlement or self-righteousness get in the way.
Impressions are made, not by simply doing something. It’s how we do it. Our world is full of someone doing something. Often the most fantastic feats are overlooked because they lack flair or don’t ignite the recognition reserved for things that exceed our expectations. Newsworthiness is the goal. Those folks who go out of their way to impress us online…what are they called? INFLUENCERS! Often overlooked and seldom appreciated are the acts of the “normal” people who do things because of their own innate drive.
Let’s scale it back a little bit. Before there was a network of wires and electrons that connected us all, we moved about with reserve. Great effort went into making even the most mundane decisions in our daily lives. We had fewer choices, but those choices were deliberate. What you consumed was less important than ensuring that your buttons were buttoned and your zippers were zipped.
For example, the kind of toothpaste you used or the type of orange juice you drank in the morning (but never one after the other) didn’t involve labels, commercialism, or peer influence. Hygiene and health were not mutually exclusive. The outcome was to get the day started right. The impressions made were residual. But now, a coupon for Aquafresh and a discount on Tropicana (no pulp please) drive our decisions to stock our cabinets with only “the best.” Wait! Do they still make Aquafresh??
Here’s a personal one. When my daughter got a tattoo for her 18th birthday, she was reluctant to show me. Her boyfriend at the time was the one who brought it to my attention in an effort to either upset me or impress me. I am still not sure. He was goofy. Either way, the simplicity of this first tattoo bothered me only because my daughter hid it from me. But it was in plain sight for the rest of the world. Now this one tattoo, which was concealed under her sleeve has now grown to include others on her arms that are more detailed, but still less vibrant. She may believe that I don’t like them, but she has no clue how intrigued I am–not because of the tattoos themselves, but for the rationale behind them. Because she doesn’t read my blogs, she may never know. The outcome is the same. It’s the presentation that makes it classy. A tattoo is an outward display. Why hide it?
We live in a world where something as simple as a tattoo can be either interpreted as skin art or an outward expression of values (or desires). But things like getting a tattoo are enhanced by presenting to the world on Facebook Live or capturing it on Youtube to increase subscriptions. We weren’t always monetizing. Click bait wasn’t a thing. “Likes” and approvals from strangers have become threads in a tapestry of capitalism.
It’s actually pretty rare for average people to earn revenue from generating content. Those who do are entrepreneurs. The rest of us are seeking approval and pretending that we are not (seeking approval). There was a time that we practiced earning approval first from our parents, then from our peers, and finally from strangers that we hoped would invite us to enjoy adult opportunities (like jobs). Now it seems to be the just the opposite. What was once classy has now become mundane. Vice verse. The mundane have become eclectic. How long before internal combustion engine automobiles become iconic and collectible? How many times will we witness the return of tie-died shirts and ripped jeans? Many of those fashions from the 80’s get recycled while the electronics from that era are mere relics. Not for all of us though. Shucks! I’m about to reinstall a carphone in my Lexus V8 Coupe right now!
As we infuse old ideas into newer designs, let us keep in mind at least some traditional values. A book without pictures inspires imagination. A picture without a narrative produces awe. Allowing our minds to work a little bit will slow the infringement of artificial intelligence. What happened to purpose? I suppose it still exists, but it isn’t as clever. Our “why” is cloaked in the need to impress. And our need to impress “others” surpasses our need for approval from those closest to us.
There are so many uses for tickets. So many kinds of tickets. Tickets have become a euphemism for other things. You can get a ticket to the show; or a ticket for violating a rule; or a ticket to paradise…
Tickets can grant access or they can be warnings. To get one with anticipation suggests that the ticket holder wanted to get into a show or a game or some other type of restrictive event that the general public would not otherwise have access. But to get a ticket for illegally parking or disregarding the generally accepted rules of society, well that’s a ticket that most of us would rather go without.
A ticket as a euphemism, though? Gaining access that is invisible or intangible doesn’t seem very realistic. And yet it is the most fantastic.
Most of the tickets I’ve received in my life have been forgotten. Good, bad, or indifferent these pieces of paper line a drawer or an old shoe box that I’ve cast aside in the attic…but never discarded entirely. A bit of OCD in my DNA strongly encourages me to hold on to things that I’ll want to either remember or reconcile later. My parking tickets, in particular, may never be reconciled. I keep them as a reminder (in a box specifically labelled DMV) as an “ACTUNG BABY” in Washington DC, Boston, and now Philadelphia. For the record, I believe that urban parking is an inalienable right that should not be infringed upon. It is ironic that I owe fines in three American cities that are synonymous for freedom (and revolution).
Alas, tickets in this case, serve not as a penalty but as a reminder that modern technology will eventually result in a boot on my car or a ping on my credit report. It’s highly unlikely that these tickets will go to court. Never have parking ticket jockeys been regarded as distributing “tickets to the ball.” Therefore, I am unmoved.
Just about every movie I’ve gone to (or at least the ones that I’ve bought a ticket) has a ticket stub with it’s name on it. Until recently, these were scattered in a junk drawer. Now they are organized chronologically with either paperclips or rubber bands keeping them sorted from the other momentos that I’ve kept over the years. I am not a hoarder in the normal sense. I just recognize that the older me will appreciate the memories. Sadly, I couldn’t tell you the plot of nearly half of the movies or plays I’ve gone to. The moments were seized, and the lessons forgotten. Talk about Carpe Diem! SMH
One movie stub that I wish I had kept was from January 9, 2001. Come to think of it, I hadn’t gone out to the movies much prior to that. Probably because I couldn’t justify an $8 movie ticket when I made only $10 an hour straight pay. But this night in particular was before I began collecting memories, before I had a general disregard for public parking restrictions, and before I took my responsibilities seriously.
Mel Gibson (and I believe Helen Hunt) starred in a movie called “What Women Want.” I was on a double date with my wife and her best friend and “her new boo.” What I didn’t know at the time was that this event was orchestrated to afford this new fellow and my wife time together right under my unsuspecting eye. The best friend was no friend of mine and later confessed her role in the ordeal. I was aloof and mystified as to why were having a date night on a Tuesday. Our daughter had been picked up from one set of grand parents in the afternoon, fed and dropped off to the other set of grands in the evening. I had barely seen her all day, and that was who I really wanted to spend my evening with. So it goes without saying that I entirely missed the discrete trist playing out right before my eyes, in the dark, with my wife’s bestie sitting on the other end of the isle.
I couldn’t tell you what the movie was about. Wasted ticket, if you asked me! I just wanted to pick up my daughter from my in-laws and scoot home. When we got there to pick her up, however, my father-in-law had a grave look on his face.
“I have bad news,” he said.
“What’s up?” I replied.
“We just got a call that your dad died tonight…”
The rest was a blur. It would appear that my dad arranged a ticket to damnation that night. By his own hand, he decided that this night would be his last. Rather than awaiting paradise, he believed that his life here on earth was too grim to bare.
For years after that, I memorialized my father by going to that same movie theater on January 9. Sometimes at midday to catch a matinee. Other years, I’d go in the evening. Always alone. Always unannounced. Always with the biggest tub of popcorn and the largest refillable Coke Combo. And yet I cannot find the ticket stubs from any of these movies. I am certain that I paid. I am certain that I was there! But no evidence.
This year, I forgot. If it weren’t for Facebook reminding me of my past posts on this date, I might not have even thought about my dad. I’ve long stopped looking in the mirror when I awaken because his reflection in my mirror has long since lost it’s excitement.
On that cold January night, two types of tickets were purchased. One gained admittance to a movie and a subsequent affair. The other granted access to another world.
“Dearly beloved We are gathered here today To get through this thing called “life” Electric word, life It means forever and that’s a mighty long time But I’m here to tell you there’s something else The afterworld A world of never ending happiness You can always see the sun, day or night“*
I’d like to imagine my dad looking down on me from heaven from time to time, but my mom tarnished the idea long ago. She demanded that I remember that suicide is an unforgivable sin. I don’t talk to her any more.
I don’t have ticket stubs from the best movies. Instead, I own those movies. Purple Rain, The Color Purple, The Fast and the Furious Saga…heck, I’m a fan.
I suppose the things we think we want to remember and the things we don’t need to remember aren’t as important as the unpaid parking tickets in a box in the attic. I merely hope that my story is meaningful enough to my kin…so that they’ll know why I used to disappear for a couple of hours on January 9 every year. And as for those parking tickets, well…I am in no hurry to reconcile them.
Are you a fan of acronyms? There are so many that we use in education, government policy, and advertising that too often they contribute to the miseducation, misdirection, and manipulation of what was once a very basic society.
But today, I don’t want to focus on the the fallacies of society. Instead let’s plan a little game. Would you like to play a game?
The google image of Jigsaw wouldn’t load. IYKYK
At this point, most readers may have decided to not continue reading. And this is to YOUR advantage. Do you know what “click bait” is? Just in case you are not familiar with this term, it is a method by which content publishers will trick you into “clicking” on an image to either engage you or trick you into adding data that invigorates their algorithms. Not every website asks for your permission to analyze your “cookies” so don’t be surprised to discover that most of us are just Guinea Pigs clicking on “not-so-random” internet content.
Now that we’ve got that out of the way (and we’ve narrowed our readers), this game we are going to play will only benefit the author and about five readers. It’s an opportunity to multiply your investment by as much as five.
Here are the rules. First, you must read to the end of this article. There will be instructions “embedded” that will offer an opportunity to earn money. Second, you must share this article (and provide proof) so that others may play the game. Third, if you are so inclined, offer feedback after you’ve been paid in a comment on this platform.
Are you ready?
Let’s see how well you can stay focused. It is reported that the average person can stay focused for as many minutes as they have years on this earth. For clarity, I am a 48 year old man. It is supposed that I can remain focused and engaged for approximately 48 minutes.
I teach 10 year olds. Based on this research, I’ve got about 9.5 minutes to drive my point home before my entire class is disengaged. Needless to say, we won’t be playing this game in school.
So I resort to clever transitions. Sometimes, I will harp into a harmonica to signal a change of activity. We will stop what we are doing and move to another station or topic. Other times, I will simply ask my students to read aloud so that their classmates hear someone else’s voice (and realize that they may be called upon next to contribute to the lesson).
The grade that I teach is departmentalized, which means that the students have the benefit of multiple teachers specializing in a particular subject. Thank goodness my students enjoy their math and science lessons with more qualified teachers. From me, they learn how to read stories and how to write them.
The stories we read are written by authors who want to teach a lesson about the truth or inspire the readers to dream beyond the text. When my students realize that not every story is believable, their brain muscles kick into overdrive. Hands raise. Questions are asked. And every now and then, we draw meaningful conclusions.
Let’s take a break for a moment. We are playing a game, right? Why are we talking about students? Why aren’t we focusing on the rules of the game instead? Ah but we are!
This is Halloween weekend in the United States (*brief disclosure: we have international readers that we want to acknowledge). The tradition of “trick or treating” has been diluted over the generations. Instead of children dressed as monsters or heroes, anyone with a sack can beg for candy under the expectation that the person offering the candy is required to do so. This is but one of many ways we’ve been modeling entitlement to our children. But instead of traveling down that dark road, let me reminisce of a time before the “Tylenol Scare” and after the pagan holiday was glorified.
Halloween is contemporary speak for Hallows Eve—the night before the Holy Season begins. And very much like Mardi Gras, most of the Western Hemisphere looses their mother-loving minds at the opportunity to act foolish before the traditional “fasts” and worship begins. For 40 days after both Halloween and Mardi Gras, we are supposed to atone for our misgivings. Imagine that!
In both fiction and non-fiction narratives, the numbers 3 and 7 have major significances. Think about the various stories you’ve read that revolve around the number 3 (i.e. 3 Little Pigs, Goldilocks, etc). Then consider the biblical significance of the number 7 (on the seventh day…). Despite the global significance of 10’s and 12’s, our calendars and watches reflect an understanding of 4’s and quarters (number of weeks in a month and 1/4 of an hour on a clock).
But what of the number 40? I transitioned into my 40th year on this earth with a person who declared her worth focused on the fact that she had spent 40 years “in waiting.” Only a few years older than me, she believed her suffrage was essential to claiming all that she was entitled. And she expected me to do the same. We spent three years together. It was an interesting journey that I took with this person, but in the end I couldn’t tolerate what I didn’t understand. Not everything that glitters is gold-ish.
Seven years ago this weekend, I ended that relationship. I justified my position by explaining to her that had I understood what I was committing myself to three years earlier, I wouldn’t have bothered. She was certain that the evil of the world was brewing, causing us to break up on Halloween. But in fact, I just didn’t want to enter into another holy season with someone who was not good for my spirit. THAT and the fact that just three years earlier, my ex got engaged on Halloween. This shouldn’t have played any role in my decision making, but it still haunted me. (Pun intended)
Are you still with me? Good! I can’t be certain how old you are, but the age-to-attention ratio may have you looking at your watch soon. 😆
As we transition into another season (physically, mentally, spiritually, and metaphorically), consider how many times you’ve watched the leaves change. And notice how alike the plural of “leaf” and the word that means “depart from” are to each other.
How many pumpkin-flavored treats have you enjoyed (or feigned away from)? Will Christmas for your children be the same experience as your own? What will the Pentecost look like for you in 2023?
I have more years behind me than I do in front of me. I watch my childhood heroes wither. I know that the man in the mirror has aged in ways different from how his acquaintances see him. His political views have evolved along with experiences. And his tolerances are not the same as they were. Autumn in his life brings with it an acceptance that there wont be many more Springs (for him). But for the children he teaches, their world will be far different.
I recognize that by this point, I may have lost many of my readers. I’ve literally banked on this. Now for good posture, refer to the rules in the fifth paragraph. This will be an exercise of faith, not so much in the universe but in your game master.
Be one of the first 5 readers to send one dollar to this cashAp below. Within 24 hours, you will receive $5 back to the same account that you donated from. This game is limited to the first five readers. After all, I’ve only got $25 to work with. Your investment will multiply by five. You must SHARE this to your social media platform. Then provide proof that you’ve shared it by leaving feedback in the comments. A screen shot or link should suffice. Heck! The honor system still has a little weight.
Risk disclosure: only 5 readers will win. Donations beyond the first $5 received will fund a charity connected to P7 ERC. Winners will self- declare in the comments below. This initial game will end by November 1, 2022.
I was a kid in the 70s. We lived on the two narrow blocks between the north beach and the inlet at Gardner’s Basin. Friday nights were bustling with the various events hosted just a few blocks away. But Saturdays? That was a whole other animal.
Our house was the tallest on the block—not for stature, but for function. The street level was our basement (because of frequent flooding) and it eluded to the majestic goings-on inside. Whatever happened outside our house was separate from our rituals. The music, the food, and the way the children were raised.
Saturday mornings began with mom playing one of her favorite albums. No radio, no auto reverse cassettes. Record player LPs—the kind she had to gently place the needle on to hear the crackle of every single song. It would play about 4 songs before she’d have to return the needle to the beginning “track”. No wonder some of those songs are ingrained in my spirit!
I don’t recall the aroma of coffee though. Probably because caffeine was banned in our house. My mom subscribed to some old “wives tale” that caffeine would stunt my growth. I dunno.
Instead, the fragrance of buttermilk pancakes and sizzling bacon filled the house. My brothers had already started their chores. As the youngest, sleeping in translated to maximizing tasks before breakfast was ready. It was a team effort. Much like when my brothers delivered the Atlantic City Press. I stayed coddled in the back seat of our Volkswagen Beetle until my brothers would summon me to maximize their tips. My brothers were the worker bees and my mom was the queen bee. I was the cute bee.
The moment my feet hit the floor, my mission was to eat, pray, and love. Not necessarily in that order, the comforts of my home came from family. Chuck Mangione merely provided the musical score. Herb Albert, often sampled by PDiddy and Bad Boy Entertainment, resounded over and over as we cleared the table and swept the floors.
While the neighborhood kids began to spill out onto the streets, Adriatic Avenue was our block. Mr Arthur next door brought his moped from the back ally. Ms. Florence across the street began hanging her linens on her back porch. But in our home we found respite. In our home, we were together. Love looks differently in every home. In our home, there was no comparison. Everything we had, everything we knew came from mom. If it was bizarre, we didn’t know.
Cows milk mixed with powdered milk. Warm Alga syrup for the pancakes and biscuits. FayGo Soda hidden away for mom’s consumption only. The slight hint of incense (or some other natural herb) and the thump of 70s R & B—all with the spiritual objective of moving us from one end of our kingdom to the other.
By noon, many of our tasks had been completed. Each of us began to focus on our own projects. My brothers meeting up with their crew of peers down the street. My dad stopping by after a week with his other family. My mom prettying herself for a weekend of reprieve. None of it made sense when I was a kid, but some of it has more meaning now.
Forty years later, my feet hit the floor differently. My toes aimed at the ceiling for hours prior to getting out of bed. My fingers scroll the multitude of apps until I arrive at my YouTube playlist. Chuck Mangione’s timeless classic Feels So Good fills my en-suite. No fragrances. No one else in my home, kids all grown, and left to my own resources for breakfast. Good morning. Happy Saturday.
msktb 