An Open Letter to My Daughter on Her First Date

Dear daughter of mine.  You reached a milestone tonight.

Your first date.

Every dad dreads this day.  And, I must admit, I am very much like every dad.  So, to ease the sting of the first date and assure you were treated like a queen, I took matters into my own hands.

I asked you out.

The good news is you enthusiastically accepted.  No doubt my probability of success was buoyed by the fact that you believe I am a superhero, capable of throwing your giggling, 36-pound body into the air to unspeakable heights, and catching you again before you konk your head on our food-splattered wood floors.

And who wouldn’t want to date a superhero?

Don’t get me wrong.  I am certainly not naïve enough to think that my doorstep will never feel the heavy boots of a scarily-dressed, angst-ridden, mouth-breather intent on breaking curfew with my little girl.  No.  I know that day is coming.  And, sadly, I also know that you’ll look into that bumbling dolt’s eyes with the same sense of wonder that currently meets my gaze every time I miraculously untangle My Little Pony’s long-flowing, strawberry-scented hair from the whirring wheels of your Zuzu Pet.

But this first date was about planting a seed.  And I hope that our first night on the town burns into your memory with the intensity of the sun’s rays condensed by a magnifying glass.  Because tonight, at four years old, you were everything your future self aspires to be.  And since your little fingers and limited knowledge of spelling are only capable of cranking out .014 words per minute, allow me to capture your current life philosophy for your future self to ponder.

So here goes.

Someday, Audrey, you’ll hear a voice.  It might be the voice of your friends.  Maybe a shout from a picture in a magazine.  Or, Heaven forbid, a comment from your boyfriend.  And that voice is going to tell you that you don’t have the right clothes, the right makeup, or the right face.

And when you hear that voice, I want you to put on your green Christmas dress in the middle of April, don a bright red hair bow, and clip a frilly pink flower to your collar.  And with a love-stained, faded Toasty blanket draped over your shoulder, and a sparkling pink and white unicorn tucked under your arm, I want you to tell those voices that, in your world, beauty cannot be seen.  It must be felt.  A confidence that springs forth from deep within heart and soul and bone.    Both breath-taking and life-giving.

And no doubt there will be even more voices.  Maybe your friends.  Maybe a talking head on TV.  Or, Heaven forbid, a comment from your own father.  And that voice is going to tell you that material things matter.  It will tell you to make practical life decisions based on bank accounts and buying power, because money gives you the ability to acquire not only the good things in life, but the good life as well.

And once you’ve listened to their advice, just like today, I want you to pick a dandelion out of the grass and give it to them.  With a sincerity and smile born of your generous heart.  Ask them to turn down the radio and tell them a story about a stuffed elephant named Geraldine who flies through the air on the back of a magical horse.  Then make silly faces in the mirror at a fancy restaurant, and fill up on two loaves of free bread.  Show us how delightful it is to dip your spoon into the perfect bowl of macaroni and cheese.  Because there’s a reason it’s called comfort food.  We distracted people tend to forget. It’s the simplicity that makes you feel that way.

Finally, one day you will hear a voice coming from inside your head.  A voice with the same tone and inflection of yours.  Using words you recognize.  A shout that only you can hear.  Confusing.  Because that voice will be saying mean and hurtful things like cannot, will not and should not.  Telling you not to dream.  Not to try.  For fear of standing out and looking foolish.

And like your first date, I want you to silence that voice and listen to the music of your soul instead.  The music that tells you to dance and twirl in the middle of a crowded restaurant.   To spin.  All eyes on you.  Not once.  Not twice.  But seven times.

Until you fall down dizzy.

Because you will fall.  Onto the cold, hard floor strewn with dirt and crumbs of cheesecake crust.  And when you fall, I want you to do just as you did tonight.  I want you to stand right back up.  And against all better judgment, I want you to pick those crumbs off your dress.  Look at them.

And eat them.

Then keep right on spinning.  Because it’s not about the messes you make.  It’s about enjoying the sweetness of the journey.  My daughter, always know that who you are is who you were made to be.

Truly.  Deeply.  Loved.

- Dad

Chapter One: The Chicken Killer

*** OK… Rather than write a blog post, I started with renewed fervor this week working on a book about our experience as missionaries in Guatemala.  It’s been several months/years in the making.  I’m about halfway finished.  So, this blog post is a “cheat.”  Just posting Chapter One of the book… happy for any feedback you might have… good, bad or otherwise.***

 

Chapter One:  The Chicken Killer

“I killed Graciela’s chickens.”

 

The confession poured forth from my mouth like something from an episode of Law & Order.  I nervously paced across the floor of our tiny adobe casita.

Taking off her hiking boots, Gabby turned toward me.  With that look of half-contempt and half-curiosity that wives throughout the ages have mastered, she repeated my statement, phrased as a question.

 

“YOU killed Graciela’s chickens?”

“Yes.  I killed her chickens with my vomit.” 

 

Minutes ago my wife and I had been munching on a dinner of  hand-patted corn tortillas, rice, beans and watered down instant coffee with Martin, Graciela, and their six kids – the Guatemalan family that had adopted us for a year.  Huddled around a large, unsteady table, we ate silently as the family conversed. 

Though we’d been in Guatemala for seven months, it felt as if our Spanish fluency was hovering somewhere between Antonio Banderas and Larry the Cable Guy.  Still, as Graciela told her story, her intonation allowed us to get the gist of things.  She spoke in the slow, gentle, vowels-last-for-an-hour brand of Spanish that is typical of Mayan women who learned Spanish as a second language.

 

“Los pollitos murieeeeeeeron de la enfermedaaaaaad.  Toooodos!  Ya saaaaabe es la eeeeepoca.”

 

“The little chickens died of “The Sickness”.  All of ‘em!  It’s that time of year, you know.”

I nearly choked on my frijoles.

I’m no chicken farmer, but I have a hard time believing that there exists a very consistent, predictable “Chicken Sickness” that comes along every year at tax time and wipes out every clucking hen within the borders of a Central American country.  I’ve heard of the Plague of Livestock from Exodus, but I believe chickens received some sort of “white meat” exemption, right? 

Harder to believe was Graciela’s tone.  She was surprisingly nonchalant about the chicken deaths.   For most of us, hearing the word “chicken” conjures up images of The Colonel and a bucket of extra crispy.  To Graciela and poor Guatemalans like her, the chickens represent much more.        

In her community, women are second-class citizens.  After months of eating our body weight in rice, beans, noodles and tortillas, we had come to learn that meat is expensive and scarce for poor Mayans.  A woman who raises chickens and generates income for herself and her family is a big deal.  The chickens that Graciela cared for were a living, breathing business for her.  The chickens represented good fortune.  The chickens were hope, covered in feathers.

And I had killed them with my vomit.

 

 

 

“How do you kill chickens with vomit?”  Gabby asked, getting ready for bed, back in the confines of our casita.

“You heard her!”, I barked.  “It’s gotta’ be my fault.  Not Colonel Mustard – in the Library – with a CandleStick.  Nope.  It’s Scott – By the Chicken Coop – With Puke.”

“But how?” she pressed.

I continue.  “Remember when I got that stomach bug last week when my parents came to visit?”

“Yes, I remember your parents coming to visit,” she confirms. 

“Well I wen…”  I try to move on, but Gabby interrupts.

“But I don’t remember the stomach bug.” she says, making mocking air quotes in my direction. “What I do remember is you being sooooo nervous about your mom having to maneuver around chicken poop, eat mysterious food, and pee in a hole in the ground for three days that you made yourself ill.”

Caught off-guard, I consider defending my intestinal fortitude until I realize that she is probably right.  I am an expert worrier.  If worrying was a martial art, I’d be a 10^th degree black belt.  I gloss over this blow to my manhood and carry on with the story.

“Whatever.  Late that night, I felt my stomach churning, and knew I was in trouble.  I ran out of the casita toward the baño”  (our term for the concrete seat over a large hole in the ground) “and realized I probably wasn’t going to make it, especially since I had forgotten the flashlight.  So, I ran over to an open space and… well… got sick.”

I looked at her.

“So?”  she questioned.

“The open space was the chickens’ ‘area.’  The coop!  I contaminated their space!  They probably died ‘cuz they caught what I had.  By exposure to my puke.  Or eating it.”

“You’re disgusting!”

“Well!  They’re kinda’ like free range birds!  It’s not like they’re sitting there ordering off a menu, making sure they eat equal amounts of protein and carbs!  They just eat whatever is on the ground, and that ‘whatever’ was really bad!  I know I killed them.”

“Scott.  You’re overreacting.  I sincerely doubt you killed the chickens with your vomit.”

But I couldn’t get this idea out of my head.  What kind of missionary kills a poor woman’s chickens!?  Her livelihood!  The guilt was heavy.  Such a thing is not very Jesus-like.  As we lay there in the dark, I tossed and turned on our makeshift twin bed.  This obviously kept my wife awake.  Noting my genuine concern, her words cut through the blackness,

“If you’re really that worried about it, I think you should just talk to Graciela about it in the morning.  What can it hurt?”

 

The next morning, I woke to the sound of a rooster crowing.  Not our rooster, mind you, but someone else’s.  It appears Foghorn Leghorn survived the “great plague”.  This only solidified my theoretical position.  I’m a chicken killer.  Not some “Chicken Sickness.”  Me.

Gabby and I walked from the casita, across the dirt patio, to the cinder block structure that served as the kitchen.  We entered the room and found the table set, our breakfasts ready as usual.  The meal consisted of a few corn tortillas and leftover rice and beans from the previous night.  Most of the rest of the family had eaten before we even got out of bed, so it was just me, Gabby, Graciela, and Josesito, our two-year old host brother.

We ease into breakfast conversation, and I gingerly approach the subject.  My insides want to come out and confess, like some made-for-TV-movie.  I want to shout “I did it!  I killed your chickens!  I never meant to hurt anyone, but I was just so nervous and careless!  I puked all over them!  Take me away!  Lock me up and throw away the key!  Tear up my missionary card – the laminated one!  It’s in my wallet!  I’m not worthy!”

But I can’t think of the Spanish word for “laminated.”

Instead, I ask,

“Graciela.  Tell me again what happened to your chickens?”

She tells the story again.  No frills.  Just the facts.  Same as yesterday.

“So this happens every year?”

“Sí”, she continues.  “The chickens just start moving slowly, or not moving at all.  Some people give them treatment.”

“Treatment?” 

I imagine a little chicken hooked up to IV antibiotics.  Laying in a motorized bed made out of hay.  Watching a TV that’s mounted on the wall.  Graciela hovering over him with a chart in her hand.

“Sí, tratamiento.  Les dan asi tambien o fin.”

In my head, I am translating her words.  Literally, they mean “Yes.  Treatment.  They give them like that also or the end.” 

Is this some weird saying that makes no sense out of context?  All languages have them, right?  Like in English, we say silly things like “knocked up” to refer to getting pregnant.  The literal translation makes no sense, but if you know the lingo, you understand.  So, I run the last four words through my brain again.

 

Asi.  (like this/that)

Tambien. (also)

O. (or)

Fin.  (the end/final)

 

Nope… still means “like that also or the end.” 

Scott no comprendo.

 

“Graciela.  What do you mean by ‘asi tambien o fin?’”

Graciela giggles and covers her mouth to hide her embarrassment caused by the fact that what once was a “prom queen” face has been aged by hardship and a few missing teeth due to a lack of access to dental care.  Her laughter means one of two things.  Either I just told a joke, or completely misunderstood her.

“No!” she says, still masking a grin.  “Una palabra.  Acetaminofen.”

“Oh!  One word!  Acetaminophen!”

She nods in agreement.

Now I’m laughing.  Not so much for the miscommunication as for the image that is now in my head.  What once was a chicken on IV antibiotics is now a chicken struggling to open a tamper-proof bottle of Tylenol.

 “So how do you give a chicken acetaminophen?” I ask.

It appears that the image in my head is not too far from the truth.  Graciela went on to explain that she and the kids would chase the chickens around the yard, corner them by the woodpile, and wrap their arms around their flapping wings to keep the mayhem to a minimum.  Once a chicken was in hand, Graciela – whose name literally means “grace”

Sweet Graciela.

Lovely Graciela,

Would pry open the chicken’s tiny beak and shove a couple of big pills down its throat with her index finger.

Well.  That oughtta’ fix ‘er right up!

My guilt fades as I warm to the idea that it was likely not my queasy belly that caused the great “chicken deaths”, but rather, the Tylenol.  I’m no doctor, but I think 500 milligrams per bird exceeds the chicken dosage instructions listed on the bottle by about a million percent.  It’s a poultry OD for sure.  Like giving a grown man a Big Gulp full of liquid Robitussin.  It’s a comic beginning to a day that is faded around the edges by reality. 

Here is a woman who had spent hard-earned money on a few chickens, hoping only to turn that investment into a few more Quetzales.  Money she could use to buy some shoes for her two-year-old, some thread to mend a blouse, or some school supplies for her daughter.  Instead, her poverty – a product of decades of bad government, bad education, bad luck, and bad choices – keeps this tiny dream from becoming a reality.  And it’s in this moment, as with many moments, that I grasp the magnitude of the task before me. 

This is all part of being a missionary.  Starting with a desire to save the world, only to realize that the world is not yours to save. 

 

So what’s the point?

 

And how did I get here in the first place?

Falling Down

“My car has a favorite speed.  It wants to go this fast!”

At least that’s what I told myself as the wobble in the steering wheel subsided upon reaching eighty-two miles per hour.  I’m pretty sure it’s written somewhere in the 2000 Acura Integra User’s Manual.  Right after the page that explains that driving through a heavy downpour is equivalent to detailing your car.

But I had to get to the sports complex. 

I had just landed in Nashville after a three-month stretch of business trips that left my wife feeling like a single mom and my kids feeling like Monday-Friday orphans.  And today was Jake’s first time on the ice as part of the Nashville Predators’ GOAL program.

Kids in the south have about as much interest in hockey as they do the economic situation in Khazakstan.  So, taking a page from the tobacco industry marketing handbook, the local NHL team has adopted the “get ‘em hooked while they’re young” strategy.  Their program will give your five-year-old a helmet, gloves, pads, pants, skates, a jersey and a hockey stick, and provide four group hockey lessons absolutely free of charge.  It’s genius.  Since Jake had recently shown an interest in all things sports, Gabby signed him up.

I arrived at the rink ten minutes into the first practice.  Gabby was standing in the bleachers, laughing to herself, with her camera phone pointed at the ice.  I turned my eyes toward the rink and saw what looked like a huge mix-up in the wardrobe department at 20^th Century Fox.  Every single Oompa Loompa in Oz was mistakenly outfitted with a Transformers costume and turned loose on the tundra. 

 

There were dozens of little kids scattered from one end of the rink to the other.  Some were skating like old pros.  Others were upright, gingerly making their way from one coaches’ station to another.  And a good number were laying flat on their backs like beetles with their limbs flailing.  Helpless.

I approached Gabby and gave her the usual kiss hello.  Still smiling, she pointed to the center of the ice.

“He’s right there.  In the red leg warmers.”

And there he was.  A newborn deer in spring.  Wobbly knees and all.  He would try and lurch forward, only to find his legs splay out like a wishbone, sending him flopping to the ice.  Face-first.  Head-first.  Butt-first.  Over and over again.  Coaches would come by from time to time, get down on the ice, say something to him, and then skate away. 

I felt horrible for him.  I knew how excited he was for this first practice, and he was spending the entire time falling down.  And he wasn’t alone.  As I scanned the rest of the rink, it looked like a scene from beneath a bug zapper.  There were bodies strewn about.  Kids crying.  Reaching into thin air, hoping for a rescue.  Coaches would come by at random times and hold out a hockey stick.  A kid would grab on and the coach would skate away, dragging  the blubbering husk of a hockey player and sliding them across the ice toward the exit.  For others, the rescue never came.

Hockey can be a cruel sport. 

Then there was Jake.  Like the rest of us, he can get pretty frustrated when things don’t go his way.  I waved toward him to get his attention.  After a couple more flops I finally caught his eye.  I expected tears streaming down his face. 

Instead, he picked his head up off the ice, sat upright, extended his arm, and me a thumbs-up.  When he smiled, his eyes beamed and his lips parted to reveal a bright green mouth guard. 

Pure joy.

The coaches set up different areas for kids to rotate through, practicing stick handling or footwork.  Falling, crawling and sliding, Jake would finally make it to one of the stations.  By the time he’d finally get there, everyone would dart off to the next location, leaving him scrambling to catch up.  He face-planted and butt-busted the ice well over a hundred times in the span of 45 minutes.  The final whistle blew.  I met him at the rail.  He was one of the last ones off the ice.

“Did you have a good time, buddy?”

“Yes,” he answered, slobbering through the mouth guard.  “I want to go again.”

 “Really?  You must have really liked it.  What were they teaching you out there?”

“How to get back up.”

“How to get back up?”

“Yep.”

There were about half as many kids on the ice at the second practice.  Hockey Darwinism.  For some reason, Jake was still loving this sport that was 90% ego-bruising and 10% gliding grace.

By the time the third practice rolled around, Jake could skate.  Sure, he still fell plenty of times, and he wasn’t setting any land speed records.  But he could also weave through cones.  Even swatted the puck into the net a couple of times.  When he did, he thrust his arms into the air in triumph.  I couldn’t help but join in the celebration.

In moments like this, you feel the joy of parenting.  Seeing your kid fall in love with something.  Watching them fight through adversity to find the satisfaction that comes from hard work and determination.  It makes you feel like you must be doing something right as a dad.

And then you’re reminded that such moments, while thrilling, are also fleeting.

Like last week when my young Wayne Gretsky chose to wake me with a scream at 2:30 in the morning. 

“I can’t breathe!  I can’t breathe!”

I ran into Jake’s room to see what was the matter.  He was sitting up in his bed, red faced, and yelling like mad.  We had house guests that night, so Audrey was sleeping in his room with him.  She had this incredibly worried look on her face.  I would have been very concerned, were it not for the fact that my son was breathing just fine.

And screaming. 

Waking up the whole house. 

I hustled him out of his room and into the master bath.  There, amidst the chaos, I tried a remedy that had worked to calm him down in the past.  I turned on the hot water to create some steam, leaned over the sink, grabbed a towel, and draped it over both of us so we could breathe in the makeshift sauna air.

But this time, it wasn’t working.  Both of us had hot, sweaty faces, and he was still howling like a banshee.  The kid has a flair for drama, which he inherited from me.  I was trying to calm him down by saying, “You’re fine!  Don’t worry!  Just take some deep breaths!”  It was no use.  He still wouldn’t chill out.  Instead, he yelled back,

“I can only breathe in!  I can’t breathe out!  I can’t breathe out!  It’s not working!”

And that’s when I lost it.  Parenting fail.  I grabbed my son, and pulled his face two inches from my own.  I then shout-whispered biology facts at him.  At 2:37 in the morning.

“You’re being ridiculous, son!  You cannot produce sound from your mouth unless you are exhaling air across your vocal chords!  It is technically impossible for you to make the noise you are making without being able to breathe out!  There is nothing wrong with you!  Now CALM DOWN and GO BACK TO BED!”

Gabby, hearing my little science lesson, came to the rescue.  She walked in to the bathroom, politely asked me to get him a cool drink of water, and gave the boy a hug.  When I returned to the room with the water, Jake was already half asleep.  I, on the other hand, was wide awake.  And angry.

In the morning, Jake felt a bit warm.  So, we took his temperature. 

102.

When he complained of a sore throat, we grabbed a flashlight to take a peek.  The kid’s windpipe was red and swollen.  Inflamed.  It looked like it hurt.  Next, I checked the mailbox, where I found a letter declaring that I was voted Runner Up in the America’s Most Heartless Father competition.  Bested only by that guy who put his kid in a weather balloon as a publicity stunt. 

There’s always next year.

I wanted to rewind the clock back to 2:30am.  Erase the mistake with a hug and some will-timed compassion.  Unfortunately, I’m not Marty McFly, and there is no flux capacitor.  So, I did the next best thing. 

I took Jake’s hand and walked with him to the couch.  I looked him in the eye as he plopped down next to me. 

“Hey buddy.  Last night, I didn’t do such a good job taking care of you.  I didn’t realize you were sick. I messed up.  Sometimes dads make mistakes,” I told him.  “I’m sorry.” 

 “That’s OK.”  No fanfare.  Just a quiet voice telling me that it’s not the end of the world.

Then Audrey came in, book in hand.  She crawled next to me on the couch and said, “Read it.”

She handed me the book and I settled back into the cushions.  As I turned the first page, they both shimmied in close.  I started to read.  Jake grabbed my arm, lifted it, and placed it around his shoulder.

Teaching his dad how to get back up.

Penmanship Counts (Merry Christmas!)

I began collecting notes back in the fifth grade.  The obsession was born from a deep-seeded desire to be noticed.  I’m sure a trained psychologist would diagnose it as an acute case of narcissism which presents as numerous symptoms.

• Loud, girly laugh. 
• Blathering storytelling at gatherings involving four or more people. 
• Blog posts exceeding 1500 words.

Warning:  There is no cure.  There’s a team of doctors in Switzerland working on a remedy, but they can’t get the control group to shut up long enough to get ‘em to pop a placebo.

The notes I collected are probably tucked away in a box somewhere in my attic.  I’m not exactly sure.  But I don’t need to find them, because I have vivid memories of them.  Many of them folded with care in intricate shapes, much like the pegged jeans of my 80’s upbringing.  Call it suburban origami.

My favorite notes were the ones I would receive from girls.  I still marvel how anyone ever had interest in me, as my head encompassed half of my body weight.  My silhouette was that of a rubber mallet. 

Reading every note was like panning for gold.  Inevitably, the object of my affection du jour would ramble on and on about the trivialities of the day.  Mounds and mounds of silt.

     “Mr. Myers farted in gym class again.  Some of us laughed, some of us gagged.”

     “I had nachos and a chocolate milkshake for lunch.  Was totally bummed that they were out of Nutty Bars.”

     “Mrs. Henley smells like a blend of freeze-dried Folger’s crystals and Virginia Slims.”

But sometimes, I would find a gold nugget that would bring a smile to my face.

     “I like your spike hairdo.  It’s awesome.”

     “Are you going to Brad’s party?  I hope so!”

     “You’re cute.”

But it wasn’t just the words that meant something.  It was how they were written.  If Christi dotted her “i” with a heart, I knew it was special.  And, anything written in a glitter pen meant that first base was on my horizon. 

If not matrimony.

So, as a force of habit, I panned for gold when I received a note a few weeks ago.  As a happily married man, I no longer look for signs of an impending wedding or a confirmed acceptance of a Sock Hop invitation. But I still look for the meaning behind the message.

The email was from a woman I met while working in Saudi Arabia.  Meshael had given my family a wonderful gift.  A total surprise, as I wondered if it was even appropriate for me to have a one-on-one conversation with her, since she was a conservative, burka-clad, married Muslim woman. 

I had written her a note to say thank you for her generosity.  And, to keep the thank-you chain alive, she responded in kind.

Now, I’m not a militant against the term “Happy Holidays.”  And writing the word “X-Mas” does not punch your one-way ticket to H-E-double-hockey-sticks. But I am sensitive to the fact that Christmas has become so commercial that we sometimes forget that the whole reason for the celebration is to remind us how  Jesus came to Earth to be with us as a baby boy.  Showing us peace, love, and compassion.

So, I was blown away to receive this note from a woman of another faith.  A woman who some might say was put on the planet to threaten Christianity itself.  Her photo alone would strike fear in the hearts of some of us.  But it’s not just her words.  It’s the care she took in crafting them.  A virtual glitter pen and heart-dotted “i.” 

A golden nugget to show me that, in a world divided, there are people who understand the value of bringing us all together, no matter the season.  No matter the religion.

So, to those near and far, here’s hoping you have a beautiful, multi-hued Holiday, and a very Merry Christmas.

Those People, That Person

Apologies to my follower (singular intended) for taking a three month break from the blog.  The combination of a horrendous work schedule and an overactive laziness gene was too much to overcome.  But now I’m back, writing with a renewed sense of mediocrity.

I’m currently on my way home from one of the most eye-opening business trips of my short and illustrious career.  My work took me to Saudi Arabia, home to the King Faisal Specialist Hospital and Research Center.  Apparently, they wanted some training in critical thinking and problem solving.  How they got my name, I’m still not sure.  I think my application to Saudi Arabian Idol must have been mis-routed.

Needless to say, my trip to The Kingdom caused my nervous mother to wear out a mountain of Rosary beads praying that I wouldn’t be arrested, abducted, or put into indentured servitude as the King’s personal ear hair trimmer.  I must admit, I had a bit of anxiety, too.  I’ve never traveled to the Gulf, and had no idea what to expect.  My limited information comes from a mild recollection of scattered news reports and conversations with other Americans who have never been there.

Research is not my strong suit.

Before my trip, I read a couple of websites to beef up my knowledge and avoid Saudi prison.  The consistent theme was that Riyadh is the most conservative city in the country.  Sounds like a perfect place for a bleeding-heart liberal like me.  Some of the do’s, don’ts, and punishable offenses included:

1. Never be seen with any woman who isn’t related to you.
2. Don’t touch people with your left hand.
3. Don’t eat with your left hand.
4. No alcohol (not even beer with pizza).
5. Don’t point the bottom of your shoe toward anyone else.
6. Do not eat in the family section of the restaurant.  Men must sit only with other men.
7. Don’t take pictures of women or government buildings without permission.

While learning these helpful tips might make the average person feel more confident, it had the opposite effect on me.  I’m not a guy who’s known for being good in a crisis.  When danger calls, I can be found flailing my arms and telling people they’re probably going to die.  It’s not my most attractive quality.  I now realized I would be spending a full 18 hours standing in front of a Saudi audience, teaching, telling stories, and offering amusing anecdotes.  The odds were pretty good I was going to cross a line of appropriate behavior at some point.  Pair this with my lack of planning, and it was a recipe for disaster.  “Those people” might flog or stone me.

Gabby must have noticed my heart palpitations, because she quickly put me in touch with a Jordanian friend of hers who, as luck would have it, had recently taken a job in Riyadh.  Raed and I arranged to meet on the day of my arrival.

Coming out of the airport, any hopes I had of blending in were quickly dashed when I met my driver, Octavio, surrounded by dozens of men dressed just like him.  It reminded me of my college days when I was the only white guy in the University of Tulsa Gospel Choir.  I could sing as soulfully as anyone in the room, but I could never figure out how to sway in the right direction.  A dead giveaway.

*  The driver, Octavio

I met Raed later that afternoon in my hotel lobby after a short nap.  He had arranged for a Saudi friend of his, Mohammad, to give me a taste of life in The Kingdom.

We drove an hour outside of the city where the Saudi’s had turned a bunch of sand dunes into a virtual weekend amusement park.  Families in 4×4 pickups and Ford Crown Victorias were racing around the mountains of dust while four-wheelers darted in between.  Though none of us had ever piloted anything more risky than a ten-speed, we convinced each other to rent some ATVs and try it ourselves.  It was a blast.

* Raed (left) and Mohammad (right) negotiating with the ATV rental guy, who is saying “how do I know that gangly white guy isn’t going to trash my four-wheeler?”  As you can see, they had no response.

* if you’re not distracted by my crazy ATV hair, you can make out the faint image of people driving like maniacs on the dunes in the background.

At dinner afterward, covered in dust, I asked Mohammad to teach me about Saudi culture.  He started by ordering way too much food, and serving me until my gut busted.

Saudi hospitality.

Then he gave me the low-down.  He wears the traditional garb (a thobe) to work, but dresses like you and I do on the weekends.  He has two kids (4 and 2) who talk back and give him fits.  He and his wife like to watch TV to unwind in the evenings.  On weekends, they go to a family “cabin” outside of town and listen to music, play cards, and chat.  His wife wears an abaya in public, but wears whatever she wants in the home.  He’s a devout Muslim, but sometimes skips out on the sermon because “it’s kinda’ boring… and one time, I caught the imam repeating the exact same message two weeks in a row!”

I asked him about my class.  What should I be concerned about?  What should I avoid?

“Just be yourself.”

Wanting more direction, I worriedly asked, “What about the classroom participation?  Will the women need to be segregated?  Will they even speak?  Do I need to be concerned about how I break up the class into small groups?  Is it OK to tell jokes?  Show videos?  Tell silly stories about Gabby and me?”

“No problem!” Read chimed in.  “Maybe don’t call on people directly and put them on the spot.  Might make them uncomfortable.  Especially if they don’t speak English very clearly.  And don’t force groups to work together.  Let them pick which small group to join.”

That sounds a lot like the rules I use in the U.S.

“But most important is just be yourself.  Saudis love learning, and love learning from westerners.  So, you already have that working for you.  If you have passion about what you’re teaching, that’s really all that matters.”

Surprised.

“And the women will love you.  You just wait!”

Double-surprised.

So I taught the class.  Two full days.  I survived.  It was an experience, to be sure.

* A group of hospital leaders coming up with ideas to make patient education more efficient and effective.

* This leadership team is working on ways to encourage pediatric cancer patients to follow their treatment regimen when they leave the hospital.

When asked about trips overseas, it’s sometimes tempting to tell people all of the ways that “they” are just like “us.”  Fostering  the belief that we’re all the same deep down.  Part of one big happy family.  And it would be partly true to say that, because I heard the Saudis say a lot of things in Riyadh that I might have heard coming from an American in Rhode Island.

• “We need to improve our employee satisfaction.”
•  “I’ve never ridden a camel.  I just don’t see the appeal.”
• “The employees here often have great, innovative ideas, and some leaders are fantastic… but some managers and leaders don’t listen very well.”
•  (whispered to me before class)  “Dr. Ibrahim is a well-respected leader, but he can be loud and overbearing, and take over conversations.  Just be aware of that, and try to encourage comments from others. (pause)  And mix up the groups a lot so none of us has to work with him the entire time.”
• Mohammad:  “’Everybody Loves Raymond’ used to be may favorite show.  Now it’s ‘Modern Family.’  My wife and I are just like the Dunfy’s.”

  Faryal: (wearing a burka) “I love that show, too!  The old guy and his wife are hilarious!”

But as common as these statements are, there are distinct differences in people and cultures.  We’re not all alike.  I was at the restaurant eating dinner with Raed and Mohammad when evening prayer time came (maghrib).  The shades were quickly drawn and the doors were locked.  We were stuck inside for 30 minutes while everyone on staff went to the back to pray.  This happens five times per day.

There’s a “singles only” line and a “families only” line at Mc Donald’s. Though this probably doesn’t sound so foreign to those looking for lunch in Alabama in 1966, the year my sister was born.

And it was an adjustment for me to tell some of the women apart who were wearing a full face covering, with only their eyes showing.  It sure makes it easy to call them “those people” when they are all dressed exactly the same.   Although I do note the irony in writing this as I sit here wearing Aeropostale jeans and an Old Navy shirt also worn by ten million other guys in the U.S.

But most profound was the lesson I learned from Meshael.  She was the one who helped me coordinate travel arrangements and other logistics.  Meshael is probably 30 years old.  Married.  No kids.  Wears an abaya with face covering, only her eyes peeking through.

When the first day of class was finished, she walked me through the maze of hospital hallways to the area where I could catch my ride.  I waited alongside all of the female employees, clad in black, waiting for their rides home, as they aren’t allowed to drive themselves.

I made small talk with Meshael.  We talked about the weather.  Family.  The city.  The hospital.  Restaurants.  My desire to try authentic middle eastern food.

We had a pause in conversation.  Maybe twenty seconds.  She turned toward me and asked,

“Mr. Scott, would you like a date?”

“Excuse me?”  I flashed to the comment from Raed.

The women will love you.  You just wait.

My face revealed confusion and panic.  This is highly inappropriate.  Arms beginning to flail.  What to do?  I’m a happily married man!  What is appropriate in this culture?!

“Dates.  Do you like dates?  We are famous for our dates here.”  Meshael clarified.

“Oh!” I said, realizing this was not a love connection, but rather, a continuation of our food and restaurant discussion.  “I don’t know.  I don’t eat a lot of dates.”

“I will bring some tomorrow for you.  A gift for your wife and family.  We have all kinds.  They are very delicious.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“No.  I will bring them.”

“That would be wonderful.  You are far too kind.”

The next morning, I walked into the classroom to prepare for the day.  Meshael had arrived early.  She held a big red bag in her hand.

“Mr. Scott.  Here are the dates.”

She handed me the bag.  It weighed about four pounds.  I opened it and pulled out two large containers.  One a gold tin, and another with a clear lid revealing the contents.  The candied dates were all arranged perfectly.

“There are dates dipped in chocolate,  Dipped in honey.  Rolled in sugar.  And here are some plain ones.  You must sample them all.”

Her letterbox-framed eyes were sparkling.

I looked back at her, wishing I could see her face.  So hard, when “those people” are donned in the same black flowing obscurity.  What does she look like?  Is her hair black?  Or colored?  Curly or straight?  What about her ears?  Does she wear earrings?  Lipstick?  Freckles?

But I’ll never see her face.  Never know what she looks like on the outside.  But perhaps that’s the way it should be.  Because in my mind I imagine a beautiful, genuine, radiant smile.  Honest.  Authentic.  Warm.

Finally seeing “that person” for the first time.

*image from asianews.it

An Open Letter to My Son on His First Day of Kindergarten

Dear Jake,

I’m writing you this letter because you still think I know something.  In fact, you think I know everything.  I would tell you that you’re mistaken, but you’ll come to that conclusion on your own in about 8-10 years.

At that point, you’ll think I know nothing.

Then I could tell you you’re mistaken too, but you’ll come to that conclusion on your own 8-10 years after that.  At which time, you’ll know I’m just a guy.  A guy who happens to be your dad.  The one who occasionally gives you money but won’t let you move back into our house.  But while we’re still in that magical place where you see me as a superhero, pit crew chief, doctor, pastor, and professional athlete, allow me to share a few words of wisdom with you.  It’s important stuff, so pay attention.

No, I’m serious.

Put that down.

And get your finger out of your nose.

I mean it.

One… two… th-

OK.  That’s more like it.

 

* Jake’s excited…                          Audrey?  Not so much…

Today is your first day of school.  Ever.  For a short time, your success will not be measured in grades.  Instead, you’ll know it’s been a good day when you come home exhausted, smelling of stale milk and kid sweat.  It’s a beautiful thing.  Enjoy it!

You’ll have some choices to make today.  First things first, you’ll want to make some friends.  My advice?  Choose carefully.  But don’t judge a book by its cover.  The kid in the corner eating Elmer’s glue is probably the kind of friend who would give you the shirt off his back, the best thing in his lunchbox, and would tell you when you were about to do something stupid.   He also wouldn’t rat you out when you did it anyway.  That’s the kind of friend I hope you grow to be.

What about the kid who knows all of the cool new words for private parts?

He might be good for a few laughs.  He might even teach you how to put a mirror on your shoe so you can look up Amy Clifton’s skirt.  But beware.  He’ll also try to rope you into the mix when he gets caught stealing a pack of Now & Laters at the Itty Bitty.

Again.  Choose carefully.  I know the kind of guy you are.  You’ll know character when you see it.

While we’re on the subject, someday you and one of these new friends might decide it would be funny  to bake chocolate chip cookies and put Kibbles n Bits in some of them.  Then you’ll think it would be even funnier to play a joke and feed them to that weirdo in class who is always getting into trouble.

You’ll do it.  And the other kids will laugh.  Hard.  But the weirdo kid won’t.  He’ll play it off like it’s no big deal, but you’ll be able to tell by the way his smile doesn’t quite curl like it should that he’s crying inside.  You’ll feel so bad about it later that you’ll eat one of those dog food cookies.

And another.

Just to try and make it right.

But it won’t work. You’ll have to do something harder.  You’ll have to apologize in person.  Right to his face.  Tell him how horrible you were, and horrible you feel.  And he’ll still be crying, inside and out.  Because sometimes words can’t fix everything.

Trust me.  It’s better to never make the cookies in the first place.

And one day, I’m not sure when, some adult is going to tell you, “It’s better to give than to receive.”  Take this one to heart, because they are absolutely right.  But please note the following exceptions to the rule.  Sucker punches, atomic wedgies, and haircuts with safety scissors.  With these, you should avoid both the giving and the receiving.

Also note that you will be measured from this day forward.  We adults like to do that kind of thing.  Makes us feel smarter, I guess.  You’re a pretty sharp kid, so my guess is you’ll be put in the Red Robin Rockets reading group or something like that.  But remember, just ‘cuz you’re there doesn’t make you any better than all the kids in the Brown Barn Swallow reading group.  Trust me.  There are Brown Barn Swallow groups all over this world, and sooner or later you’ll belong to one of them.

As you’ve probably already learned, Ms. Pilkinton is the one who hands out smiley faces.  There are lots of Ms. Pilkintons in the world, too.  I recommend that you always go for the smiley face, Jake.  Not because Ms. Pilkinton likes it, but because it feels good to work hard and do the right thing.  If you do this enough, you’ll build up a strong muscle called integrity.  It’s right in the middle of your chest.  You’ll need this muscle for the times when some other person who doesn’t smell like roses and cake (like Ms. Pilkinton does) offers you a smiley face to treat someone else unfairly.  This is a tricky one, but you’ll know by then what’s a real smiley face, and what’s just a yellow circle with some dots and a curvy line.

And now for the most important thing of all.

Make mistakes.

Lots of ‘em.

But don’t make the same one twice.

You’ll learn more from your mistakes than you will during the 15,210 hours your little tush will be sitting in a classroom between now and your high school graduation.    That’s what they call “growing up.”

(And, in case you’re wondering, I used math to perform the “tush in seat” calculation. Did it the old-fashioned way.  Paper and pencil.)

Time to go now.  You woke up forty minutes before your alarm clock went off this morning, fueled by a love of learning and a burning desire to break in your new, monogrammed backpack.  I love how you get so excited about the little things in life.  They always seem to bring you the most satisfaction.  Paper airplanes.  Stomping puddles.  Lightning bugs.  One day you’ll forget how cool these things are.  And when that happens, I pray that God sends you a 48-pound savant filled with sage wisdom and corn syrup-laced snacks to remind you.

I love you, buddy,

Dad

Confessions of an Eight-Year-Old Beer Vendor

Think back to when you were eight years old.  What did you want to be?  What were your wildest dreams and fantasies?

Me?  I wanted to sell beer.

Lots of beer.

Allow me to explain.

I grew up in Yukon, Oklahoma, a middle class suburb of Oklahoma City.  My old neighborhood was a sprawling subdivision of homes that sprung out of some old farmland back in the 60’s and 70’s.  All around the housing development were cattle ranches and wheat fields as far as the eye could see.  Still, Surrey Hills was its own self-contained suburban utopia.  On the northern edge of the subdivision rested a strip of shops that contained a tiny little convenience store appropriately named the “Itty Bitty”.  On the southern edge of the subdivision was Surrey Hills elementary school, site of both my first kiss AND my first “wedgie” (both occurring in totally unrelated incidents).  Winding through the center of it all was a meandering golf course “for members and guests only.”

We weren’t members of the golf club.  My family was neither poor, nor wealthy.  My dad (and hero) was a general manager for a local tire company, and made a decent living.  Some others in the neighborhood were a different story.  They worked in the oil industry in the late 70’s and early 80’s and made pantloads of money.  So, I was good friends with their kids, who had open tabs at the golf club.  There, I tried to look like a regular while I sipped on mooched Shirley Temples and ate my body weight in maraschino cherries.

One hot summer day, walking home from the club, we noticed how many golfers were driving by in their carts, sweating like crazy.  My friend T.J. and I immediately had the idea to open a lemonade stand.  So, we went to T.J.’s house, filled a Radio Flyer full of Solo cups, a pitcher of lemonade, and a homemade sign, and snuck on to the #15 tee box.

We taped our sign to the wagon.  “Lemonade – Small Cups, 10¢    Big Cups 25¢”  The first thirsty foursome approached.  As one of the men stepped out of his cart, he chuckled and said, “Are you sure you don’t have any beer?  I sure could use one!” Recognizing T.J. as the son of a club member and me as his mooching friend, he pulled out a pocketful of change and purchased a few cups of lemonade for himself and his buddies.  Nice guy!  We pocketed the 70 cents and beamed at the thought of the 20 pieces of Super Bubble it would buy us at the Itty Bitty.

The next foursome arrived at the #15 tee.  A man with giant, swollen gut tottered out.  He spotted our sign and said with a smile, “You got any Coors?”

“Nope.  Sorry.  Just lemonade.  Small cups ten cents.  Big cups a quarter.”

He came back, “I’ll take a big cup then.”

We handed him his drink and took his quarter.  We watched silently as they teed off, mentally noting the brisk sales pace.  Two groups of golfers.  Two sales.  This is too easy!  Like shooting fish in a barrel.  We were marketing geniuses.

Just then, a third group came and went without a sale.  This dampened our mood a bit.  Was the market softening already?

Then a fourth group made their way to the tee box.  Before even exiting the cart, a plaid-clad duffer boomed, “I’ll take a Bud!”  His buddies laughed.  We gave our sales pitch, but we were largely ignored this time.  They hit their tee shots and drove off without buying a thing.

In the silence of the moment, I complained, “Man.  I wish we were selling beer.  Everybody asks for it.”

I looked at T.J.  His eyes got a bit larger.  “My dad has beer.  Lots of it!”

Before the words were out of his mouth, we were packing up the Flyer and heading toward his house.

We didn’t even enter the front door.  Instead, we went straight into the garage where the “special fridge” was located.  Inside, we found a decent inventory.  Though it wouldn’t supply a fraternity party for more than an hour, it would satiate plenty of foursomes.  T.J.’s dad stocked the good stuff, too.  Coors and Bud were in demand, and we had 6-8 of each!  Add to that a couple of Michelob and a stray Pabst Blue Ribbon, and we had quite a selection.  We stashed the beers in the wagon, poured in some ice, and headed back to #15.

When we arrived, we doctored our sign to feature our newest item.  Because demand was so high, we priced the suds through the roof.  Cans – 50¢, Bottles $1.00.  The first cart approached.

Half-looking, the first golfer wheeled out of his cart.  He jokingly asked, “So, you kids got any Miller?”

I replied, “Nope.  But we do have Budweiser, Coors, Michelob, and Pabst.”  There is still a wet spot on the cart path where the man’s tongue hit the pavement.  “Oh.  And we have lemonade if you want it, too.”

For the first time, we saw one of our customers pull out bills instead of change.  He handed us $2.00 and grabbed four cold ones out of our makeshift cooler, laughing the entire time.  He passed the beers to his buddies as we nearly peed our pants with excitement.  Lemonade was for sissies.  Beer is where it’s at.

Every single cart that passed the #15 tee box bought beer from us.  We sold out in less than an hour.  We had over twelve dollars in our pockets.  With this kind of money, we could buy so much Super Bubble that we could chew on one piece for a minute or two, spit it out before the flavor fades, then unwrap another piece without even thinking about it!  Luxury at its finest.  But why stop there.

“Does your dad have any beer?”  T.J. asked.

“Yep.”

Again, we packed up the Flyer and walked a few blocks to my house.  When we walked through the front door, my mom asked “So, how is the lemonade business?”

Without making eye contact, we barked, “It’s great!” and moved toward the garage fridge.

My dad was not a big beer drinker, but we usually had a decent stash left over from dinner parties and neighborhood get-togethers.  Inside the fridge we found a hodge-podge of brews left over from a family Christmas party seven months prior.  Being only eight years old, I knew nothing of old, skunky tasting beer, so we filled a bag with as many as we could carry, and headed back through the house.

“Whatcha’ got in the bag?” my mom inquired.

“Some beers.”

To this day, I am still amazed at my mother’s emotional restraint in this situation.  As a father, if I saw my eight-year-old son hauling beer through the house on a hot summer day, I would immediately think the worst.  He’s gone off the deep end!  Where did we do wrong?  How much does celebrity rehab cost?

Instead, my mom patiently asked, “So, what do you need the beers for?”

“We’re selling them on the golf course.  Nobody buys lemonade, but EVERYBODY buys beer!  We’ve made twelve dollars so far off the stuff we got from T.J.’s house!”

“Hmmmm.  I’m not so sure that’s the best idea.  Those are your dad’s beers, so you should ask him if you can have them.  We should call him.”

Though my mother could have shut down our bootlegging operation right then and there, she always loved sharing such parental joys with my dad.  Smiling, she dialed the numbers and handed me the phone.  My father answered.  His voice sounded as if it was coming from an echo chamber.

“This is Ken Dannemiller.”

“Hi Dad.”

“Hey Scotty.  Whadja’ break?”  To this day, this is my dad’s default when we call.

“Nothing.”

I contemplated the best way to ask.  After all, Dad was the linchpin to my achieving financial wealth in beverage sales.  I had to be persuasive.  Unfortunately, my eight-year-old communication skills lacked the finesse of a high-priced power broker.

“I need your beers.  I want to sell them on the golf course.  We already sold T.J.’s dad’s beers and made twelve dollars.”

I heard a huge belly laugh coming from the echo chamber.  However, it was not my dad’s laugh.  Apparently, he was in a meeting with a client and had me on speaker phone.  I can only imagine the pride my father felt in that moment.

“Twelve dollars, huh?”

“Yeah, Dad!  Isn’t that great!”

“That is great, son.”

Trying to close the deal, I glance at T.J. and quickly add, “So, can I have your beers?”

“Well son, I would love for you to make some more money, but I see a problem.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.  Not just anybody can sell beer.  You have to have a license.”

“Can I use yours?”

“Not a license to drive.  A different kind of license.  If you aren’t at least 21 and have a special license to sell beer, then you could go to jail.”

“Jail?  For selling beer?”  I can still hear the other man laughing in the background.  T.J.’s eyes are the size of a Wham-O Frisbee.

“That’s right.  I don’t want you to go to jail, so I’m going to have to say no.”

My emotions were a strange mixture of fear, anxiety, and dejection.  Not only had my business plans been shunned, I was also in danger of getting thrown in the clink for selling suds on hole 15.  I imagined life on the chain gang.  In the face of such opposition, I caved.

“OK Dad.”

With a knowing glance from my mother, we walked back to the garage and deposited the beers back in the fridge.  She helped us make up another pitcher of lemonade.

That day, we made another two dollars selling the legit stuff.  With our day’s take exceeding fourteen dollars, we wheeled our wagon down to the Itty Bitty and invested no less than ten bucks in a mountain of candy and pocketed the other four.  That night at T.J.’s house, we unpacked our stash of Starburst, Now & Laters, Chic-O-Stix and tons of other junk and dumped it all into a communal bowl.  We played Atari and gorged ourselves on the fruits of our labor until we both puked in Technicolor.

In retrospect, it was crazy, impulsive, and ill-advised.

Then why did it feel so great?

Because instincts trumped anxiety.  When opportunity presented itself, we went for it without hesitation.  Passions ignited.

I’m beginning to feel like I’m at a crossroads in life.  A full-grown adult this time.  Opportunity may be knocking once again.  Very softly.  But there’s no need to call Dad.  I know the rules.  And there’s no risk of incarceration.  All I’m lacking is the child-like exuberance.

Anyone know the way to the nearest lemonade stand?