Budo 101: Conclusion.

*Warning: This story describes an offensive event, and so language and situations may be offensive to some and are not intended for young children.

Part I is here. Part II is here.

Budo 101, Continued:

Jack was left sitting in his chair, staring at the principle’s desk, trying not to make eye contact. So that was her dad? No wonder she went berserk. Shit! That’s a dude who means business!
Mr. Merckle, sat in silence for about thirty seconds. Then he looked up at Jack. “Go back out in the office and wait for your parent to get here. Ms. Hagg has your suspension letter.”
Ashley and her dad were still out there. Dan was talking with Ms. Hagg, who was smiling at him like a middle-aged fan girl. “Yeah, I think I probably did enjoy that a little too much, but you know, it’s just wrong, and something needs to be done. I’m not sure what, but Sharon and I are going to think about it.”
Ashley noticed Jack and looked away from him. Whatever, bitch. It was just a joke. Just wait until I see Deek again, Jack thought. I’m going to... But he knew he was going to do nothing. He was going to play it off as no big deal and go right back to being Deek’s minion just like he always did.
Dan turned and saw him. Oh shit! Jack slouched into his chair and whipped out his phone.
“Ashley, here are the keys, I’m parked out by Evergreen Street. I’ll be along in a minute.”
“Okay, dad. I’ve got to grab my stuff from my locker.”
“Okay, baby.”
Dan walked over and sat down in a chair one seat over from Jack.
When he didn’t say anything, Jack glanced up at him. He was just sitting there, scratching his five-o-clock shadow, staring at him with a musing expression.
“Look,” Jack said, “If you’re going to give me the speech about ‘stay away from my daughter or else,’ save it. I swear I’m not interested in her at all. It was just a stupid joke.”
“Oh I know,” Dan said. “I know it was a joke, and I believe that it wasn’t your idea.”
“My buddy dared me. He wouldn’t let up until I did it.”
“Sounds like a great friend,” Dan said with unconcealed irony.
Screw you, man, Jack thought. What do you know about high school? Back when you went it was a one-roomed schoolhouse probably.
“So are you tired of it?” Dan asked.
“Tired of what?”
“Being a punk.”
Jack stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. “I’m not a punk.” Why was this guy even talking to him?
“Well, I don’t know what else to call you. I don’t think you’re a bad kid, and I sure as hell know you’re not a good man, because a good man knows when to tell his ‘friend’ to go to hell. A good man doesn’t grope teenage girls. You’re not bad, you’re just a punk. I know. I was a punk when I was your age.”
“Gah!” Jack rolled his eyes. “What do you want from me? I’m just a kid! I won’t do it again, okay, can you just leave me alone?”
“Oh believe me, I know you won’t do it again. Everyone in this school knows that you have wandering hands, and you got beat by a girl.”
“She didn’t beat me,” Jack yelled. He stood up and punched the wall. Dan’s expression did not even flicker. “She got lucky, she surprised me, and I don’t hit girls.”
“I know that. Dude, I know she wouldn’t beat you in a fair fight, and she knows it too. She fought like I taught her to, just hard enough and long enough to get away without getting decisively engaged. She did the right thing. You could too, you know.”
Dan stood up. Up close and personal Jack saw that he was not quite as tall as he looked from a distance, he just stood like he towered over everyone, so people thought he did.
“I want to give you this,” Dan handed him a business card. On one side was the name, “Five Senseis’ Shotokan Karate” and an address. On the other side was a picture of a fist covered by an open hand and the words, “Admit one for Budo 101.”
“What is it?”
“It’s an invitation.”
“To your karate school?”
“Well it technically isn’t my dojo. My friend Tanner Sensei owns it, I just help teach some evenings and weekends.”
“So you want me to learn karate?”
“No, this is a special class. Budo 101 is a special six-month program that I developed with Tanner Sensei, for teenage guys such as yourself. It is invitation only, or judge’s order.”
“Judge’s order?”
“We have an arrangement with the county courthouse. It is an option for first time juvenile offenders who are given probation.”
“Do I look like a fucking juvie?” he threw the card on the ground.
Dan very mildly crouched down, without taking his eyes off of Jack, and picked it up. “No, you’re not a juvie. And I want to keep it that way. Only about half of our students are juvies, the rest are referred by school counselors, parents, pastors, that sort of thing. I think you would benefit by it, so I am inviting you, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He handed the card back.
Jack thought about not taking it, but something about the older man’s straightforward demeanor made him stretch out his hand. Dan was not yelling at him or cussing him out. He didn’t even seem mad anymore. Jack looked the card over again. “How much does it cost?”
“It’s free.”
“Yeah right.”
“No, seriously. I am a dentist and my wife is a child psychologist. We don’t need the money. But free does not mean that it is cheap. It is invitation only, but it takes a serious commitment. You show up six nights a week for six months. If you miss a night you apologize to the entire class and make it up on Saturday. If you miss two, you are done.”
Jack scoffed. “And if I come? You’ll teach me, what? How to fight?”
“Among other things, yes. You will learn how to treat people with respect, for starters, how to be somewhere on time, and in the right uniform. How to let a boss know if something comes up and you can’t make it. You will push yourself mentally and physically. If you make it to the end you will learn how to relate to women in a way that is based on real life and not on porn videos. You’ll learn how to pick friends, how to stand up to your friends, and yes, a basic level of how to defend yourself or others against physical attack.”
“Basic level?”
Dan smiled and shook his head. “If you make it all the way through, you get a green belt in Shotokan karate and are eligible to join the intermediate class if you want, but there is no obligation. Some stay, and some kids who get through Budo 101 are glad to be done with us.”
“So green belt is...”
“It usually takes students a year and a half to two years as a white belt to earn their green belt, but that’s because most only come once or twice a week.”
Jack was silent. This was crazy. This guy had just called him a sexual predator and now he was offering to teach him freakin’ karate. “What’s in it for you.”
Dan shrugged. “Well, I’d tell you not a damn thing, but you wouldn’t believe me. Think it over. When you get tired of being pushed around by your ‘friends’ and taking it out on teenage girls who have been trained not to stand up for themselves, give us a call or drop by. The class is continuous, so you can start at any time.”
He offered his hand, slender but veined and muscular.
Jack didn’t take it.
“Well, you have a nice day, then,” Dan said. He walked out of the office.
Jack sat down and put the card in his pocket.
He looked at the clock, which barely read 3:30 P.M.
I hate my life, he thought.

Budo 101: Part II*

*Warning: This story describes an offensive event, and so language and situations may be offensive to some and are not intended for young children.

Part I is here.

Budo 101, Continued:

Mr. Merckle looked up from his computer with a ponderous sigh, his face red before he even said a word. His lower chin wobbled as he pushed himself back as far into his chair as he would go. “What is it now?”

“Fighting in the hall,” Mr. Sink, the English teacher, delivered up his captives.

Mr. Merckle sighed again and shook his head, causing fluid waves in the loose flesh under his jaw. Jack watched the ripples with amusement. How hard would he have to shake his head to get a ripple to go all the way around his neck and come back on the other side?

“Names?”

“John Snyder and Ashley Tildford.”

Mr. Merckle made a note. “You both understand that we don’t tolerate fighting in this school?”

“I wasn’t fight...”

“He grabbed...”

“Quiet, both of you!” The principle had a way of booming his voice and leaning his head forward with little eyes glaring out over cherry red cheeks. It worked every time, and had been known to stop cafeteria food fights dead in their tracks.  The two teenagers in the tiny office were no match for it. Even Mr. Sink jumped.

Jack subsided into his resentful thoughts.

“I am too busy to deal with you two at the moment. Ms. Hagg will telephone your parents and we will discuss what is to be done with you later. In the meantime, both of you will sit out in the office and Ms. Hagg will keep an eye on you until your parents get her. You may work on homework if you like. Dave, let Ms. Hagg know on your way out, would you?”

He thrust himself forward to his computer again. Clearly they were dismissed.

Damn it, Jack thought. They’re calling dad.

He didn’t think his dad would care too much about him fighting at school, but he would never hear the end of getting beaten by a girl. Well shit, how was he supposed to know she was into freakin’ karate or kung fu or whatever? And she didn’t beat him, he just wasn’t expecting it. She just surprised him that’s all.

And anyway, what was her problem? It was just a joke. It was just a little boob grab. He knew guys like Deek who did that all the time. Walk down the halls, grab an ass, feel a girl up. Those chicks always giggled and maybe shoved back a little, in a playful way. They didn’t go berserk and turn into vengeful teenage warrior goddesses.

Ashley, that was what Mr. Sink had called her. She was curled up in a chair on the far side of the office, as far away from him as she could get, almost with her back to him. A cell phone chimed some synthesized classical music, and she fished a flip phone out of her butt pocket.

She did have a nice ass, Jack thought.

A fast, shrill buzz sounded on the other end of the line.

“Hey Mom.”

Buzz buzz buzz.

“No, I’m okay. I know. No. I’ll see you tonight. No, Mom, I’m okay.” She gave a short, nervous laugh. “I beat the snot out of him.”

“Bitch!” Jack muttered, “You just got lucky. I wasn’t trying to fight cause I don’t hit girls.”

She ignored him.

“I know. I’m fine. Love you too. See you tonight. Bye.”

She snapped the phone shut and put it away, turning even further away from him. He pulled out his phone and started playing “Angry Birds.”

Five minutes later he heard a Bruce Lee kung-fu yell coming from her pocket. It was her cellphone again. She answered, “Hey Dad,” without checking the number.

This buzz was deeper and slower. The girl hugged herself and sank even more deeply into her chair. Jack, for his part, lounged even more emphatically, stretching himself further out into the office. Phone calls from two parents? What a momma’s girl!

“Yeah. I’m okay,” but she sniffed back a tear.

The phone buzzed a question.

“He...” she swallowed. “He grabbed me.”

Buzz.

“Around my chest.”

Silence.

“But it’s okay, Dad.”

Emphatic buzzing.

“No, I know, but I got him good. Then the jerk tried to come after me again. I hip tossed him really hard.”

Buzz Buzz.

“Me too.” Her voice got lower and quieter. “I wish you were here, Dad. I need a hug.”

The buzz was deep and soothing. Jack found himself wishing he could hear what it was saying, in spite of himself.

“Really?” Ashley said. He could hear the smile in her voice. “When? Okay. I will see you when you get here. Thanks, Dad. Love you too.” She closed the phone with a smile.

About an hour later a tall man in his mid-forties walked into the office. Jack didn’t like the look of him. He was wearing khakis, button up shirt and tie, but he didn’t look like someone you messed with. He looked like he was over six feet tall, with wide shoulders and long arms. His hands were slender, but looked strong. He carried himself like an athlete with upright head, alert eyes, moving from his hips like the guys on the wrestling team. Not the kind of guy Jack really wanted to have pissed off at him.

But Mr. Tildford did not even look at him or at Ms. Hagg. He walked straight towards Ashley’s chair like a man on a mission. She didn’t hear him coming until he was almost there, but when she turned and saw him she leapt up and jumped into his arms in a flying hug. He caught her and hugged her back, holding her face against his chest and smoothing her hair. “Hey Ash,” he said. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

How long were they going to hug, Jack thought. Was she crying? What a baby! He rolled his eyes and looked away with burning cheeks.

“You okay?” Mr. Tildford said.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She nodded and brushed her hair back behind her ear.

“What are we waiting for?”

“Mr. Merckle said we had to sit here until he was ready to deal with us.”

“Oh, really? The message I got was you were suspended.”

“What!?!?” Her jaw dropped and she clasped her hands to her cheeks. “Suspended? I didn’t do anything. He didn’t even give me a chance to explain.”

Jack sighed and dropped his head in his hands. Suspended. Now his dad was really going to blow a gasket.

“Right. Well, I think we should have a talk with him, shall we.” Mr. Tildford stepped over to Ms. Hagg’s desk. “Could you let Mr. Merckle know that Dan Tildford is here to see him.”

“Certainly Mr. Tildford.” She relayed the message into her phone.

“Send him in,” boomed back, cracked and staticky but clearly audible.

“You may go in, right through that door, Sir,” Ms. Hagg pointed with her pen.

“Thank you. Come on Ashley.”

Jack watched them go in and lounged as far back as he could in his chair.  His butt was hanging off the seat and his legs were stretched out into the aisle. Back to the Angry Birds, then. He didn’t expect his dad to be around any time soon. He didn’t get off shift until 4:00.

About ten minutes later, Ms. Hagg got a call. She looked up and called Jack’s name. “Please go into Mr. Merckle’s office. He wants to talk to you.”

What did they want with him? Jack slouched to his feet.

“Mr. Snyder, come in, sit down.” Mr. Merckle pointed him to a chair. “Mr. Tildford thinks you should be here for this. Now, continue Mr. Tildford.”

“Call me Dan.”

“Dan.”

“All I’m saying is, I really think you should listen to what these two have to say before suspending them.”

The principle shook his head and smiled condescendingly. “Dan, do you know how many troubled students come through this office on a weekly basis? Do you know how much time it would take for me to listen to every single one? Our policies are very clear, fighting is not tolerated. The penalty is suspension. I really am not interested in what they have to say. They will be given a letter explaining the policy and terms of the penalty.”

“So you are not interested in, say, who started it?”

Mr. Merckle sat up stiffly and frowned. I guess he’s not used to being argued with, Jack thought. “Excuse me, but I don’t think it matters who started it.”

“Oh excuse me, but yes it absolutely does.” Dan scooted his chair forward a couple of inches closer to the desk. “If my daughter is attacking random people and abusing her karate skills then I need to know so I can ground her and remove her from karate class. If, on the other hand, she is defending herself or someone else from bullying or sexual harassment...”

“Really, Mr. Tildford...”

“As I said, if she is defending herself or someone else as I have taught her to do, then we are going on a father-daughter date this weekend, wherever she wants.”

Jack almost snorted but silenced it. It wasn’t that he was afraid of Dan, but he didn’t feel like drawing attention to himself.

“Mr. Tildford,” the principle shifted and glanced at the clock on the wall. “I understand that teenagers can sometimes be insecure about some peer interactions in school. We have school counselors who are trained to assess and intervene in situations like that. However, we do not believe in using violence to solve our problems.”

“Who is ‘We?’” Dan looked irritated. He was leaning back in his chair with his hands folded in front of him, tapping his index fingers together, and the muscle in his jaw was bulging.

Why the hell do I need to be here to listen to this, Jack thought.

“Pardon?”

“Who is ‘we?’” Dan repeated. “You said ‘we’ don’t believe in violence. Do you mean the people in this room? Or maybe us as a society? Or are you just using the royal we?”

“Mr. Tildford! If you are not going to discuss this in a reasonable fashion I will have to ask you to leave. My time is extremely valuable.” He was using his food-fight stopping voice.

“So is mine,” Dan shot back, not the least bit phased, “I had to reschedule two patients this afternoon to be here and you will damn sure do us the courtesy of listening to both sides of this story before you pass judgment on my daughter.”

Jack raised his eyebrows and allowed himself a little smirk of satisfaction. It was good to see someone put the principle in his place for once.

Mr. Merckle swallowed a shocked expression. “All right, fine. What do you two have to say for yourself?”

Dan looked at Jack. “Go ahead, son. What happened?”

I’m not your freakin’ son, Jack thought. “It was just a joke!”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. I just, like, touched her a little.”

“How did you touch my daughter?”

Jack shut his mouth. Something in the tall man’s eyes made him extremely reluctant to answer that question.

“Ashley?”

“He grabbed my... breasts. From behind.” Her face was scarlet.

“Is that true?” Dan turned a clenched jaw towards Jack.

“It was just a joke. She didn’t have to freak out about it.”

“No? And why didn’t she have to freak out about it?”

“Shit, that stuff happens all the time. Everybody does it.”

“Who is everybody?” The questions came at him almost before he could finish his replies.

“All the guys. It’s just, like, I don’t know, flirting.”

“Hell no, it is not flirting! Do you know what that’s called in the workplace? Or anywhere else in the real world outside this school? That’s called sexual assault, and it’s a crime. It results in fines, jail time and potentially being labeled a sexual predator for the rest of your life.”

“Come on!” Jack’s voice cracked. He suddenly remembered horror stories he had heard about guys getting put on watch lists for silly things like peeping in windows and stuff. Sweat was breaking out all over his back. “Come on, I’m not a predator! It was a dare. I didn’t even want to. A friend made me do it.”

“Do you think that will hold up in court in the real world,” Dan’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was hard as ice, and his eyes were blazing.

The principle broke in. “Mr. Tildford, aren’t you being a little severe? You cannot threaten this boy with being labeled as a sexual predator, ruining his life forever, because of a harmless prank.”

“Mr. Merckle, I am not planning on ruining anything or labeling anyone. We have no intention of seeking legal action. I am doing this kid a favor by reminding him that outside the narrow walls of this school, actions like that have consequences.” Dan was leaning forward, stabbing his finger into the top of the principle’s desk to emphasize his point.  “He had better wise up before that real world catches up with him.” He sat back again and turned to Ashley. “What happened, Ash?”

“He grabbed my breasts from behind. I elbowed him and knocked him back with a mae giri. I yelled, ‘back off creep,’ like you taught us. He tried to grab me again so I knocked him back again. But then he tried to grab me again with both hands, so I took him down and dropped a knee on him. Then I got away. That’s what you taught, right?”

“Yep,” Dan’s face seemed to smile in spite of him. “You did good.”

“Mr. Tildford, I repeat that this school cannot condone fighting. There are other ways of settling our conflicts.”

“No offense, Mr. Merckle, but that is the dumbest thing I ever heard. You just heard this boy confess to sexually assaulting a girl half his size, and not only that, but he boasted that this is a normal occurrence in this school. It ‘happens all the time.’”

The principle’s face was glowing red and a vein was pulsing on his forehead. “Don’t you think ‘sexual assault’ is a harsh description for a teenage prank?”

“Not at all. I think that is the technical legal description. I am a fourth degree black belt in Shotokan Karate, and I teach a self-defense course for women and minors every week. Placing your hands upon another person against their will is technically considered assault and battery, under law. Doing so for the purpose of sexual gratification is sexual assault. That is what he would be charged with if he did that in a military unit, or an office, or on the street somewhere.”

“This is not a military unit, an office, or the street. This is highschool...”

“A highschool that is failing royally in not preparing this boy for the real world.” He turned to Jack. “How old are you, son?”

“Fifteen,” Jack muttered, “And I’m not your freakin’ son.”

“I am sorry. Fifteen? You look older. I would have guessed 16 or 17,” Dan turned back to the principle. “In three years, he is going to be a legal majority and something like this will get him put in prison for a long, long time.” He stabbed his finger into the desk with every word, and then paused to let that thought sink in. “Not to mention it will ruin his life afterwards, being put on a sexual predator watch list. ‘Harmless pranks’ like this have a way of sticking with you.”

“Your opinion is duly noted,” Mr. Merckle snapped. “Did he do wrong? Yes. That does not justify the use of violence.”

“There we will have to agree to disagree. What you are telling me is that sexual harassment and abuse is rampant in this school, that the young girls here are powerless to protect themselves, and that the school faculty does absolutely nothing to protect them or put a stop to it.”

Mr. Merckle was silent.

“Can you understand why this is frustrating to me? As a father of a teenage daughter?”

“I understand that this is emotionally disturbing for you...” the principle began.

“Don’t give me that. Emotionally disturbing? Hell yeah it is emotionally disturbing!” He sighed and rested his chin in his hand, propped up on the arm of his chair. “I am not going to change your mind, am I? I think we’re done here. I’ve made my case and you have confirmed my opinion of this school. What is your decision?”

Jack was watching the exchange, almost holding his breath. And this dude was a black belt in karate? Shit! I hope I never piss him off. Wait, I already have. Way to go, me!

Mr. Merckle shrugged and held out his palms, helplessly. “The policies of this school. We cannot tolerate violence.”

“So you are suspending these two?”

“I have no alternative. I cannot make exceptions for one student that I will not make for another.”

Dan sighed. “For how long.”

“Our policy for first time offenders is three days.”

“Well, Ash, looks like you’ll just have to go help Tanner Sensei at the dojo for the next three days, after your homework is done, of course.”

“Bummer,” Ashley said, trying not to smile.

“You have a nice day, Mr. Merckle,” Dan shot straight up to his feet and strode out the door, followed by his daughter. He stuck his head back in. “Oh, and one more thing. My brother in law is editor of the Summersville Dispatch. If I ever hear that my daughter was sexually harassed in this school again, you can bet he will be hearing about it. And that goes not just for my daughter but any other girl in this school. And you can also expect to hear about this at the next school board meeting. I suggest you come up with a plan to do something about it.” The office shook as he slammed the door.

Budo 101: Part I*

*Warning: This story describes an offensive event, and so language and situations may be offensive to some and are not intended for young children.

Budo 101

“What do you think of that one?”

Jack followed the upward lift of chin and eyebrows down the hall to an open locker on the other side. A group of girls was standing around it, chatting, while one of them seemed temporarily stalled in the act of putting something into the locker, or perhaps taking it out.

“Which one?”

Deek Davidson tossed his thick blond curls and gestured with his chin again. He was too important to be bothered to point. “The brunette in the red tank top.”

“Nice,” Jack agreed automatically. “I’d tap that.”

“You’d tap anything that spread its legs for you,” Deek bumped him off balance with a shoulder. “Don’t lie. You’d do any one of them if you got the chance. You’d do fat-ass Maria ‘Pig’linski if you could find the right fold.”

Jack tried hard not to turn red. He laughed derisively and retorted, “Oh if only you knew!” What else could he say? He couldn’t deny that he was still a virgin, or Deek would have demanded details, a name, place, date, time, etc. details that he would have been unable to supply.

“But seriously, what do you think about the brunette?”

“Meh, she’s cute enough,” he adopted a tolerant, superior attitude. Oh yeah, she was fine. She was okay, if that was the best you could do. If you weren’t a 15-year-old sex god like he was.

“Yeah? Which one would you do?”

Actually, he secretly knew the brunette in the red tank top was the cutest of the bunch, but he felt rebellious. Why should Deek be right all the time? Which one was the next cutest? Not the little blond who looked like she was barely out of a training bra, and not the Asian chick who looked like a dude. Black girls? Hell no.

“I’d go with blue t-shirt.”

“Bullshit!”

“I’d do her all night long.”

“She’s got no boobs!”

“She’s got great boobs. Nice little handfuls. And look at that ass!”

“She looks like a track chick, and those bitches be crazy.”

“She’s hot.” Okay, “hot” was stretching it. She was tall but petite, toned and athletic looking. He could see divisions in the muscles of her upper arms when she brushed a strand of hair away from her face. She wore jeans and a blue t-shirt, and her bra strap showed nicely through the back, but otherwise her outfit was not super revealing.

“Bullshit.” Deek snorted.

“Whatever, man.”

“Prove it.”

“What?”

“Prove it! Go up and talk to her. Better yet, go up and grab her ass.”

“That’s retarded.”

“Do it or you don’t have a hair on your balls. Pussy!”

“Come on, man. I gotta get to class.”

“Don’t try to chicken out! You said her boobs were nice little handfuls, right? Go right up behind her and grab them. Chicks like that. They pretend they don’t but they really do. Why else would they dress like that?”

“No, man, this is stupid. I’m not doing it.”

“Chicken! Buck-buck-ba-buck! Pussy!”

Each syllable hit him like a sledgehammer across the head, beating him into submission. As Deek continued, getting louder and louder, Jack could feel eyes around the crowded hall turning to look at him.

“Screw you, man,” he said. His body turned in a rush. Quickly now, he had to get it over with before he thought it through. Make it seem like an accident. Or a joke. Laugh and walk away....

He was right behind her. An agonizing pause. This was dumb, just forget the whole thing, but he heard a soft hiss behind him, “Pussy!”

He stepped forward, reached around her from both sides and grabbed.

A thrill of triumph shot through him. Nevermind that he had missed with his right hand, and had mostly a handful of ribs, he had done it. His heart was in his mouth, and he was seeing the world through a red haze of victory, while his pulse pounded in his temples like a marching band and a thousand cheerleaders.

“KIAI!!!!” The back of an elbow connected with his temple and he saw stars. Backing off with his head in his hands and a knot of deprecating excuses tangling his tongue, he saw the girl pivot to face him with her right knee raised to the level of her ear, it seemed. Then POW! Her sneaker shot straight out like a hydraulic piston, like King Leonidas’ sandal, and plowed into his sternum.

“Back off, creep!”  she yelled as he staggered back about six feet.

There she stood, eyes flashing, face burning with shame and anger, hands shaking and knotted in fists at her side. One leg was poised slightly behind the other, lightly on her toes, as if she was daring him to try again.

“What the hell is your problem?” she yelled.

“Hey, come on, chill bitch, it was just a joke,” he said reaching out to grab her. Why was he doing that?

He never got a hand on her. One hard little fist pummeled the inside of his forearm, batting it away, and she lunged forward with the other in a stiff arm to his chest, knocking him back again.

“I said, back off!” her voice was quieter now and she was unmistakably crouched in a martial arts stance.

“Come on, Jack, are you going to take that? Show that little bitch who’s boss,” Deek gave him a push from behind.

Jack reached out to grab her head with both hands but she was not there. She was behind him. A foot stomped on the back of his knee and it buckled. He threw his hands behind to catch himself, but she wrapped both of her arms around his head and twisted him around her hip. He spiraled face down on the ground and she dropped a hard, pointy knee into his back as he hit. He tried to roll over and grab her ankles but she bounced away.

“What the hell is your problem, dude?” The girl’s friends were surrounding her and a crowd had gathered, cellphones out like paparazzi cameras.

A pair of khakis pushed through the swarm of lenses. “What’s going on here?”

“Bitch went crazy!” The words tumbled out of Jack’s mouth.

“He grabbed me,” the girl retorted. He couldn’t tell if she was frightened or angry or both.

“That’s it! You, pick yourself up. Both of you follow me. Principle’s office, right now.”

Jack picked himself up and eyed the surrounding crowd. Cell-phones were still out snapping pictures right and left. He could practically hear the videos whirring. Perfect. This was probably going to be on youtube in five minutes. He didn’t know any of these kids.

Deek was nowhere to be seen.

Babies R Us, Or, How I Realized that my Life is a Miracle!!!

Creating a baby registry at Babies R Us, can be something of a spiritual epiphany. As my wife and I approached the priestesses at the altar of customer service, we were greeted with joy, warmth, fellowship and unlimited knowledge-of-all-of-the-baby-things, which they promised to impart to us for absolutely free (for six months with financing!)

The first thing they offered to do was to take all of the work and thought out of answering the age old question "What does a baby need?" They would do this by automatically populating our registry with a list of 50 most popular, must-have items that were absolutely essential to well being and happiness of moms and babies!

:-)

Oh, and dads too. Of course! :-)

We declined several times, with incrementally increasing firmness and decreasing politeness. We, ignorant neophytes that we were, preferred a paper copy that we could treat as suggestions, and decide what we wanted and what we didn't want. The priestesses sighed, but mercifully humored our ignorance, after reminding us that they were only trying to save us time. We could go online afterwards and remove any items we didn't want but if we wanted to waste all that time individually scanning each one, then they would allow us to have a paper copy.

Oh, the things we learned, wandering those hallowed aisles. Before embarking on that adventure if you asked me what babies need I would have answered, "Warm hugs, full bellies and clean butts." That's about what I got when I was a baby, and I had always thought that I turned out more or less okay. My wife concurred. But, Oh, how deprived I was. It turns out babies need so much more. Just think, if I had gotten all of the things that I needed, how I might have turned out. I might have become president. I might have discovered a new planet. I might have broken six foot tall! We will never know. "Of all the words of tongue and pen / The saddest are these: it might have been."

We learned that babies need a minimum of three strollers. One for the big, all day adventures, a light one for folding and putting in the car, and one for around the house. You also should probably have a jogger, so that you can jog with your young offspring and instill healthy habits early. Make sure you check the safety ratings because it must be crash-proof, side-impact tested, and not past its expiration date. And when the expiration date arrives in three years, we will cut you a sweet deal on upgrading! Or at least trade-in. Or at least we will think about offering you a deal. We will definitely smile at you very nicely as you buy the new stroller. Safety first! If your baby is riding in a four-year old stroller you are A BAD PARENT!!!

No baby's life could possibly be called complete without an $800 chest of drawers with attached changing table, hypo-allergenic, ergonomically contoured foam changing mattress with disposable mattress liners and wipe warmers. And if it is not color coordinated and themed, then you will forever skew your child's aesthetic development forever. And ever.

A diaper genie that merely holds that diapers until trash or laundry day? Unacceptable! If your diaper genie does not have reloadable rolls of shrink wrap which automatically isolates each diaper in its own vacuum sealed compartment, well, then you are clearly just not a good parent! Bathe baby in the sink? What, are we barbarians here? No, what your baby needs to be really clean and healthy is a baby tub all his or her very own for only $50.00. Still changing the baby on a towel? Well, we have a travel changing mat for you that will transform into a spaceship and magically zap all of the germs in a three yard radius!

Buy the super deluxe space-age breast pump for umpteen hundred dollars, and you too can look like our perfectly coiffed, made-up and manicured model in casual business attire, typing out an executive looking report while she pumps breast milk for her baby. You will also have a flat, six pack tummy. And a free lollipop! And gone are the days of those little rubber nipples that looked like cow udders, the ones where you had to adjust the flow rate by how tightly you tightened the ring. Nowadays the really well nourished child is a result of Science! We have a different set of nipples for each age bracket, 0-1 month, 1-3 months, 3-6 months, and 6-12 months, with a properly formulated drip rate (mimicking the human breast which, apparently, develops more jets per nipple as the baby ages... wait, what?) The best part is they are only $5.00 a piece!!!

For the hiking, marathon and triathlon running toddlers out there, we have an entire line of organic, gluten-free, free trade, paleo goo's, granolas, and trail mixes in convenient squeeze packages for use on the trail, available in a whole range of sizes to suit your child's athletic metabolic needs. Gotta carb on the go!

Carrying the baby? Snuggee or wrap getting a little too passe? We have baby carriers for you. You probably need at least three, one for around the house, one for hiking in Aussie outback colors, and one particularly nice one with a sunshade, in-case baby doesn't want to wear a hat and you can't find any shade.

How could a baby not be happy without pastel animals of every species and hue?

Forget that old pack-n-play that was just a pack-n-play. Nowadays, the discerning infants are demanding pack-n-plays that include built in changing table and self-rocking crib with a variety of synthesized classical music on ad-nauseum repeat. That little folding pen over there in the corner, that doesn't do anything except fold out into a play-pen? There is a reason it's over in the corner, hidden under shadows and metaphorical cobwebs.  Go ahead and get that for your poor, helpless infant if you want. Watch her cry her poor little eyes out when she sees what all the other infants are rocking. You'll be back!

I look at my entire life with a new gratitude, for the miracle it is. How I ever made it through my deprived childhood to adulthood is beyond me. I cannot even really be sure I did. What if the scars are so deep and lasting that I only think I did, but I cannot even really see the damage? It is a possibility, since my wife and I remained blissfully unconvinced of our need for all of these things. We placed a total of 8 items on our registry so far, and I am looking into the possibility of hand-making the furniture this winter. Another option is to go the Finnish route which seems to be working for them, as they have one of the lowest rates of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) in the developed world. The sleeping out in the snow thing didn't seem to hurt me either (long story. Remind me to tell it sometime...)

But I am grateful, and I appreciate my life more, knowing that I narrowly survived extreme deprivation of All-of-the-baby-things. My wife and I are survivors. Perhaps because of the emotional scarring, we will not be purchasing all of the things, and we will not be asking other people to buy all of them for us. We are not sure if we can bring them up like these folks in the picture to the right without all the comforts of life, but we are going to give it a shot.

Prophecy: Your Own Kind of Crazy

A Leader

is a fellow

who refuses to be crazy

the way everybody else is crazy

and tries to be crazy

in his own crazy way.

                                Peter Maurin, "Easy Essays."

The idea of prophecy has been rolling around in my head for a while now. I am not sure why. I remember in my early days of blogging, coming across Christian bloggers who would write about "prophetic words" that they had been given, or which their pastor had uttered, or some writer had shared. Some were concerned with the end times. I passed over them. Jesus seemed pretty adamant that worrying about the end of the world was not our business, and was rather a distraction than anything else (Matthew 24:36, Mark 13:32). 

Perhaps the issue was that I, and all of these bloggers, seemed to interpret prophecy as a prediction for the future. I have very little to say about that. I acknowledge that such things are possible, by God's grace, but am not much interested in it. I know that the future is in God's hands. My task is to live it with Him as it happens. The same goes for the end of the world. In all likelihood, whether the world ends any time soon or not, I will die sometime in the next 70 years or so. My task is to die a little bit every day in order to live more fully the Divine life. The world ending or continuing is largely irrelevant to that task.

However, recently I have been drawn to considering prophecy outside of the strict theological sense of a prediction of future events, or revelation of unknown events, and drawing a broader meaning. For instance, very little of the work of prophets in the Bible relates to predicting the future. Predictions occur, but they seem to be a highlight of the job, rather than part of the day to day grind. Instead, the much of the times the prophets of the Old Testament seem to be more concerned with reminding, correcting, exhorting, warning and admonishing. They give concrete instructions, and they bring the law back to mind. 

In a sense, they communicate the idea of a living relationship with God, based on dialogue, rather than simply a set of rules that no one remembers anyway. I am most struck by the fact that being a prophet in the Old Testament is an uncomfortable proposition. People don't like being told they are not just wrong, but dead wrong, and they are going to pay the price if they don't shape up. "They say to the seers, 'See no more visions!' and to the prophets, 'Give us no more visions of what is right! Tell us pleasant things, prophesy illusions.'" Isaiah 30:10. 

This admonishing of sinners can be thought of as a reminder, call back to their true desires. Of course, in strict mystical theology, a prophecy is a direct revelation from God, in this broader sense it is the birthright, and indeed the calling, of all Christians. In my last blog I spoke of the central aloneness of each human being, created as we are in calling to a "unique, exclusive, and unrepeatable relationship with God Himself." In the blog before that I spoke of art as a sort of prophesy. Both of those posts anticipated this one. 

In the poem I posted on August 10th I dimly saw the necessity of prophecy as a reminder. The question, "Are you happy?" is a prophetic question, because the answer for any thoughtful, honest person can never be an unqualified, "yes." There is always some dissatisfaction, some incompleteness. We do not live as fully as we might live. We do not give as fearlessly as we might. To be reminded of that is uncomfortable. It makes me squirm. To be shown the gifts that currently sit stagnating in the abandoned warehouses of my life is to be reminded that I have never done enough. I fall short of total gift. The thought makes me squirm and I turn on the x-box and play Nazi zombies to distract myself. I putz about on youtube, clicking from one epic rap battle to the next, as all the while precious moments slip by, moments in which I am not praising God or serving my fellow man. I am not creating art, or absorbing beauty. I am being entertained. I do not want to be reminded. I want to be "distracted from distraction by distraction."

But this reminder is a spiritual work of mercy. If I cannot be holy yet, I should at least be uncomfortable. I should not be content with mediocrity. "Let a righteous man strike me—it is a kindness; let him rebuke me—it is oil for my head; let my head not refuse it. Yet my prayer is continually against their evil deeds." Psalm 141:5.

I think this is why I talked the day before yesterday about the necessity of doing something radical. I remember saying once, at a party of all places, when the conversation had turned to tricks and gimmicks that people resort to in order to seem mysterious, that a human being should not need to try to be mysterious. Each human person is a mystery. If you live as you were meant to live, true to the face of God that you alone and no one else can see, then you will be mysterious. People will not get you. You will be asked to explain yourself. 

In fact, if you have never done something that seemed absolutely crazy to everyone else, but which you knew you had to do, it is probably a good indication that you have never lived.

For the kids of Smoke Tree Elementary School, 5th and 6th grade

I just want to thank you all for the wonderful packet of handmaid cards and letters that you all sent me for my birthday. I enjoyed them a great deal. I sat on my bunk and read them all through and said a prayer for each and every one of you, and your teachers.

I have some good internet at the moment, so I thought I would share some pictures and stories about the Philippines for you guys.
First off, if you don't know where the Philippines are, you should start there.

On the map you first find Asia, then you move southeast of Asia into the Pacific ocean, and in the middle of the Pacific ocean you will find a group of islands that look like this:

For security reasons I can't really tell you guys where I am in the Philippines, but I can show you some pictures I took.

I like sunsets. They look different in all the different countries I have been to. Actually, believe it or not, Iraq and Afghanistan had some of the most amazing sunsets I have ever seen, because of the high dust content in the air. I saw similar sunsets sometimes in New Mexico. Why do you think dusty air makes great sunsets?

This is a statue of Lapu-Lapu (yes, that is really his name, one of many names, in fact) who was a tribal king on an island called Mactan who commanded the local warriors in a battle on April 27, 1521. Ferdinand Magellan was killed in that battle. It did not prevent the Spanish from taking over the Philippines, but hundreds of years later Lapu-Lapu is regarded as the first Filipino national hero.

This dish is called "lechon," and it is delicious. The pig is stuffed with coconut leaves and all sorts of veggies and herbs I would not be able to name. It is then roasted slowly in an oven with the skin still on it. It is quite fatty, fully of cholesterol, protein, and other delicious things that growing soldiers require.

This dish is called "a tuna fish." That particular fish is approximately a meter and a half long, and weighs about 50 kilograms. There is an art to carving the fish like that. They slice it deep with a very thin, sharp knife in lengthwise slices, then again, parallel to the spine, and then perpendicular to the body, to create hundreds of little slices, each one about half an ounce in size. Then you eat it, raw, with chopsticks. I probably at about a kilo of it myself.

I took this picture while snorkeling in the ocean.

And this one. The clownfish likes to live inside the anemone, which has tons of stinging fronds that wave in the current. They don't bother the clownfish, but they sting any bigger fish that try to eat it. This is a symbiotic relationship.

What does the shape of this mountain tell you about how the islands were formed?

That's me.

These little motorbike taxis are one of the primary means of transportation in most of the cities.

This field is about 300 acres of rice. Rice is one of the most important foods in the world. It makes up 90% of the grain diet of many countries in Asia. It needs to be completely submerged in water for part of its growing cycle, so it is grown only on flat plots of ground. However, in the volcanic hills of southern Mindanao, and in the Himalayas in Nepal, I have seen rice grown on the sides of steep hills and mountains. They overcome the terrain by carving levels of terraces out of the side of the mountain like giant steps going up the mountain.

This picture is from Nepal, not the Philippines, but it shows how people grow rice and other crops on hillsides. All of those terraces were dug by hand with crude shovels. And you thought cleaning out your room was a tough chore!

The amazing thing about rice is that it is still planted by hand throughout much of the world! The fields (called "rice paddies") are flooded with muddy water, and then workers walk through the fields, painstakingly sticking shoots of rice into the mud, one at a time. It is a labor intensive, time consuming process. A lot of countries use migrant workers, including children your age, to do this work, paying them 50 pesos ($1.10) per day. It takes hundreds and hundreds of workers to plant fields this size.

 Baskets at a market, made out of palm fronds and bamboo leaves.

A market at a "Peace Village" promoting cultural sharing between Muslims and Christians. Most people do not know this, but there is a Muslim insurgency going on in the Philippines, but unlike other places in the world, there are strong peace processes in the works, and some legitimate reconciliation does seem to be happening.

Traditional wooden dishes, palm baskets, and work knives, with a couple of traditional swords.

This is what the mountains look like from the air. They are not very tall, compared to the Rockies or the Himalayas, but they are extremely steep and covered with jungle. They are left over from the volcanic activities that formed the islands. They are also beautiful!

I hope you enjoyed all the pictures. Thank you so much for the cards and the letters. Be good in school.

Yours Truly,

Ryan Kraeger

If you let them, they will build

I recently read an article about childhood and play and the increasingly all pervasive place of school in the lives of children. School work which runs all day, followed by extra-curricular activities such as sports, followed by hours of homework, does not leave a lot of time for playing. The author of the article argues for a central importance of play, unstructured and unsupervised, in the lives of children.

Sometimes it is hard for me to get into the mindset of school. When I was a kid I was homeschooled. All of us were. We did more actual work and got better grades and test scores than our public school peers, but we spent less time at it. I remember looking up at the school buses going down the road in the morning while I was eating breakfast or doing barn chores, not having even started school for the day. I remember looking up again in mid to late afternoon while I was working on hobbies, or reading a book, or playing with legos, or running wild with my brothers, having been done with school for hours. School was self initiated, self-directed. The lesson plans were given to us at the beginning of the week, and as long as we turned in the required assignments and got passing grades, we were free to decide when we did what, how quickly we did it, in what order we did it. We could knuckle down and get to it, or we could dawdle. It was completely up to us. My siblings and I frequently worked an extra hour on Thursday to do all of Friday's work, so that we would have Friday completely off to play all day, or go on a field trip or whatever else took our fancy.

This kind of personal control over our time, and the amount of free time we had are, in many ways, an ideal only feasible in a small group setting. (Or is it? Why would I assume that? Has anything different been tried?) My family's particular small group model was far from perfect, despite that amazing privilege, but that freedom was foundational to who we became. I think it is safe to say, and I doubt my parents would gainsay it, that the vast majority of our learning took place in the out of school hours. This does not mean that school hours are not useful, or that 12 years of unstructured play is the ideal educational model. Rather it seems to indicate a model of formal education that I am becoming increasingly enamored of.

Formal education is a foundation. It provides training in skills of the mind, through reading, writing, arithmetic, and the sciences and arts, which shape how the children think. Good training will yield better thinking than poor training. It will be more logical, more nuanced, more systematic, more communicable. However, the educator is really only laying a foundation. The real education is the building that is built on top of that foundation. To grasp the relative importance of the two, and to settle any silly debates about which is more important, simply look at any building you please and ask which is more important, the foundation or the building which is build upon it. A good formal education, like a good foundation, is largely a hidden thing. No one walks around spouting multiplication tables and spelling "prestidigitation" and balancing chemical equations, anymore than people live on cement pads in the open air. It is in the building that the real business of life happens, and it is in the active life of the mind that real learning happens. The practice in reading, diagramming sentences, writing essays on fungi and field mice and Ferdinand of Spain, mutilating multitudinous maths problems and learning about levers and and lemmings and chemicals that exploded when mixed with water, all of these were slowly shaping my mind into the sort of mind which could analyze, recognize, organize and philosophize. However, the real education came from the use I made of those abilities in my free time.

When children are little, in preschool, kindergarten, maybe first or second grade, they are full of dreams and schemes and big ideas. They want to build skyscrapers and castles in the clouds. By the time they reach middle school, a lot of them lose that imaginative spark. Instead of asking questions like, "Why does that work like that? Where do these chemicals come from? What makes gravity work? Why would Hitler do that? Didn't he know better?" they start asking questions like, "Is this going to be on the test? How many paragraphs do I have to write?" We start out by training kids to achieve a standard, usually one set by the lowest common denominator, and they follow by sinking to the level of the standard we expect of them.

I am hypothesizing that this is because education has tried to go into the business of building buildings instead of merely pouring concrete for foundations. We have codified and quantified, metered and measured every possible dimension of what we term success, broken it down into its component parts, and tried to fit children into that model of what we think they should look like when they are done. It is a natural temptation for any educator, trainer, teacher or mentor, but kids quite rightly resent being built. Eventually they want to build themselves, even if they cannot articulate it, and it is meet and just that it should be so.

We needn't worry about kids "making something of themselves." It is not the responsibility of adults, parents or teachers to see that children "make something of themselves," that is their responsibility, and I think we needn't worry too much about it. As I said, little children are natural born builders, (once they get past the natural born destroyer phase, which takes longer for some than for others.) Young children build castles on clouds and to them nothing is impossible. The ideal education is one which preserves into adulthood that imaginative spark, that impulse to build something beautiful and interesting and useful and just plain cool, coupled with a mature, level-headed knowledge of ways and means. Such young people will build themselves, and it will not be after the image that their elders would have chosen for them. It will be more nearly after the image they were created to show.

Simbang Gabi

Being in the Philippines over advent has been an incredible opportunity for me to take part in the Simbang Gabi tradition that is celebrated by Catholic Filipinos all over the islands. Indeed it is practiced all over the world as well. My Filipino friends in Tacoma all have Simbang Gabi celebrations at some of the most heavily Filipino parishes throughout the city. Starting on the 16^th of December they have a Mass every day, sometimes with processions and lanterns, which continue until the 23^rd. The final Mass is the Christmas Vigil for a total of nine Masses forming a Novena leading up to Christmas.

One thing I did not know about Simbang Gabi, (which means “Night Mass,” also known by the Spanish “Misa de Gallo” or “Mass of the Rooster” is that it is celebrated at 4:30 in the morning, at least in the churches I attended. In Tacoma the celebrations are in the evening. I guess it is hard to get Americans to do anything at 4:30 in the morning.

The first Simbang Gabi Mass I attended was on the 16^th, and I was amazed. I arrived at just

about 4:10 AM, but even then the church was already full. The Filipino Churches I have seen are all alike in that they are not built with solid walls like churches in the west. Instead they are built with pillars supporting the ceiling and forming the walls, and between the pillars are built wrought iron grates. Some of these grates are solid panels, others are doors. In fact, the Carmelite Monastery in Davao has no walls at all, only a series of wrought iron doors, all wide open, and tied at full open position with wires.

At 4:10 AM, not only was the church full, but plastic chairs had been set up in crowds around three sides, and all of the chairs were full. People were sitting on the curbs, steps, and stonework surrounding the flower beds. This was not just true on the first day, but on every day of Simbang Gabi, including the Christmas Vigil.

When I told my little brother about that on Facebook chat he responded, “If only we had just a fraction of that faith here! Try getting Americans out of bed to do anything at 4:30 in the morning, let alone go to Mass.”

Now, I am not naïve enough to think that every one of those Filipino Catholics was automatically a saint just because they go to Mass at 4:30 in the morning for 8 days every December. There is a strong element of cultural Catholicism present in the Philippines, as there is in any country historically Catholic, meaning that a large part of the popular practice can no doubt be accounted for simply because that is just what everyone does. There does not need to be any real conversion of heart for people to follow a custom that all of their friends and family follow.

That being said, they show up. They show up really early in the morning. The custom, while not guaranteeing conversion any more than any other custom will, provides at least that much opportunity. Even though our actions should follow from conviction, it is also true that, being human, our convictions often follow from our actions. We do not have strong faith because we do not act upon our weak faith. 

Simbang Gabi was a chance for me to act, and having acted upon a faith barely equal to the task of dragging me out of bed at 4:00 AM, my faith has become stronger, my desire for the Eucharist has become deeper, my relationship with the God who kicked me out of bed has grown deeper. It is only by responding to grace that we grow in our ability to be open to it.

There are Problems, and then there are... well... Not Problems

This video has been circulating the internet for a while now. I saw it for the first time about a week ago. I, for one, find it one of those, "That is so true and I wish people would take this to heart (but between you and me those silly first worlders are kind of funny and pathetic.)"

Yes, I considered myself to be relatively independent of the "first world problem" syndrome. I have been through physical and mental hardships, been deployed to third world countries, and lived in survival situations before. Check that block. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt, didn't need the t-shirt so donated it to good will. Next?

Then, last night I was chatting with my fiancee using FaceTime, which is free internationally iPhone to iPhone. We were both pretty stoked that I was in a hotel instead of out at the base. The internet is much better in hotels and you don't play the abstract pixel-interpretation game so much. During this conversation I made the comment, "I wish they would switch the day and night modes on the AC in this hotel room. It gets freezing cold during the day, but then it stays warm all night."

Even as I was saying it I heard this sound in my head.

Okay, so that is a pretty first world problem. So I don't like sleeping when it is warm in my room? Well waaaaaaaa, cry about it why don't you? I can look out my hotel room window and see entire families who live in tin shacks with no air conditioning or even fans, and they seem to get by just fine.

Just like that was born my New Years resolution. One of them anyway. I have a couple of ongoing projects, and I still need to finish up one of last year's (I resolved to become a saint, but since that hasn't happened yet, it goes back on the list for this year.)

The thing is that I forget my roots. I grew up in a lower middle class family, with work, chores, school, and not a lot of money. We were not poor, but we were not rich. We did not have video games, or TV's in our rooms, or computers, or very many other gadgets. We didn't even have our own rooms, except for my sister being the only girl. Food was not ready made, someone had to prepare it from scratch and we were expected to help with that. Fun was not ready made. We had to build our own games, design our own rules for them. A lot of the time we even built our own toys because the ones that came from the store were just not available. Even when we did get toys, the ones we made were manlier and therefore better. After all when you can make your own throwing knife by cutting and grinding the spring steel skid of an abandoned piece of farming equipment; and when you have had the bones in your hand broken in a quarterstaff battle with your brother, and walked around with that hand behind your back for weeks so Mom wouldn't find out, well, a silly plastic sword from Toys R Us seems like a step down in the world. (I had four brothers. Plastic toys did not survive in our house, except for legos, which are awesome!)

Since then, as I said at the beginning of this, I have been at times even lower materially and comfortwise, until I was literally happy to get one half bite out of bit of sausage that someone dropped in the mud (yes, that really happened in SERE school.) On the whole my life has been comfortable, but I have learned that I can deal with discomfort quite well. I even embrace discomfort a bit. I am at my most creative, most fulfilled, and even my happiest when I have some purpose that worthily calls me to be uncomfortable.

I have also learned that comfort is relative. It is conditioned by expectation. For example, if I expect to have spicy seared tuna belly, garlic asparagus, beef fried rice, and a mango banana shake, with rice candy for desert, then I will be disappointed and made uncomfortable by over-grilled tuna belly, garlic asparagus and steamed rice. However, if I am expecting nothing, that same over-grilled tuna belly will be a pleasant surprise. It will be delicious.

This is my New Year's resolution: to think of my first world problems as not problems at all; to come at life from a position of emptiness so that I may be grateful for every thing. If I can do this even just a little bit, I think it will be quite a happy and fulfilling year.

Why Chivalry Still Matters

To balance out my last post, I have always been an advocate of a modern chivalry, going so far as to write a book and a surfeit of blogs about it. Despite the fact that it is no longer a primary focus of mine, I still think it is both good and necessary. Make no mistake, the need for chivalry, for protection of women by men, is still very real in this world. However, a fake chivalry that thinks its duty fully discharged by having held the door or paid for a meal is not going to cut it. The only solution for a crime against women like that pictured to the left, is a real chivalry, with brains and balls, muscle and a soul of steel, and the willingness to suffer (or perhaps inflict) violence if necessary to protect the innocent. 

That  picture is an extreme, although not at all uncommon, example. Perhaps acid throwing and nose cutting happen only in Afghanistan or India or Timbuktu or some such outlandish place but I can almost guarantee that on your street, right now, there lives at least one battered woman or abused child. If you are a public school student I can promise you, you walk past a half dozen scenes of bullying every week. If you work in an office you probably witness at least one or two incidents of verbal abuse, sexual harassment or oppression a day. This is the field of modern chivalry.

Most of your cardboard armor "knights," whining and complaining that no damsel wants him to be her savior, endlessly going on and on about how chivalry is dead and feminism killed it, they are just not up to that challenge. Unless they stop living in a fantasy world and open their eyes and train themselves long and hard, they never will be.