The Butt of the Joke or The Butt Who Made the Joke

I enjoy a good joke. Never mind if it's at someone's expense.

Even mine.

I've been the butt of many jokes throughout my lifetime. They generally tend to center around a few specific topics:

1. I do not like to visit the doctor, take medicine, admit when I'm hurt, or admit when I'm sick.

2. I'm not very attentive. I only listen to stories that are either being told by me or about me.

3. I do not dress too nicely. The few clothes I have are stained or have small holes. I limit my wardrobe to three or four colors and most of my clothes look exactly the same.

4. I am not very macho.

5. I find humor in the troubles of others.

6. I talk far too loudly when making "private" comments about others.

7. I don't read e-mails.

Now, I'm not admitting that all, or even any, of these things are accurate. However, because they are referenced so often I'm sure there's at least a thread of truth to each. So when I hear someone say "Nice to see you got all dressed up today" or they impersonate me by looking up with a blank expression and saying "Huh?," I'm really not offended. It's funny.

Not too long ago my friend Tim was telling a story about attending a special banquet that our school district was holding in honor of our superintendent. He came back the next Monday talking about seeing people he hadn't spoken to in years. In the span of just a minute or two at the banquet he asked a few old acquaintances how they had been doing. One explained that his mother had recently died. The other told him that his sister had died just that morning. Tim looked really serious when telling this story, as though this had maybe affected him in some deep or meaningful way. Other people lowered their brow and tried to look empathetic for the unknown mourners. Not me. Striking a blow for #5 on the list above, all I could think to say at that moment was "Wow, I hope you stopped asking people how they were doing!"

I remember an old episode of The Simpsons where Homer has been sentenced to a driver training course because of some type of traffic violation. To scare him straight they show a film of tragic accidents and mangled bodies. After a few minutes of near uncontrollable laughter he responds "That's funny, because it's not me!"

I'm definitely beyond that level of insensitivity but I do notice that my favorite comedians are the ones that relentlessly make fun of others. No matter their color, sexual preference, religious affiliation, gender, athletic ability, intelligence, or any other descriptor that divides people into categories. I laugh every time Daniel Tosh jokes "We need to bring our troops home. They can have the war here. They deserve to get a good night sleep in their own beds, wake up and eat a big breakfast, and drive to war. We can have it in Nebraska. We don't even need that terrible state anyway. It's no wonder that state is full of storm chasers. Twenty minutes in Omaha and I'm praying for something to pick me up and carry me away. And yes, I tell that joke in Nebraska. But no one ever says anything because they're too busy sitting there stuffing their faces with fried mayonnaise balls."

I imagine the people of Nebraska are probably really nice. They may or may not eat fried mayonnaise. However, I'll allow myself to believe they do if it means a good laugh. Is that wrong?

Where is the line?

On Friday I told a friend at school that I hated his shirt. However, I tried to break it to him gently, "That's one ugly shirt!" I told another, when seeing a picture of him from years ago, that "you look a lot like a young Elton John." Neither comment was true but I doubt I'll ever say "That's a really cute shirt" or "Wow, you're a handsome guy!"

Before writing this I asked Tricia, "Have I ever made a joke that you found to be really insensitive and made you mad?" I didn't have to allow much think time.

"YES."

Although, when asked to present an example of one such joke she was unable to produce a single one.

"I can't think of one right now," she explained. "But there's been plenty. I remember getting mad."

So maybe there are lines that should not be crossed. Perhaps I, and others, should be more careful to spare the feelings of others - even at the expense of a well played one-liner.

Last Thursday I had dinner with some teacher friends. I went on and on about a guy I met recently who tells the types of jokes that are not only unfunny but uncomfortable. He talks almost without pause and rarely ever says anything that is remotely on-topic. He makes references that no one ever understands. He even made a presentation wearing a tank top. A tank top!

I, of course, had a little fun with all this. A little fun that I shared with my friends on Thursday night. A little fun that was supposed to elicit laughter.

"He has Asperger's," someone quickly explained. "He's autistic."

Talk about a joke that's not only not funny but uncomfortable. If there were a hole to crawl into I would have dove right into it. I drove home feeling terrible - sure that I could never again make a joke at anyone's expense. Basically, I felt I needed to stop being a jerk. Stop being a bully.

A few days have passed and I'm not so sure anymore. It may sound mean but I don't think it's necessary to stop teasing and making fun of each other. There's a lot of seriousness to life and jokes are much needed. Heck, even at funerals. But there is such thing as going too far. And that's what I had done - even if I didn't know or intend to.

I'm not sure what the exact moral is to this story but I imagine there's one somewhere. I'll continue to fumble around until I find it. But until then, careful what you say or do.

If it's the least bit awkward or incorrect I can almost guarantee it will not go unnoticed.

The Time Crunch

This past week really hasn't been one of my finest. For someone who would rather be in a classroom filled with kids than just about anywhere else in the world, today I was very happy that it was Friday. That's something I don't say real often. Something I don't ever say, really.

It has nothing to do with teaching or school, though. I'm just exhausted. Exhausted from a calendar threatening to overburden its tiny nail and pull lose from the wall. Exhausted from overextending myself with well-intentioned promises. Exhausted from being too exhausted to go to bed.

Tonight my mom told me that one of our friends said to her "Have you ever noticed that by Friday night Chris and Tricia look like they've just been through a war?" It's an obvious overstatement but the sentiment is true. By Friday night I barely have the energy to carry on a conversation at dinner. I often finish eating quickly and rest my head against the back of the chair in an attempt to "rest my eyes" the way my grandparents used to do in the middle of the afternoon.

We did this to ourselves, though. Last Spring we had made the decision that the kids would need to pick just one activity for the year. The plan was for the girls to pick something to do in the Fall (probably horse back riding) and for the boys to choose something in the Spring (most likely baseball). But then there were scouts.

"There aren't really that many meetings," we reasoned. "And besides, it's so much fun and they provide a lot of great opportunities for the kids to go camping and pick apples and ice skate and go to summer camp."

It's a slippery slope - this reasoning.

"Well," we said a few months later. "The Fall baseball season is shorter and the boys are both starting a new league in the Spring. Fall Ball is pretty relaxed and they'd probably benefit from the opportunity to get a little extra practice."

Uh, oh.

"Besides, they really love playing."

And they do, too. It's one thing to stand against the over-scheduling of our kids' lives but what about when those are the very activities they love the most?

"Ahhh Dad," the girls might argue. "You mean we have to quit horse back riding halfway through the year? The boys are playing in the Fall and the Spring!"

Hmmmm.

"Well," we'll reason again. "Horse riding is only once a week and we have a carpool so we really only have to take them and pick them up once every two weeks. That's not too bad. Maybe they could do the whole year."

Until a night when we have two baseball games, a scout meeting, and I don't get home from my graduate class until 7:15 to help.

Tricia and I have never had trouble saying no to the kids but suddenly it occurs to me that there's one area where maybe we have. It wasn't as though we were trying to spoil them. I'm not even sure we were spoiling them. We weren't filling their world with material possessions or succumbing to temper tantrums, whining, or crying.

We were just trying to provide them a happy childhood. We were keeping them active and away from the television. We were helping them build memories we would all one day sit around and fondly recollect.

Except that I've noticed these memories are slowly encroaching upon other memories we used to build. The ones of us sitting in the front yard together. Or playing a game together. Or having the energy to run around the house laughing together.

So maybe these choices we're making come with a consequence. Perhaps what we need to do is reevaluate what's most important to us as parents, and as a family, and reassess how we're choosing to spend our time. Because I've noticed we're not sitting in bed together reading books every night. And some things are far too important to give up.

Fatherhood

The other morning the kids and I were pulling into school when out of nowhere Muluken asked, “Dad, were there toothbrushes when you were a kid?”

“Uhh….what?” I asked.

“Were there toothbrushes when you were little?”

I twisted up my face and playfully glared at him through the rearview mirror.

“Yes, Muluken,” I assured him. “There were toothbrushes when I was little.”

“Oh,” he said. “But how about dentists?”

Muluken knows how old I am. Of that I am positive. What I’m not so sure about, though, is how old he thinks thirty-six is. My dad was thirty-six years old when I was in the sixth grade. He seemed old to me then. Not grandfatherly-old, but worldly-wise-old. Like so many kids, I thought he knew everything. I assumed he had learned all there was to know about life and that being a father was as natural and easy for him as taking a jog around the block.

Yet now that it’s me I’ve learned that parenting is anything but natural. It sometimes shocks me that I’m old enough to even be a father. Certainly, I’m not worldly wise. In fact there are many times, when parenting, that I find myself simply making things up on the spot and then bluffing as though it’s the only logical answer or decision.

“Dad, can we play water guns at Stevens?” the kids will ask.

“Uhh……yeah, but only if you’re just getting each other wet. No pretending to kill one another.”

“What’s the difference?” they ask.

“Oh, there’s a difference all right!”

I think.

“Dad, can I get on the computer?” they ask.

“Sure but that means no movie later tonight,” I answer.

“The computer is the same as watching a movie?”

“Sure it is.”

As a kid I may have disagreed with these types of decisions but I always assumed they were rooted in some age-old wisdom. That some knowledge had been handed down many generations allowing my father to do and say what was right. Come to find out, though, he was probably just making it all up too.

That’s not to say he wasn’t a great role model. He was. My first lessons in fatherhood came from my dad. I learned the value of being patient. Only once - when I was out playing in the neighborhood with some friends and failed to make it back home before nightfall - can I ever remember him being angry with me. This made quite an impression. And while I can’t say I’m the world’s most patient father, I’m certainly a patient teacher.

I also learned the importance of making time for your children. Every night my dad came home tired and smelling of a tar plant. At least I would assume he was tired; but truthfully, he never showed it. He always seemed to be in good spirits and each night he took the time to play a game of catch with me in the yard. Or watch movies with me. Or wrestle around on the floor.

Not long before my dad died I graduated from college and started my career as a teacher. I loved everything about it from the very start and was lucky enough to teach that first year with a guy named Joe. He was ten years older than me and quickly became one of my very best friends and mentors. What I didn’t learn about being a father from my own dad I learned from Joe.

Joe and his wife were very much the type of parents - the type of family, really - that Tricia and I aspired to be even before the topic of children ever came up. Their kids ate really healthy, rarely ever watched television, didn’t play video games, and spent lots of time outside running around and playing. Their weekends were spent visiting the zoo, hiking, or playing at the park. They were very concerned about how their kids viewed the world and how they treated others. Their house was always a hub of commotion as they regularly had neighborhood kids running in and out of their door.

I’m sure there have been countless other influences. In the end, though, I guess we each create our own version of fatherhood. Like music there are many influences to be found - traces of those who have come before us - but we take each of those and make them our own. For better or worse.

While there are many moments where I fail to shine as a parent, I know that on the whole I do better than okay. I like to joke that other than parenting and teaching I’m chronically mediocre at most things in life. That’s okay, though, because if I were going to choose just two things to do well parenting and teaching would be my first choices, by a long shot.

Being a good father isn’t something kids necessarily brag about to their friends. They’re often more interested in tangible things. Things that are big, strong, fast, or valuable. It makes me wonder what my kids say about me to their friends. I’m already beginning to think that a few of them are starting to notice my limitations. Muluken was sharing a story with me not too long ago about how his swim goggles came to be broken.

“Jacob’s dad was throwing us into the pool and they broke,” he explained.

“Who’s Jacob?” I asked.

“He’s a friend I know from first grade that I sometimes see at the pool. His dad is a lot bigger than you.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah, and a lot stronger too,” he explained.

“Hmmm.”

“Yeah,” he went on. “He can throw us a lot higher in the air than you can.”

So maybe part of the spell is beginning to break. Perhaps the day is soon approaching when the kids will no longer think I know everything or can do anything. Maybe they’ll see I’m not really the world’s best Othello player or know everything there is to know about the proper baseball swing. But I hope they’ll know I’m a good father. Because thanks to some wonderful role models I’ve learned to make them feel special. And to love them.

There’s one other role model I didn’t mention. And while he might not be real he’s made no less an impact on me as a father. When I first read To Kill a Mockingbird in the seventh grade I fell in love with the children, Jem and Scout. When I read it again in high school I fell in love with mystery of Boo Radley and cried over the unjust death of TomRobinson. But when I read it a third time, as an adult, it was Atticus Finch that moved me. He was as ideal of a father as any imperfect man could be. He was kind, thoughtful, calm, loving, and fair. That’s not a bad start.

To end, I’m going to include some excerpts from one of my favorite chapters. Amidst all the elements and storylines of this monumental novel, I think it’s this small story of the rabid dog coming down the alley that sums up Atticus, and the kind of gentle and humble man we should all aspire to be.

-----------------------

Atticus was feeble: he was nearly fifty. When Jem and I asked him why he was so old, he said he got started late, which we felt reflected upon his abilities and manliness. He was much older than the parents of our school contemporaries, and there was nothing Jem or I could say about him when our classmates said, "My father -"

Jem was football crazy. Atticus was never too tired to play keep-away, but when Jem wanted to tackle him Atticus would say, "I'm too old for that, son."

Our father didn't do anything. He worked in an office, not in a drugstore. Atticus did not drive a dump-trunk for the county, he was not the sheriff, he did not farm, work in a garage, or do anything that could possibly arouse the admiration of anyone.

Besides that, he wore glasses. He was nearly blind in his left eye, and said left eyes were the tribal curse of the Finches. Whenever he wanted to see something well, he turned his head and looked from his right eye.

He did not do the things our schoolmates' fathers did: he never went hunting, he did not play poker or fish or drink or smoke. He sat in the living room and read.

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Tim Johnson (the rabid dog) reached the side street that ran in front of the Radley Place, and what remained of his poor mind made him pause and seem to consider which road he would take. He made a few hesitant steps and stopped in front of the Radly gate; then he tried to turn around, but was having difficulty.

Atticus said, "He's within range, Heck. You better get him now before he goes down the side street- Lord knows who's around the corner. Go inside, Cal."

Calpurnia opened the screen door, latched it behind her, then unlatched it and held onto the hook. She tried to block Jem and me with her body, but we looked out from beneath her arms.

"Take him, Mr. Finch." Mr. Tate handed the rifle to Atticus; Jem and I nearly fainted.

"Don't waste time, Heck," said Atticus. "Go on."

"Mr. Finch, this is a one-shot job."

Atticus shook his head vehemently; "Don't just stand there, Heck! He won't wait all day for you -"

"For God's sake, Mr. Finch, look where he is! Miss and you'll go straight into the Radley house! I can't shoot that well and you know it!"

"I haven't shot a gun in thirty years -"

Mr. Tate almost threw the rifle at Atticus. "I'd feel mighty comfortable if you did now," he said.

In a fog, Jem and I watched our father take the gun and walk out into the middle of the street. He walked quickly, but I thought he moved like an underwater swimmer: time had slowed to a nauseating crawl.

When Atticus raised his glasses Calpurnia murmered, "Sweet Jesus help him," and put her hands to her cheeks.

Atticus pushed his glasses to his forehead; they slipped down, and he dropped them in the street. In the silence, I heard them crack. Atticus rubbed his eyes and chin; we saw him blink hard.

In front of the Radley gate, Tim Johnson had made up what was left of his mind. He had finally turned himself around, to pursue his original course up our street. He made two steps forward, then stopped and raised his head. We saw his body go rigid.
With movements so swift they seemed simultaneous, Atticus's hand yanked a ball-tipped lever as he brought the gun to his shoulder.

The rifle cracked. Tim Johnson leaped, flopped over and crumpled on the sidewalk in a brown-and-white heap. He didn't know what hit him.

Mr. Tate jumped off the porch and ran to the Radley Place. He stopped in front of the dog, squatted, turned around and tapped his finger on his forehead above his left eye. "You were a little to the right, Mr. Finch," he called.

"Always was," answered Atticus.

-------------------

Miss Maudie grinned wickedly. "Well now, Miss Jean Louise," she said, "still think your father can't do anything? Still ashamed of him?"

"Nome," I said meekly.

"Forgot to tell you the other day that besides playing the Jew's Harp, Atticus Finch was the deadest shot in Maycomb County in his time."

"Dead shot..." echoed Jem.

"That's what I said, Jem Finch. Guess you'll change your tune now. The very idea, didn't you know his nickname was Ol' One-Shot when he was a boy? Why, down at the Landing when he was coming up, if he shot fifteen times and hit fourteen doves he'd complain about wasting ammunition."

"He never said anything about that," Jem muttered.

"Never said anything about it, did he?"

"No, ma'am."

"Wonder why he never goes huntin' now," I said.

"Maybe I can tell you," said Miss Maudie. "If your father's anthing, he's civilized in his heart. Marksmanship's a gift of God, a talent - oh, you have to practice to make it perfect, but shootin's different from playing the piano or the like. I think maybe he put his gun down when he realized that God had given him an unfair advantage over most living things. I guess he decided he wouldn't shoot till he had to, and he had to today."

"Looks like he'd be proud of it," I said.

"People in their right minds never take pride in their talents," said Miss Maudie.

-------------------

"Don't say anything about it, Scout," Jem said.

"What? I certainly am. Ain't everybody's daddy the deadest shot in Maycomb County."
Jem said, "I reckon if he'd wanted us to know it, he'da told us. If he was proud of it, he'da told us."

"Maybe it just slipped his mind," I said.

"Naw, Scout, it's something you wouldn't understand. Atticus is real old, but I wouldn't care if he couldn't do anything - I wouldn't care if he coudn't do a blessed thing."

Jem picked up a rock and threw it jubilantly at the carhouse. Running after it, he called back: "Atticus is a gentleman, just like me!"