I want to write about my experiences at this past weekend's Annual Writer's Conference at the Montgomery County Community College in PA, but I realize that I can't do it all in one sitting, for several reasons. First of all, there's just too much to write about. Secondly, my kids would never let me spend that much time in one sitting at the computer (they're jealous little creatures!). And thirdly, while many of the speakers, professors, and writers emphatically stated (repeatedly), "writing is a Mistress (or, I guess, "Master," in my case)," and you must commit to that craft; in doing so, then, you must sacrifice other things, such as housecleaning and laundry. That's a paraphrase -- and it's also something that, for me, isn't very realistic. Do I like to write? Yes. But do I have children and responsibilities? Yes. Sorry, Mistress (er ... Master) ... you've been carved a spot about halfway down my totem pole. I was up at the crack of dawn this morning having not slept well due to a possible resurgence of my sinus infection (not being able to breathe is quite a deterrent in my cherished sleep process). My kids were up at the crack of dawn due to the ever-frustrating time change. My husband got up at the crack of dawn because ... well, he has to go to work. But he had a nice hot steaming cup of java ready for me as I staggered in a congested fog out of the bedroom, reluctantly facing my day ... my Reality. A few loads of laundry are already done, with a few more waiting their turn; my kids are all washed, brushed, and dressed (and playing so beautifully together in their room!). And -- another reason why Life takes precedence over the Mistress -- my dog rolled in crap this morning out in the backyard, which brought an unexpected -- and loathsome -- amount of work, including dragging him in to the bathroom, bathing the terrified shaking creature, drying him off to the best of my ability, and then scouring the bathroom from top to bottom with some disinfectant cleaner I found under my kitchen sink. The windows are all open, freezing us out in an attempt to whoosh out the scent of wet dog and remaining whiffs of cat poop. Yes, friends, it was a cat who left a hefty deposit in the bank of our back yard, a cat who has made frequent visits to our establishment, a cat who has been responsible for this third unexpected bath for our dog in about a month's time. I am baffled by this conundrum -- Jack is 8 years old and until we moved here, he only had two baths in his life (once because he rolled in a sumptuous pile of horse manure that he just couldn't pass up). Jack spent the majority of his life in the country, suffering only one incident of excrement-rolling. We now live in the most densely populated, urban-esque setting ever, and he finds more rolling potential here, in our tiny square plot of a back yard, than his previous 8 years of canine existence?! And all because of a cat? This trespasser is definitely making Santa's Naughty List this year.
Yes, all of this is Life -- and for me, Life must come first. But here I am, taking a little break, catching my breath at 10:00 a.m. (for it feels as if my day is almost completed, having been up at that ungodly crack o' dawn), still with the smell of wet dog taking up residence in my nostrils (who needs Vicks when you have Wet Dog to break through the congestion?), ready to type a few words about my wonderful, transformative weekend. But since, as I said, I cannot write about all of it in one sitting, I'll focus on a part of it.
But first, do yourself a favor: purchase the soundtrack to a Mighty Wind (or even better, watch the movie first, and then buy the soundtrack). This is an absolute must for any and all road trips. That, and John Denver. Those two CD's got me into PA in a very happy mood, and got me home Saturday evening, soothing my nerves as I drove almost blindly in the dark. Yes, a big favor indeed.
Now, on to my highlight: Frank McCourt.
I saw Angela's Ashes several years ago, when it first came out, and I believe I read the book (but, sadly, I can't remember). I'm not sure what I expected when I saw him Friday evening, but in some ways he took me by surprise. He's in his later 70's, a rather small, slight man, with wavy white hair and a very "Irish face," as my mom would say. My introduction to Frank McCourt was in the first words of his introduction to us. Before he took the stage, he was introduced by a young woman, apparently involved with the college, and in her introduction she gave a brief biography of his life. As he walked to the podium amid the welcoming applause, and with a scowl on his face and a sharp wave of his hand, he muttered quietly into the microphone:
"Well, now I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to talk about, because Dana did such a thorough job of telling my story, so I've got nothing left now to tell!"
Completely deadpan, tongue-in-cheek ... or was there a tiny shred of seriousness behind that frowning brow, that chopping hand-motion? I don't think anyone knows ... except Mr. McCourt himself. I smiled to myself. "I like this guy," I thought -- this soft-spoken, brash, funny-without-a-smile, oftentimes coarse old man. He's an Irishman, a storyteller ... I settled in for a captivating evening.
And indeed, I was hooked. While his coarseness took me aback occasionally (not that I'm prudish toward it -- I just realized that, after having attended Christian institutions and lectures for most of my life, I wasn't used to hearing particular phrases "live" like that), I loved his story-telling, hearing of his life and childhood in Ireland -- so sad and depressing, yet told with a wry sense of humor that kept the dark beasts at bay. I was impressed with his tales of working for 30 years within the NYC school system and the oftentimes outrageous creativity which kept his classroom fresh and engaged. I laughed at his lengthy discourse of growing up in a strict Catholic environment, with fear as the primary prod to keep all wandering Irish kids in line. The hierarchy of sin, as described by this sinner, was laced with humor, for who could hold back laughter when the "Unforgivable Sin" the pinnacle of all sins, was described as one that "you never know until it is committed," or the "Sacrilege," the next one down, as one which would include an act such as punching a nun? And then we're off to Heaven and Hell, one clearly more vivid and interesting than the other. When he was taught that Heaven is a place where one would "stand before the throne of God, gazing upon his holy countenance for all eternity," he replied as only an impish Irish boy could, "Is that all?" Off to the Confessional with you! But Hell, with it's imaginative and vivid descriptions, seemed far more interesting; "I would rather be a Muslim with 72 virgins" than gazing on countenances for all eternity, he said. Yes, coarseness and all, it was a pleasure to listen to him -- kind of like sneaking a little Snickers bar out of your son's Halloween stash and eating it for breakfast.
It was his account of his teaching experiences that really piqued my interest, for despite our differences in -- well, almost everything -- I could draw on a few parallels for what I'm experiencing in my own journey. When he came to America at the age of 19, he was drafted shortly thereafter in the Army, stationed in Germany with the task of training German Shepherd attack dogs, which was "very good preparation for my future career as a teacher." He started in a Vo-Tech school, and what he found on the first day -- when a bologna sandwich came flying from across the room, landing near his desk -- was that his formal education never prepared him for the realities of the classroom. The heady knowledge of New York University didn't equip him with the knowledge of what to do with flying bologna sandwiches ... so he picked it up and ate it, right in front of the students. And what about the classwork? He found he had a desk full of forged excuse notes, ranging from the simple to the dramatic, from students not bothering to disguise their handwriting, to those switching hands in the hope of masking their own recognizable scrawl and passing it off as their mother's. Did this Teacher Man wrack his brain for what his education taught him to do in these situations, or did he embrace this untapped avenue of creativity and run with it? He chose the latter, publishing all of these priceless excuse notes and distributing them amongst the class. The kids were elated, wanting to do more; soon they moved on to writing up obituaries about themselves, their friends, and their teachers. The kids loved it; they sparked. "For the first time in my three and a half years of teaching, I couldn't get the kids to leave the room."
The connection is this: he thought outside of the box. His creativity, his uniqueness helped create his success in the classroom. "I had to go into their territory instead of dragging them into my territory ... whatever that was." He wasn't completely bound by parameters; he wasn't boxed in. He had a spirit, and he listened to it. And that hooked me, especially in regard to where we are now in our journey of ministry. For years we were "boxed in," having to conform to the way "things have always been done," and it's stifling. About 90% of what we experienced in ministry was never even touched upon in seminary. Greek, Hebrew, Biblical history ... none of that prepared my husband for what the "real church" is all about. The church is more about flying bologna sandwiches and dramatic excuse notes than textbook answers. But now here we are, with our rusty wheels starting to slowly turn, for we were given "permission," in a sense, to start thinking outside of that box. It's exciting; it's life-giving.
I wonder what this marvelously crusty, witty man would say about this, that his talk hooked an Irish girl in the audience, drawing parallels to her own Christian journey. There's a boundary-breaker right there. I love it.
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