A Birthday in the Rye

"You know that song 'If a body catch a body comin' through the rye'?....I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all.  Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around--nobody big, I mean--except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff--I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be."

                       Holden Caulfield, in The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger

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I FIRST READ THE CATCHER IN THE RYE in February of 1997. I read it for a legendary class at the University of Iowa called "The Quest for Human Destiny". The class was taught by Dr. Jay Goldstein, a (very, very) foulmouthed Jewish rabbi on the faculty in the religion department. Goldstein was arrogant as hell but man could he teach, and "Quest" was his baby. "Quest" was about answering, or rather, asking, a very simple question: How do you make your life count? The not so subtle subtext: You are going to die. Maybe tomorrow. Now. How do you make your life count?

Every Tuesday and Thursday for fifteen weeks, 800 college kids would pack McBride Auditorium to listen to Goldstein expound on Genesis and Catcher and The Old Man and the Sea and "The Epic of Gilgamesh" and The Death of Ivan Ilych and "Strawberry Wine" and Childhood's End and Bladerunner and A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. I took a notebook and a half worth of notes and I still have them. It was the only class I ever took that if you got there late, you had to stand or sit in the aisle; McBride Auditorium sat over 700 people.

We had two weeks to read Catcher, but I read it in two days. Although Salinger was writing in the 1940's (the book was published in 1951), I felt that he had channeled something within me into those 214 pages of adolescent wandering. Holden Caulfield said everything I thought and, just as crucially, he said it the way I would have said it, had I had the courage to do so.  Holden is 16 and wandering the streets of New York City, but the words fit seamlessly into my 19-year-old-self wandering Hillcrest Residence Hall, away from home for the first time. This book was unlike anything Terry Arends had had us read in American Literature at Sheldon High School; indeed, it was different from anything I had read, ever. It was a big fat middle finger to the literary establishment, and more importantly for me, a big fat middle finger to everything and everyone around me.

*************

When I was all set to go, when I had my bags and all, I stood for a while next to the stairs and took a last look down the goddam corridor. I was sort of crying. I don't know why....then I yelled at the top of my voice, "Sleep tight, ya morons!" I'll bet I woke up every bastard on the whole floor. Then I got the hell out. Some stupid guy had thrown peanut shells all over the stairs, and I damn near broke my crazy neck.

**************

ON JANUARY 21, 1994, WE WERE INFORMED over the high school intercom that two brothers had died in a car accident on the way to school. The younger one was one of my best friends. Another classmate died that summer in another car accident.  The thing I most remember about those funerals is the mothers crying uncontrollably. Two years later, on January 20, 1996, my own mother died suddenly. Exactly one year later, January 20, 1997, another student from Sheldon died in a hunting accident. It was my first day of "The Quest for Human Destiny".

Just over a month later, in the early morning hours of March 1, 1997, I woke up and felt like I was going to die. I knew I wasn't going to, but it felt like it. My breathing was rushed and my heart was pounding and my mind kept saying "You are going to die. How do you make your life count?".  It was the most terrifying thing that I have ever experienced. I went to a psychologist at Student Health and she told me it was a panic attack. She said to stay away from caffeine and alcohol and to distract myself if the panic came back.

I tried to follow her instructions but the attacks kept coming. I was just always worried I was doing something wrong, that I was fucking something up, something bad. You. are. going. to. die. How. do. you. make. your. life. count? Finally, in July, I told my dad what was going on. He made me go to the doctor and the doctor put me on Prozac. The Prozac made me shit but three days later, I was using the forklift at work to set some shingles down and I was all worried about it and then suddenly I realized that even if I fucked up with the shingles, nobody was going to die or anything. Besides, everyone fucks up every now and then.

************

WORD ON THE STREET IS THE CATCHER in the Rye is losing its cachet among young people. I was in the College of Education last spring and they had different lists of books on the wall. Under "Most Overrated", Catcher showed up several times. Last Sunday, there was an article in the New York Times wondering if JD Salinger, and Catcher in particular, are losing their relevance. Is Holden Caulfield too well-to-do, too white, too male, for the 21st century?

Maybe. But let me get a little crazy and turn that around. If Holden Caulfield, white well-to-do male, can suffer as he does the travails of life, it means we all can. More than that. It means we all do. You are going to die. How do you make your life count?

Late in Catcher, Holden sneaks back into his parents' upscale apartment so he can talk to his younger sister, Phoebe. It is during this conversation that that Holden mentions the song "if a body catch a body comin' through the rye." But Phoebe interrupts him: "It's 'If a body meet a body coming through the rye. It's a poem. By Robert Frost." 

Holden wants to be the catcher in the rye. He wants to save people. But the whole time he has it wrong. He just has to meet them, however they might be in that moment.

And now I'm gonna get really crazy. What if, in addition to carrying that attitude for other people, we carried it for ourselves? What if we just meet ourselves wherever we're at, and leave all this saving business to someone, or something, else?

*************

A few summers ago, I went out and bought all the books we read in "The Quest for Human Destiny". My goal was to reread them all, see how they might have changed for me as a man in his late thirties versus a boy in his late teens.

I read a couple of them but then I gave up. Well, I didn't really give up. I just...wasn't interested. At the time I thought I was just being lazy, but now I realize it wasn't that, at least not exactly that. I think that on some subconscious level I  realized that those books, and "Quest", and the winter of 1997, and Hillcrest Residence Hall, they didn't belong in my life anymore.

That was then. This is now.

**************

"I don't want to scare you," [Mr. Antolini] said, "but I can see you dying nobly, one way or another, for some highly unworthy cause." He gave me a funny look. "If I write something down for you, will you read it carefully? And keep it?"

"Yes. Sure," I said. I did, too. I still have the paper he gave me.

"Oddly enough, this wasn't written by a practicing poet. It was written by a psychoanalyst named Wilhelm Stekel. Here's what he--Are you still with me?"

"Yes, sure I am."

"Here's what he said: The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one."

**************

42 years old today. 42 crazy, bewildering, wonderful years, and I hope I have quite a few more. Is 42 more too greedy?

A few years ago, an old friend from those high school and college days asked me, sort of out of the blue, if I was happy.

I did not answer right away, and she thought I was dodging the question, but I wasn't. It's just, I try not to think in those terms anymore, about happiness versus sadness, saved versus unsaved, worthy versus unworthy, my life counting versus not counting. I try to think, Am I living humbly for causes I believe in? Am I meeting people where they're at? Am I leaving the saving to someone, or something, else?

I sure am trying. And if you read this far, know that I am grateful you've been a part of those 42 years, and I hope to meet you in the rye soon, wherever we're both at.

Love, Mark

Chateo con mi amigo Wilmer

Mi primera pieza de fiiccion en espanol para los que les interese...

25 de julio de 2011 a las 13:45

CHATEO CON MI AMIGO WILMER

(12:57 a.m.) YO:  Se me

hacía que ésta ya iba a ser la noche. Palabra que la chama vino con ganitas, se

lo juro pana, todo así vestidita con la blusa algo escotada, tacones altas,

pelo arreglado, toda una damita ahí, me moría por verla, ya son tres veces que

me visita este año, y no es poco eso, esa manejada es de como dos horas.  Palabra que sí.  A ésta hasta las arrugas en la ropa se las

lleva bien, toda así alegrita, «¡Hola mi vida!» me dice y me abraza, me da el

besito de cortesía, «¿Qué vamos a hacer?» me pregunta, «¿Qué vamos a comer?».

«Lo que vos quieras» le digo, «Vos sos la reina de mi casa» y se ríe, ay cómo

me encanta esa risa, vamos y comemos, comida francesa, pana, comida

francesa.  ¿A qué chica que no está para

el romance quiere comer la comida francesa? 

Pero la hubiera visto, así toda peinada pero con unas ganas de comer,

siempre he mantenido  que un buen apetito

para la comida significa un gran apetito para la otra cosa, palabra que sí,

sino lo chimbo es que hasta ahora no tengo chance para comprobarlo.  Pero, ¿qué más? pues, la comida está rica,

claro que no la dejo pagar nada, «¿Cómo crees?» le digo, «Vos sos mi invitada,

da honor tenerte aquí de visita».  Se lo

juro, pana, que todo iba en buena onda, una comida divina y luego pues hablamos

de los planes, «Sabes» me dice, «estoy muerta por lo de manejar, si no te

molesto nomás regresemos a tu casa y descansemos». «Bien» le digo, «aquí no hay

ningún problema».  Hombre, parecía que

iba a ser mi noche, se lo juro.  Llegamos

y saco el vino, tinto por supuesto, y también saco galletas y queso, y las

galletas son de las buenas pana, no esas michis de soda, las de calidad, las

que sirven los ricos en sus fiestitas. 

«¿Pero si estoy llenísima?» me dice y le digo «No comas si no quieres,

pero a mí me parece una pérdida un buen vino sin un queso fino».  Se rió la ésta, ay cómo me encanta su risa,

¿no ve usted que todo iba bien?  «Vemos

una peli» me dice, «Claro que sí» le digo, «Pero primero» me dice, «déjame

cambiarme pa’ que esté más cómoda». 

Palabra que sí lo dijo, justo como en las películas, casi me moría de

nervios, y mientras nos cambiábamos empezó a llover, una tormenta pero de ésas

fuertísimas, con la lluvia y los truenos y los rayos y el viento, como el mismo

Shakespeare lo hubiera marcado.  Sale la

chica de mi cuarto de huéspedes con su mono y el cabello amarrado y unas medias

media raras de varios colores, claro que no me molestaba, se veía así muy linda

y adorable.  Nos sentamos allí medio

cercanos, «Qué quieres ver vos?» le digo y me dijo a mí que escogiera, pero yo

insistí, y ¡mierda!, creo que allí es dónde metí la pata.  He repetido todo mil veces en mi cabeza y

tenía que haber sido allí, nos pusimos a ver a alguna porquería del romance, de

una tipa que anda siempre peleando con un chamo, fue idiota éste, se lo juro, pero

claro que tiene la cara muy bonita y buen labio, y por supuesto la tipa boba

esta va enamorándose de él, y deja plantado al pelotudo que la trataba bien,

palabra pana que ese video me jodió, la chica después se me pone a hablar sin

cesar sobre un tal Ramón, que Ramón esto y Ramón el otro, colega de su trabajo

o no sé qué vaina, que si yo creía que serían buena pareja, que si yo pensaba

que él por fin le iba a devolver sus llamadas. 

«Que vaya al coño Ramón» quise decir, «¿Para qué coño hablas tanto de

Ramón? ¿No ves que yo estoy aquí disponible y listo?»  Claro que no se lo dije, pero mierda, quise

gritarle a los cielos «¡Ramón es cabrón! ¡Ramón es cabrón!». Hasta hace rima,

¿no ve?  Palabra que ni me recuerdo de lo

que dije, ella así toda ensimismada con el tal Ramón, y yo el pelotudo allí con

cara de bobo, medio prendido con mi vino fino, el estómago revolcándose por mi

queso tan bueno y la poca tolerancia que tengo yo a la lactosa.  Se acabó la película y ni tuve energía para

hacer otro intento, seguro que aunque lo hubiera conseguido ella hubiera

gritado «¡Ay, Ramón!» en vez de mi nombre. 

Le dije que estaba cansado y ella me dijo que ella también, nos dimos

los malditos besitos de cortesía de siempre, le juro que estoy rete harto de su

cachete pana, y nos retiramos a nuestros cuartos.  Separados. 

Qué chimbo, aquí está ella, bajo mi propio techo, y aquí me encuentro

chateando con usted, no ofensa, usted es mi pana y todo, pero no sé qué pasó

con la chica esta, debió haber sido la maldita película de mierda, las mujeres

siempre buscando imposibilidades, usted sabe cómo es.  Espero que el tal Ramón vaya a la mierda. En

cambio yo sí voy pa’ la mierda, el lunes me va a fregar como no tiene idea,

todos del trabajo sabían de su visita, yo como bobo contándoselo a todo el

bendito mundo, ahora las mujeres dirán «Y, ¿ya son novios?» y los hombres me

dirán «Y, ¿te la tiraste?», y palabra que no sé que voy a decir, diré supongo

«Ramón es cabrón» y esperaré que eso lo diga todo.  Ay, pero, en serio, pana, se me hacía que

ésta era la noche, que por fin me iba a declarar y ella mi iba a aceptar, pero

qué macana, todo salió mal, debió haber sido esa bendita película que la

distrajo, ¿no cree? ¿Qué opina usted, pana?

<p>(1:31 A.M.)</p>WILMER: Usted a ella no le gusta. Acéptelo y váyase a dormir.

Pendejo.

Bueno, para algo son los amigos, ¿no?

FIN

Being there

Yesterday I completed year #18 of professional teaching. 18 years of lesson planning, lesson grading,  reflections, meetings, discipline referrals, parent-teacher conferences, informal chats in the hallway, formal chats in the principal's office, not to mention 18 years of performances, 6 periods a day, those performances we euphemistically like to call "teaching". Along the way, there's been 2nd grade, 4th grade, 7th grade, 8th grade, college students, and an 75 year old man trying to learn English. There's been students who absolutely loved being in my class, and students who couldn't wait to be done with my class. No matter their age, though, and no matter their feelings towards me, I have tried to be there for all of them.

*********

June 7 is the latest day, by far, I've ever finished teaching. Between a calendar that already stretched long, and the worst Iowa winter in the last quarter century (we missed 11 days of school), the school year stretched almost unimaginably long, challenging (but not changing) my long-held belief that we need to move to year-round schooling as long as buildings are air conditioned.

I think it was meant to be, though. Yesterday was the kind of day that every last day of school should be, warm but not hot, sunny with puffy clouds, a nice breeze. We ate lunch at the track, I threw the football around and played a little soccer, and then jumped into the pool early in the afternoon, and I swear I have never felt pool water at a better temperature. At 1:00 we headed back to the school. The eighth graders going to high school last year formed a tunnel for the sixth and seventh graders on the way out. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?" I asked them. "It doesn't matter," one of them shouted back. And they were right. It didn't matter at all.

*********

There is one particular positive aspect of the teaching profession that a lot of people don't recognize. (No, it's not the summers off; everyone recognizes that....). It's that we have a discrete beginning and a concrete end each school year, a feeling of being done. This is so important, psychologically, in a profession that is notorious for burnout and psychological stress (google "Xanax and teachers"). And with each year, we greet some new students, and send some students on to the next level, whatever that may be.

In my current iteration as an educator, the new students I see are seventh graders, and no matter how many older siblings or cousins I've taught, no matter how many high fives I've exchanged with the then-6th graders, there are always a few that I don't know at all, a group I'll have to get to know, their strengths and nuances, their idiosyncrasies, so that I can best be there for them. And the students I send on are 8th graders, to high school, to another building, students I've worked with in one class in 7th grade and two in 8th grade. We definitely get to know each other; sometimes we even get sick of each other. Not that much, though. Not nearly so much as you'd think.

********

After school yesterday, we gathered at a colleague's house to celebrate another successful school year. It was well-attended: 25 junior high teachers that welcomed me in after 11 years of being an elementary teacher. We were on a back deck that was, quite literally, constructed for such occasions, eating snacks and having some of those adult beverages that a teacher can really use after 178 student contact days. We told stories and caught up with each other (teaching can be surprisingly lonely, considering you're constantly surrounded). Did I mention the weather was perfect yesterday?

I've worked with a lot of teachers over the years and each group has a bit of a different contour. Junior high teachers, I've found over the last five years, tend to have a wicked sense of humor that is necessary to fend off uniquely junior high behavior and verbal attacks. There is definitely a sense of reality as the students begin to turn in to whoever it is they will be, and yet the act itself, of teaching these kids, of working with them seven hours a day for 178 student contact days, is an unbridled, indeed radical, act of optimism, a statement that practically screams to students, who sometimes desperately need to hear it, "You can do it, and we will help you. We will be here for you."

***********

Two days ago, the real last day of school, the last day we actually had classes and taught (or "taught", as the case may be), I gave my standard speeches. I try to keep it light; junior high kids, I've found, generally aren't big on sentimentality.

To the seventh graders: "In two months, you'll be back in this room, but as an eighth grader. And you'll have to deal with me twice a day then!"

To the eighth graders: "I have really enjoyed my time with you guys. Now you're heading off to high school, but don't forget about us here. Stop back and say hi every once in a while."

They left, for the last time. One kid, mature for her age but in a good way, a fun way, stopped. She seemed a bit at a loss for words. "Well, Mr. Plum..."she began, "...thanks. Thanks for a really good two years."

"No," I said, "thank you. I've always said, I learn more teaching than I ever could learning."

She smiled. She got it. I love it when they get it!

She shook my hand and said "See ya around, Mr. Plum."

I turned and walked back into my room. It was empty and quiet. To my surprise, my eyes stung a little bit. I tried move some desks around, to distract myself, but I stopped. I was feeling something...something I couldn't put my finger on.

Two days later, I think maybe I've figured it out. I think maybe, maybe it's not so much that I'm there for my students.

I think maybe, maybe it's more that they're there for me.

Pensamientos al azar - Un día en Long Beach, California

I lay in a strange bed 2000 miles from home and I'm thinking about turning the light out, but it's just not quite time yet I don't think, y hay un sueño rico que me está cayendo encima que bien merezco, ahora que pienso salí hace 14 horas para el Long Beach Convention Center, todavía no tenía lista mi presentación (yes, I procrastinated a little but so what?) y de ahí pues ni modo, vi a una presentación excelente donde me dijeron que en el castellano sí se puede usar run-on on sentences así que lo estoy haciendo para probarle el punto, aunque la mera verdad creo que lo podría hacer en inglés también pero coño no me dan ganas, ahorita español más tarde inglés o tal vez no, tal vez el inglés se acabó para hoy, e igual creo que voy a apagar esta bendita luz porque ya me tiene harto, pues no harto pero como que ya es hora, you know?

***********

Hoy hice una presentación a un grupo de 30 o 40 personas aquí en Long Beach. Hablé sobre todo sobre lo que hago, especialmente en Culturas Mundiales, y no sé. Pues la mera verdad no sé, porque fíjese que varias personas me elogiaron y después estuve en un pasillo de la Convention Center cuando una madre me llamó, por poco no me invita al grado de su hija que es en mayo, y queriendo ponerse en contacto conmigo, y allí invitándome al CABE de San Francisco de 2020, y como que lo que había hecho como profesor, técnicamente, no importaba, sino la pasión (su palabra, no la mía). Y supongo que si viajé más de dos mil millas y pues una o dos o tres personas quedaron impactadas, pues, es mejor que si hubiera hecho ese viaje y nadie fuera impactado, ¿verdad?

************

Después de mi presentación estuve un poco high, ¿no?, no de la mota, nohombre, sino de esa adrenalina que le da a uno presentar a un grupo desconocido. Y fui y compré un taco y una Coca-cola y disfruté del sol. De ahí comenzó a bajarse el sol y no ves, tengo mis días contados aquí en California y una de mis metas es ver el anochecer en el mar. Y como que no tenía ganas de regresar a mi cuarto todavía así que "Ande, gringo, ande" me dije y fui a pasear por toda esa vaina comercial que queda por allí, y allí hubo un muelle semi-permanente pero más importante, público. Y salí hasta el final del muelle y quedaban unos 15 minutos todavía hasta el anochecher y como que estaba cansado de estar parado, me senté estilo yoga, pero lo que acabé haciendo era literalmente echarme allí en el muelle, debí haberme visto como toda una joya allí pero que importa, soy de Iowa y nadie sabe quién carajo soy. Y al echarme, se podía sentir el movimiento del muelle--poco, pero perceptible y constante. Y me puse a pensar, aquí está el agua bien calmadita y todo, y este muelle bien pesado y todo, pero nos movía todavía. Y pensé que el mar es un poco como Dios, que como a veces pensamos que somos como Dios y que podemos controlar nuestras vidas, pero al fin y al cabo pues somos unos bichos bien pequeñitos y impotentes frente semejante poder, y el mar nos moverá cuando le dé la reverenda gana.

************

Después de mi junta espiritual con el mar, regresé a mi cuarto pero me daban ganas todavía, no sé de qué exactamente, pero de no estar encerrado en mi cuarto. Ya no bebo pero ni modo, por acacito hay un barcito por aquí que se llama el 36-36 y me comí unos tacos. Luego me decían que hoy otro bar famoso que se llama el Reno Room y pues ni modo, una Coca-cola más no mata a nadie. Y fui allí y la mesera me vino y no entendí porque me dijo que era de Coconeros, pero yo pensé que estaba en el Reno Room, pero ella me dijo que Coconeros hacía la comida del Reno Room, y bueno de ahí aún no entendía pero yo soy medio brutico, así que ni modo, pero sí le pedi chips y salsa, la verdad no tenía hambre, y pareció como chévere la chica, se me hacía que hablaba español pero esas cosas no se preguntan. Y ahí en el bar estaban dando el juego de béisbol entre los Oakland A´s y los Seattle Mariners, en vivo desde Japón, y justo estuvo por batear uno de mis jugadores favoritos de all-time, Ichiro Suzuki. Hizo una pelota rodeada para un out y le dije al tipo de mi lado, "Por ahí habrá la última bateada de Ichiro" porque se está jubilando hoy día. Y sí lo sacaron en la próxima entrada y todo el mundo aplaudiéndole, bien merecido, un jugador único. Y la vaina es que lo celebraron unos minutos, yeh, qué chévere, pero de ahí pusieron el suplemento y siguió el béisbol. El béisbol, como la vida, ni para para sus estrellas y luces más grandes. Y de ahí vi hasta el final de la entrada, y de ahí me levanté y me fui. Fue mi pequeña forma de honrarle al Ichiro.

Salí del Reno Room y caminé literalmente 20 pies y vi una señal para "Coconeros". Y cuando me puse a ver por la ventana, Coconeros estaba conectado al otro lado del Reno Room, y de ahí todo tuvo sentido, que Coconeros servía la comida y Reno Room las bebidas. Y ya había pasado el Coconeros pero algo me dijo que pasara de nuevo, y lo hice y justo ahí la mesera chévere alzó la vista y me vio y sonrió y me saludó con la mano con ganas, y yo también lo hice, y esas cosas pasan, you know? Y no sé por qué pero fue algo bonito y como la nota perfecta en donde acabar la noche, una sonrisa gratuíta de alguien que apenas conocí y nunca más volveré a ver.  No quería que ella pensara que fuera creepy pasando por ahí mil veces, así caminé alrededor de la cuadra y regresé a la casa y me bañé y ¿no ves?, escribí todo esto....

************

Ya estoy como calentico y los ojos me están comenzando a pesar. ¡Y todavía no apago esa maldita luz! Enseguida lo haré, y la mera verdad  es que quiero mucho porque estoy muerto, pero la mera verdad también es que cuando me duerma, se me habrá acabado este día con madres agradecidas y meseras chéveres y la jubilación del Ichiro y el movimiento del muelle en el mar. Y como que por eso escribí, ¿no? Para que de cierta forma nunca se me acabara....

--Mark

Los pensamientos de un gringo mientras su tren sale de Salamanca, España (August 3, 2010)

3 de agosto de 2010 a las 08:25

Adiós, Salamanca. Chao y hasta luego. En cuanto me despido de ti veo tus calles angostas, tus edificios, todos uniformes en su construcción de piedras amarillas, la historia que siempre está soplando por sus vías, las catedrales más inmensas que los rascacielos de Madrid. Veo museos, tienditas, cafés, y una Plaza cuya belleza sería la envidia de cualquier ciudad del mundo.

Y ahora que estamos en las afueras de la ciudad, yo no te veo tan claramente, pero sigo con este clavo en mi corazón, y me pregunto del por qué. En fin, ¿no es una ciudad sólo la suma de sus estructuras? ¿O será que la Salamanca que conocí yo tuvo algo más, algo no visible pero aún así más real? ¿Qué pasa con los chistes contados con sangría en la Plaza Mayor, la abundancia de papas fritas en el comedor, el semi-Dios Jorge que nos servía de guía, de los chupitos, ah los chupitos, símbolos de amistad, compartidos entre unos profesores locos, echados todos en una olla grande de la cual salió la sopa más deliciosa que jamás he tomado?

Esta Salamanca…esta Salamanca, por más veces que vuelva a verla, nunca volverá a ser. Esto es una verdad que me gustaría evitar enfrentar, pero ahí está, en fin. Así que no es “Hasta luego, Salamanca.” Mejor dicho, “Hasta nunca, Salamanca.”

***********

Bueno. ¿Qué más? Veo por la ventana el campo de España, y es más que claro que mi Salamanca se me ha quedado para siempre en el pasado. Hasta ahora no lloro pero siento ganas, puede que sea en cualquier momento que se me salen las lágrimas, pues dado que mi Salamanca consiste tanto de polacos como italianos, húngaros como franceses, marruecos como checos, rumanos como estadounidenses, rusos como bélicos, todos estos que en su propia forma me han llegado a tocar el alma, que me han hecho ver el mundo aún nuevo, pues nuevo cada día. Y bueno, supongo que hasta los más cínicos entre nosotros tendrán que admitir que los emails y los Facebooks han creado un mundo nuevo, una red que transcurre todo el planeta. Y bien, será ese mundo solamente virtual, sí, pero, ¿qué son las ideas, los pensamientos, hasta los propios sentimientos, si no son virtuales?

¿Querrá decir….querrá decir que aunque me haya ido, físicamente, de Salamanca, que Salamanca queda al alcance de mis dedos? ¿Qué ella, fiel a su magia eterna, puede seguir palpitando dentro de cada uno de nosotros que pudo ser parte de ella? ¿Qué tal vez decirle “Hasta luego” o “Hasta nunca” a Salamanca fue una equivocación, hasta una grave injusticia?

Creo que sí.

**********

Nos estamos acercando a una pequeña aldea, rumbo a Madrid. Salamanca sigue atrás, lamentablemente, pero ya no me vale tanto. Salamanca está aquí en mi bolsillo, con todos los correos electrónicos que ustedes me han dado, con las cuales construiremos una nueva Salamanca, virtual sí, pero no menos genuina que la de las piedras y museos que acabamos de dejar en nuestro pasado. Nuestra Salamanca queda no sólo en el presente sino también en el futuro, un futuro en lo cual cada uno de nosotros tiene unas docenas de amigos nuevos internacionales, que siempre vivirá en cada uno de nosotros, y en lo cual estaremos, el uno para el otro, siempre tan cerca como un “clic” en la computadora.

Hasta siempre, Salamanca. Hasta siempre.

You Can Never Leave (August 13, 2009)

13 de agosto de 2009 a las 00:02

It's pretty funny, I'm 9 minutes (and counting) from birthday number 32, and for some gosh darn (edited) reason I decided to check my facebook before going to sleep tonight. And not that I was really focusing in on it or anything, but you kind of notice: like 50% of my Facebook friends are from my high school or from those years in general. And I kind of consider myself a guy who has been out and seen the world and made his own mark and all that B.S., and yet...it all comes back to Sheldon. So I wonder, how many have that experience? Not just Sheldon people, but all people: what percentage of your Friends grew up within 30 miles of your hometown? For most of us, I imagine it's an astonishing percentage.

It's so funny, but it kind of relates to a statistic I was talking about tonight with a buddy of mine. We were talking about marriage, and about two seemingly contradicting numbers: One, those who marry younger tend to divorce in higher numbers. Two, the best percentage of lasting marriages are those of high school sweethearts.

What's up with this?? It's all about home. You either marry with someone whom you know so well, it totally gels, or you marry someone whom you think you know, and then one of you gets all freaky and deicdes to leave because you need to discover your true self. Which is all well and good, except for that it seems that those of us who do that, tend to have even worse marriage experiences than those who don't.

Not that I'm cynical. Just rambling, and I have the right...as of one minute ago, I am 32. Love you all,

Mark

Waving the White Flag

"I do not have to fight anybody or anything anymore."

Anonymous -- from Daily Reflections, June 22

MANY WISE MEN AND WOMEN, far more spiritually progressed than I can claim to be, have come to this realization and point to it as one of their keys in maintaining and progressing in their spiritual health. "When I fight authority," as the great philosopher John Cougar Mellencamp once observed, "authority always wins." You can substitute many things for the word "authority": the weather, the police, the courts, death, alcohol, drugs, sugary food, or God Him-or-Her-self--the idea is the same. We, as mere mortal and flawed human beings, cannot "win", at least in any conventional sense of the word; paradoxically, our best chance at winning comes in surrendering.

With this realization comes obvious, if unsettling, parallels. Specifically, I write today of what is happening in our country and in this state (not, thank God, in this city--yet) in the age of Trumpism. (An aside: I define "Trumpism" loosely--a time of high economic insecurity and inequality, heightened racial tensions, tribal politics, and what some commentators have dubbed "the post-truth era", when an agreed-upon set of facts does not exist and thus allows a highly amoral and incompetent person to win the presidency of the United States. I give Donald Trump himself very little credit--or alternately, place very little blame on him--for the current state of affairs; he just happens to be president right now, hence "Trumpism". For people I blame more, see "Koch, Charles and David" and "Robertson, Pat" and "Powell Memo, the").

In this moment, goings-on at the state and national levels are almost, perhaps completely, out of my hands. Yet for the better part of the last 18 months, I (I suspect, like many like-minded Iowans and Americans) have followed the news--television, newspaper, Facebook, iPhone--to a near obsessive degree. It became my primary form of entertainment--or, perhaps more accurate, I ceased to entertain myself. I kept waiting for that one last metaphorical nail in the coffin of Trumpism and its many cancerous outgrowths (cutting the social safety net, crazy-ass abortion bans, lowering the minimum wage, etc.).

But it never came. Slowly, it dawned on me that the only people in a position to do anything (Congressional Republicans on the national level, Iowa Republicans on the state level) were, in fact, not going to be moved; if anything, they were taking advantage ("Never let a good crisis go to waste" goes the old political adage).

But I digress. This wasn't supposed to be a political post. It is supposed to be spiritual in nature (although who says the two can't co-exist? Oh right, the Bible...). So let me try and right the ship.

***********

Over the last several weeks, I came to realize that no matter how much time Mark Plum devoted to Vox or MSNBC--and this is not a criticism of their important, and generally high-quality, work--very little, that is to say nothing, was changing. I gradually came to suspect that to continually (24/7) receive, and worse, depend upon, an unstoppable onslaught of news of the horrors and cruelties of these political times was not, surprisingly, facilitating my powers to change them. Alas, it was the other way around: it was forming an impenetrable, self-reinforcing and downright surreal bubble around me that left me impotent in its presence. When the attacks just keep coming from all sides, one finds little left to do but curl up, fetal position, on the ground, and just pray that the arrows stop flying.

So I declared a truce. "Truce" is not the right word; "truce" implies that (at least) two sides are going to stop fighting, and my action is a unilateral one. On the other hand, it is a perfect world, in the sense that my truce is not with myself and some other entity, but within myself. To feel sadness, horror, empathy, is a valid reaction in these times. To feel guilt, shame or inadequacy is not only an invalid reaction, it is self-defeating.

So: world, in general, and political and social "conservatives", more specifically. Actually, to be perfectly specific: to the parts of me that are disgusted by what the latter are doing: accept my white flag. I'm not going to dwell on you anymore. I'm going to acknowledge you and move on. Don't be confused: I'm not saying I agree in any way, but I don't agree either with tornadoes or hurricanes or earthquakes, and I can't prevent those. I'm simply acknowledging the current state of affairs and recognizing that I can't change it, at least not by just obsessing over the news and all by myself. All those folks are out of my control. I admit it, because that's how it is, and I'm not being all I can be without accepting it.