Sharing Some Tasti!

Daddy Lessons

I took Little Man to the park this afternoon, and taught him the art of rolling down a hill.  That is what dads are for.

Fetch!

Who needs a dog when you have a Little Man?

He Does it His Way

Party of Two

Little Man decided to join his mother in the shower.  I hope next time he remembers to take his clothes off first. 

I Must Smell Funny

This morning I got my very own subway car.  I had just finished at UPS, so I must have smelt really bad if no one wanted to come in with me.

Too Tired to Play

Feeding the Geese

Washington Square Park

NYU

Spent some time tonight in Washington Square Park thinking about life.  No answers, just thoughts.

Waiting for the train

Waiting Out the Storm

Here we are in Douglas Wy. with nothing to do but sit and hope that the highway opens soon.

Religion & Culture

When one considers religion as field of Academic study, the societal influences and cultural biases create a world where creed, code, cult and community clash against the secular understandings of a nation that claims the autonomy from religion in daily life. The very definition of religion opens the door to seeing the most mundane and minute beliefs and practices of the American people as religious gatherings. In accepting the "American Religion" of freedom and the right to express one's self, bridges of understanding are built between former foes, and pluralism becomes a new format where all belief is sacred and "the other" transforms to one's brother.

    Defining religion in the terms of creed- the word or belief of a people, code- the rules or boundaries stemming from the creed, cult- the group practices and traditions and community- the social structure of the organization, allows the scholar to analyze all aspects of American culture from sports to government and fraternities to churches. This broad characterization may seem daunting to those who wish to keep a system of easy labels, but this classification also gives credibility to the young religions of America trying to establish their theology in a nation awash in relativism.

    Prior to taking this class, my personal experience had lead me to judge that the religion of Scientology was not a religion at all, but an elaborate systematic approach of using blackmail, extortion and fear to gain power and money. However, this course helped me to differentiate the cultural practices and personal beliefs of the religious men and women of all faiths. Breaking past my prejudice and judgments, I see the common thread of their religion to my own- their belief to mine- our shared goal of a better world where everyone gathers according to the dictates of their own conscience.

    Furthermore, as people are able to distinguish the cultural traditions in their religious worship, they are given the opportunity to find their faith once again. There can be no doubt that religion and culture constantly rub and crash against each other; creating two separate yet similar worlds full of art, inspiration and order that shape our society for good and bad. In removing the cultural influence from religion, religion can be found in an undiluted form. This concentrate becomes the basis for a new faith free from the changing trends of modern culture. In removing religious influences from culture, societies may examine their motives for change and no longer hide behind the mask of religious conviction to enact change or suppress humanity.

    In conclusion, the religious diversity in America is what defines this nation. In all our actions, words and beliefs, our nation constantly changes to meet the needs of its citizens. In recognizing that we are united by our differences, we are no longer defined by what we are not, but we become a people who embrace "the other" as they are us, and we are them.

He is full

After eating three slices of french toast at Dees, Little Man kicked back to relax and enjoy the conversation.

Another English Paper

I just finished my last draft of a humor essay for my class. This was fun to write, and I hope it is fun to read also.

 

I had just turned 12 and starting the 7^th grade in a new state. This could be seen as an adventure for some kids, discovering new friends, new teachers and new ways to skip class. For me this was not the case. I had just finished my first year of middle school in Texas where 6^th grade is the starting point, and I dreaded the thought of facing the social pecking order where I was sure to be on the bottom. In Tennessee, I was starting the new school year at MacMurray Jr. High as an outcast; I was white, fat and the new kid. Oh yeah, I was also a Mormon in a school filled with Baptists.

 

    The first day of class we found that each classroom had a list of names containing the students that were to gather there for "homeroom announcements." Since it was the first day I felt relieved to find that the teacher had assigned our seats, so that I had a guaranteed place to sit without the rejection that came from asking the dreaded question: "Is this seat taken?"

 

    The Vice Principal came into our room to inform us that we would be taking a test on our first day, "This test doesn't count for anything." She said. Since there wasn't a reason to lie to us, I took her at her word. Surely if this test meant anything, they wouldn't offer it on the first day, or at least they would wait until the end of the day to test us. What could they possibly test us on: the color of lockers in the hall, or the number of our school bus? Our teacher reinforced this while handing out the test, "Don't feel pressured because it doesn't count for anything. In fact, we won't even grade them." She said. I believed her.

    

Immediately after my parents' divorce, I learned that any in-class work could be skipped if I put my head down on the desk and kept a solemn look on my face. I was in 1^st grade, and was tired one morning when the teacher stopped her lesson. "Archie," she said, "is everything alright? Do you want to go talk to someone?" Right away I smelled weakness, and I knew that I had the upper hand. From that point on when the class got boring or when we started math, I would become very "sad" and need to talk with the counselor while playing with the assortment of trucks in his office. He would try to get me to talk with him, but my reply was always the same: "Talking about it makes me miss my daddy." He stopped asking, and I kept playing. This act was a win-win-win for all of us. I got to play; the teacher didn't have sad kid in her class, and the counselor felt that he was helping me through a rough time in my life.

 

Since this test "didn't count" I figured that I would just fill in some bubbles on the scan-tron and spend the rest of the time counting the little holes in the ceiling tiles with the "sad" look on my face. This worked and after watching the other kids in the class struggle with the test for over an hour, I felt pretty smart for not wasting my time with a test that didn't count.

 

Right away the bubbled answer sheets were collected and whisked away to the front office. In class we reviewed the school and classroom policies while I tried my best to blend in with the rest of the students by un-tucking my shirt and messing up my combed hair. I would have traded my little sister for an Atlanta Braves jacket right then. More than half of my peers showed their support for the Braves with either hats or coats. I remained one of three White kids in the room trying desperately not to notice the turning heads and hushed whispers.

 

Soon after the all the rules had been reviewed, the Vice Principal returned with more news. "We will divide you up into smaller groups for your actual classes. " She said. "These groups will meet with the other 7^th grade homeroom classes for your courses." One by one, she read the names of the students and their assigned group. I became a Mac. I couldn't think of a better group name than something from McDonald's, so this new school was starting to seem really cool after all.

 

Within weeks of class starting, even the small kids were picking on me. My ability to blend in didn't work in this place where adolescence was the eighth circle of Dante's hell. My name had been changed to "Doughboy" or "Marshmallow Man" with the teachers joining in on the joke. One short, stocky woman who had the honor of educating the largest group of seventh graders ever assembled in one class would often mutter "Mormon" or "Doughboy" when passing my desk. Prior to entering this school, I did not know what puberty was. Within hours of passing through the doors, I was introduced to a world of body odor, hair and testosterone that rivaled the locker rooms of the NFL. I would have been shoved into my locker daily, but after their first attempt, and realizing that I could not fit because of my roundness; my "friends" decided that kicking my books was a better option.

 

I couldn't figure out why they hated me so much, the classes were super easy and everyone had just as much time to answer the questions as I did. The lessons went a little something like this: Teacher- "How do we kill the germs in water?" Archie- "Boil the water." Teacher- "Back when all the continents were together, what was that called?" Archie- "Pangaea." Teacher- "Why is Doughboy answering all the questions?" Doughboy- "I don't know."

 

I took the teasing and the kicking just as some test of my character. I never let it get to me, and mostly figured that since the majority of the kids were Baptist and I wasn't, that must be the source of the problem. Until one afternoon when a girl who towered next to me in her desk asked a simple question that answered all of mine. "Why are you in the retard class?" She asked. With that question I looked around the room and realized why I was hated; with thoughts reviewing the past weeks of abuse and scorn, I noticed that my classmates looked a couple years older and in most cases they were. Our "Mac group" was the remedial class. They had all been held back from advancing and resented anyone who showed signs of moving on.

 

The words of the Vice Principal echoed in my head: "This doesn't count for anything." She was right; they never showed us our graded test, or even entered them on a class log. That boring test I choose to sleep through was a placement test, and that was the moment that I learned that sometimes even when it doesn't count, it does.

My Sick Boy

I hate it when he doesn't feel well, but he is really cute!

There Is a Free Lunch

Little Man had a full lunch today consisting of free samples from Mother Earth health food store in Sandy.  Fruit, breads, soymilk and cookies, who could ask for anything better?

For Those Who Doubt

Here is my new haircut.  I wanted to try something... different.

Little Man Loves Them Veggie Sausages

D-A-D

This lyric essay was for my English class. I find that writing non-fiction stirs up some old memories, and the more I write, the more I remember. Perhaps some good will come from all this writing...

On March 23, 2008 I became a dad. Standing next to my wife after 30+ hours of labor, we were anxious to greet this new baby into our family. I stood by my wife's side pushing, pulling, comforting and coaching her long into the night and into the early morning of my best Easter ever. When the midwife asked me if I wanted to catch the baby I quickly responded that I didn't know, but that did not stop her from telling me how to cradle his little neck into my hand and prepare for the next push. My son, a beautiful gooey mess of purple skin and slimy hair, slid into my hands at 1:11am, and my life changed forever. I held him as he took his first breath. I held him as he cried; shocked at the cold air that now surrounded him. I held him as he nestled into his mother's arms. I was a daddy.

When I was eight I didn't know how to ride a bike. This wouldn't be a problem if my friends didn't like to ride, but we were living in Louisiana, where every street and vacant lot had an adventure to be explored. I tried to blend in with my training wheels keeping me upright, but how could any self-respecting lizard hunter and tadpole collector go on safari with training wheels? My parents had divorced several years earlier, and despite my mom's best effort to give us everything we needed, I still needed a dad. That is where my French speaking friend Felix stepped in, and taught me one of the most basic lessons in life. We hijacked my sister's training wheel free bike and started practice. I fell, and I fell a lot. When I wanted to quit, I was told that the only way to learn was to get back on and fall some more. Felix patiently helped me off the ground and on the bike every time I fell. Finally the moment came when I was pedaling faster than he could run. I was on my own! I wish I knew the words that Felix shouted as I made my way down the sidewalk and across the street. I wish that I knew the words in French to thank my friend who stepped into a role that wasn't required of him. I wish I knew where he was today.

At thirteen I was the fat, white, Mormon kid in a school where I did not fit in. Tennessee was not a great place for me to attend junior high. Really though, is there ever a great place to attend junior high? Up until this point in my life, basketball was played on a six foot hoop with friends late into the evening. This concept of a ten foot hoop played in a gym with a bunch of large strangers seemed foreboding at best. Not knowing any rules, I hoped to avoid detection by just standing to the side and letting the other boys work their magic. I was great at standing. In fact, I was so great at standing that they let me stand under the hoop and took turns driving down the key and slamming their massive frames into my prepubescent body. Since they all seemed to enjoy this, I must be doing something right. So in spite of the pain and embarrassment I remained under the hoop to serve as the "dummy" for their practice. It would have been nice to know the rules of the game, but I did not have that option. Life dealt me a hand free from the education of sports and the knowledge of how to stand up to a bully. I didn't like it. I didn't know any different. I thought that this is just the way life is.

My son is still growing. At 18 months, he has life figured out. He knows how to eat. He knows how to communicate as he makes the signs for "food", "milk", "more" and "diaper." He even knows where to find my wallet and pull out all of its contents. The other day we were in the backyard, and I was watching him play on the slide. Climbing up the ladder and then going down the slide, he spent his time enjoying the beautiful day. After a few climbs and a few slides, he lost his balance and was close to falling off the slide. I watched from a distance knowing that he was only two feet from the ground, and that as much as I wanted to help him back into place, it was important that he learn life lessons like this on his own. He eventually climbed back into place. Looking around the yard he saw me and smiled. Taking a break from his toys, he climbed into my lap seeking comfort and love from someone who will always be there to give it. I love my son. I enjoy every moment of watching him grow. I am a dad.