Our Faces When...

For three years, Lachelle and I have worked as part of a team at the residence hall. We often wear similar colors, finish each others' sentences, pray together, stay up late at a kitchen table while she does graduate work and I grade papers, or we sit there with tea and talk everything over. 

But what do our interactions with the students look like? Behold, Our Faces When...

... a student sets off the alarm at 1 a.m. for no reason.

... a student refuses to lift the trash bag off the floor, and ends up getting a line of trash juice from the bathroom to the dumpster.

... a student doesn't understand why he is grounded after breaking curfew.

[Photo credit: Vy Ho]

Robin Rescue

I've told you before about the mother robin in her nest that's visible from the dorm office, in a small, gratuitous vista where the windows line up just so. This mother robin may be a different one from that of prior posts, I'm not sure, for she seems to remain quite aloof, never drawing near when some human inhabits the porch. Her babies just hatched three days ago, but had made not a stir upon their arrival, and so I had assumed they were still eggs.

Around 7:30 yesterday morning, I was performing whatever office duties are necessary in those three hours before another soul is awake on a weekend, when a giant, malevolent crow swooped under the gable, batted its wings for a moment in front of the nest, and flew off once more, carrying a hatchling in its beak. In the process, the entire nest was knocked to the ground, leaving four newly-hatched robin babies barely moving about on the cement porch.

A pitiful sight it was: one little brother with tiny fuzzy feathers inched himself around on the porch, subject to the biting morning wind. A smaller one fell out of the sideways nest, and rolled a bit, but could not lift his own head. Neither were old or strong enough, it seemed, even to chirp.

I am ashamed to say my reaction was merely to watch with heartache. I thought surely there was nothing I could do. I had the notion that if I interfered, the mother would not touch her babies again, or worse, I might be subjecting myself to some kind of bird disease. Gloves occurred to me, but only in passing.

Grace, an ambitious, excited tenth-grader who hopes to be a crime scene investigator, had just woken up, and was now keeping vigil with me. Her first remarks, I think, had to do with perhaps intervening, but I gave her my thoughts on the subject, which made her feel that it was impossible to save them. Dissuaded, she began to expound without abstraction on the Darwinian example before us, even asking if she might be permitted to dissect one of the unfortunates. I told her it would be indecent to discuss the matter until they were certainly dead.

The mother robin had returned to find her hard-built nest fallen, one baby taken, another (a large, but entirely featherless one) sprawled out in death, and three barely moving but to shiver. She squawked in anger from the deserted perch. Another robin hailed her, and they surveyed the wreckage. It was tragic; how can I tell you? I wanted to know how an animal comes back after such a devastation; could I learn from her example? She moved from floor to perch to ground to banister, chirping about her losses to the wide sky and the robin world. The crows were not listening. She could not rescue her babes.

Finally, Grace and I surveyed the disaster up close instead of through a window. It looked so easy to push the creatures back into their nest, and put the nest back. Grace was already arrayed in gloves, and fearless, ready for the impending and promised dissection. Without needing the ladder, she had all the living back in place before I had even arrived. We went away, hoping the mother would not reject her young despite our meddling.

But Robin did no such thing. She seemed overjoyed to have her life re-assembled for her. A day later, I see three little craning necks supporting three tiny and vigorous beaks in their rescued nest. The mother flies in and out, in and out to give them each their fill. She needed help. Grace had the courage to give it.

What became of the dead baby bird? I wish I could skip this part: Grace dissected it on a foam plate on the table.

Leaving the Dorm: Thoughts and a Prayer

"You Can Never Go Home Again"
I explain this concept a lot when I talk with residence hall students about returning home. After several months abroad, with unfamiliar food, less-than-clean bathrooms, loud roommates, and boring Sundays, they have in their heads an idealized version of what being at home will be. They imagine the simultaneity of all their favorite things. They imagine being able to control their lives, only sunny days.

I have learned that home is growing even while we're growing in another place. We (who "we" are, precisely, I'm not qualified to say) have this tendency to complain about wherever we are, then to idealize it when it's gone.

It seems right to attempt to disabuse them by explaining the phrase, "you can never go home again." (And I promise I don't whisper it in a raspy voice, like a threat...)

The Menial and the Repetitious
Last night, as everyone was headed to their halls around 10 pm, Wendy (a tenth-grader) and I sat on the floor in the hall, and talked about our impending loss of each other's company. We agreed that even though I would visit next year, "It just won't be the same." What is it about how things are right now that's so good? How is the menial and repetitious so sacred? And why don't we notice it in the moment?

What do I mean by the menial and repetitious? Just the normal stuff.
The people who live here just do normal stuff together:

- We say goodnight five or six nights a week. 

- We eat breakfast together once or twice a week. And when we are sitting there in the cafeteria at 7:20 am, we barely say anything. There is nothing to say. (We clearly stayed up too late last night, and every night.)

- We take the trash out together late at night.

- We laugh at Youtube videos. 

- We complain about the weather. 

- We talk about food, teachers, classes, and homework.

- And on a not-so-rare occasion, we talk about the heart and its workings. 

Next year I'll be on the outside of it all. I'll be back for visits. But it won't be the same, because life is built with the menial and the repetitious. I know that I have already lived some of my greatest moments, and am unaware of what they were: it was something I said, did, or did not say that a student will remember forever, that may change the way he or she treats his or her own kids... and who knows where that ends!?

A Prayer
God,
I'm humbled when I think of the impact of all those interactions, for better or for worse.
If there is glory to be had, may it be yours alone! 

Unlike Odysseus, I Know When to Give Up

In ninth grade English, we read portions of The Odyssey. Today we were in Book 10, where Odysseus meets Circe, who has just turned his men to swine. But Odysseus was made immune by the god Hermes, at Zeus' request. Since her first plan did not work, Circe attempts to ensnare Odysseus (presumably) by making love to him. 

After Odysseus makes her promise that she'll do no more witch's tricks, he goes to bed with her.

At this, my class was outraged! 

Student 1: "Again!?" 

Student 2: "This guy!" 

Student 3: "Isn't he still married!?" 

Richard (the one and only): "Did they at least use protection on this island?"

Greg: "Yeah, that's what the Trojan War was all about."

Class. Over.

Thoughts on Berry's Hannah Coulter

In the booth at the cafe I sat, crying my eyes out as I read Wendell Berry's Hannah Coulter. Hannah told me about her gratitude in having a community surrounding her for her whole life. She told me of the trials and joys, and gave thanks to God for all of it. As I bawled, I thought of all the dying farms, the broken communities, the people dying alone and forsaken, the strip malls, the brokenness of our society that plans for things to break down so it can sell us something new. And it is right to cry for it.

Though the book is Hannah's recollections covered in gratitude, it is a lament. In chapter 22, she considers the changes wrought in her farming community, once so tightly-knit, but now,

The old neighborliness has about gone from it [...]. The old harvest crews and their talk and laughter at kitchen tables loaded with food have been replaced by machines, and by migrant laborers who eat at the store. The old thrift that once kept us alive has been replaced by extravagance and waste. People are living as if they think they are in a movie. They are all looking in one direction, toward "a better place," and what they see is no thicker than a screen.

Hannah laments for all of us, for she finds the old, communal ways to be the more fulfilling, though they cost more sweat. She is one who has made this transition from the sweat, grit, and teamwork of farm life to

... [A] new century, also a new millennium, and it is the same world still. Here in Port William, it seems, we are waiting. For what? For the last of the old rememberers and the old memories to disappear forever? For the coming of knowledge that will make us a community again? For the catastrophe that will force us to become a community again? For the catastrophe that will end everything? For the Second Coming?

Berry has said it well. He is shouting it through Hannah's quiet reflections out her kitchen window, dishtowel in hand. We wait for some catastrophe to knock the phones out of our hands. We wait for the electricity to go out so that I can stop writing this post, and go out into the 72°-non-humid weather and LIVE. We wait for rescue from our insularity, because we can't extricate ourselves. We love shows like Revolution, and books like The Hunger Games because they show what we hope we really are inside: clever survivors, courageous fighters, people who matter. We hope we can make our own way when it comes down to it: kill our own meat, raise our own crops, carry our own water. But it rarely seems to "come down to it" when we have grocery stores and water taps. And we fear the loss of it all quite deeply. Did I say "we"? I meant me.

Not only was Hannah Coulter thought-provoking, it was at times simply provoking, for I can't quite feel satisfied with his farm utopia. He speaks of membership as if it were something everyone had but doesn't have anymore. He speaks of landowning as its own heaven, farming and housework as if they were their own salvation. He speaks of death as if people used to be quite comfortable dying, but are not anymore.

He speaks of education as though it were un-redemptive--and he's not just talking about the educational system in the U.S., but any education that requires a person to go away from home. Well, a job might as easily do that if there were a drought in the farmland. Education can bring you away from home, yes, but education only empowers a person to do what's in his or her heart. There's the test.

And so Hannah was entirely satisfied with the simple life? Maybe she was. Or maybe she's just a hope that Berry cherishes: that silence and hard work alone will feed our souls all they need. So much so. But Christ is all. And I am certain that he calls us to silence and hard work more often than I hear; but it is his call. 

"Two Dads": The Story of a Parent-Teacher Conference

One get-to-know-you activity that I do at the beginning of each semester involves standing in front of the class and sharing a few things about yourself. (Whatever, okay? It works.)

Richard Beeler had just finished and was in a hurry to return to his seat. I quickly asked him, "Richard, can you add one interesting fact about your family?"

"I have two dads," he said without hesitation.

I thought that was interesting. I didn't know of any other gay parents at this school. Or perhaps he meant that his mother remarried, and he called his stepfather dad also. I noticed at mid-quarter that one of Richard's parents had signed up for parent-teacher conferences. It read only "Mr. Beeler."

When Mr. Beeler came in, I was surprised to see a lovely lady of his same age accompanying him. Either Richard's father had remarried also, or Richard's other father was identifying himself now as a woman. I proceeded without missing a beat, sure that all would "fall pat," but looking discreetly, nevertheless, for an Adam's apple.

Our conversation revealed that they had two other children. They spoke about their family as though there were no second-marriage- or sex-change-type of complications. And upon my own study, the aforementioned Richard did look a good deal like the two people sitting before me. It became quite clear that this couple had indeed biologically parented Richard, and very likely his siblings, with all their talk of inherited traits. I finally had to breech the subject: "Mr. and Mrs. Beeler, I hope you find this amusing, but Richard mentioned at the beginning of the semester, during a get-to-know-you game, that he had two dads."

They both burst into surprised and mirthful laughter. They had no idea why their son would say that, but admitted that Richard was terribly quick-witted, and often unexpected; they continued to laugh as they explained all this. Upon their departure, I shook hands with first Mr. Beeler, then, when I got to Mrs. Beeler, she made an effort at a deep, masculine voice, "Thank you for your time, Ms. McKalips," and shook my hand firmly. More laughter.

Four Parts to a Working Car

Part I. Inspection
I went to my very reputable mechanic, who makes everything work perfectly, and does it all right. If it has a problem, he'll be sure you know about it and have a reliable estimate within a timely manner. If you give the go-ahead, he could have your car back on the road before closing time. He's superb, and I respect him a great deal. But he couldn't pass my car because of a menacing list of issues which totaled $2,500 to fix. He had already passed it in emissions, though, so I had one of the two needed windshield stickers to legally drive in Pennsylvania. That was the Civic's death knell, I supposed. I would have to scrap it and finance a new vehicle, which is especially inconvenient at this precarious moment in my working life (I'm about to switch jobs to I know not what).

Part II. Stephen Speaks
I told my brother about my car problems, giving him the minutiae that I was finding online as we spoke. "Carolyn, tell me something: does your mechanic smoke?" he queried.

"Uh... I don't think so..."

"I mean, do you see cigarette butts around the shop, a cigarette in anybody's mouth in the shop?"

"No. No way. That's unprofessional."

"Not in this business," he scoffed. "And does he have any pictures of ladies? Any beer cans or bottles lying around?"

"Stephen, ew, no."

"Here's what you need to do," he paused to light the requisite cigarette between his own teeth,"Find a mechanic who smokes, or at least has a cigarette behind his ear, maybe has a few days' stubble. Look for a picture or two of ladies on the wall, nothing major, I mean, but some Sports Illustrated girls, you know? And if there are some guys just hanging around, that's the right place. You go to him, and ask him what it'll take just to keep the car on the road. He'll know what to do."

Part III. We'll Call Him "Big Jim"

I found Big Jim through a friend's sister.

The first thing I heard when I walked into the shop was some guy sitting on a stool (doing nothing at all) telling another guy, "Man, tell him if he doesn't like it, he can suck my--!" He got his last word in before he locked eyes on me, the only woman in the place, and looking out of place, to say the least. I walked over to the two men, obliterating their hanging conversation.

"You want me to tell whoever he is for you?" I said calmly, the joke in my eyes. "Is Big Jim around? I made an appointment for 2:30."

Yes, I had made an appointment. And it took them all of Paul Walker's final movie playing in the office, and then some, until I had an estimate of what it would take for the little Honda to pass inspection. The estimate was under $200. I would have sat through the movie again for that price, so the time was negligible. But I strongly suspect that the diagnostic took so long because guy #1 was off test-driving it. Why do I think that? Twice during the movie, he came in and asked me what I would take for the car, and would I go any lower? I found out that he didn't even work there.

I was not discouraged. I knew Stephen would be satisfied with this place.

Part IV. Taking Out a Transmission Appears to Add $300 in Labor

I suspect no foul play from Big Jim's shop. None whatsoever. But a few days later, I couldn't put my car into gear when it was turned on. The internet and a friend said it was either the master or slave cylinders, or it was the entire clutch. Estimates ran from $300 for the cylinder to $900 for the labor and parts for the clutch.

For the first time ever, my car had to be towed away, to yet another garage, this one chosen not for its reputation, but for its proximity.

And it was the master cylinder!

And I drove it home the next morning!