Work

The strawberry field that once hugged the highway east of Altamont will be etched in my mind forever.  Unfortunately, that plot of land does not occupy a pleasant, melodic, Beatlesque sort of memory, but rather one of brute childhood labor.  On more than one occasion, believe it or not, my own mother forced my siblings and me to join her in that field, stooping low to the hot summer sun, sweating, cursing, picking the red fruit that none of us particularly liked. 

We complained about this atrocity, or, as my father often called it, we bellyached, but to no avail.  Still we picked.  Slowly, poorly, we picked.  Many years later I would recall the scene to my grandfather, claiming that we were treated like sharecroppers out working our daily chores.  He laughed, and at the time I thought he was amused by my cleverness.  In retrospect, I suppose, considering he had grown up on a farm during the actual Great Depression, he was most likely laughing at me because he found my comment remarkably stupid.

The years have passed, and I am still not a big strawberry person.  However, the real memory of strawberry picking is actually one of the more valuable of my childhood.  For one, it was time spent with my maternal grandmother mere years before she passed. She lived in Altamont and often joined us out in the field.  For another, the labor taught me a most powerful lesson:  Sometimes in life you will be expected to pick strawberries, and it doesn’t really matter if you like strawberries or not.

This is a lesson lost, unfortunately, on a few.  I have been teaching school for over seventeen years, and each year a handful of students do not “pick their strawberries,” so to speak.  One way or another, they do not earn the sixty-nine and a half percent average that will allow them to “pass” my class. Sometimes these students will approach me and ask the obvious question.  “Why?  Why didn’t I pass?”  Or, they will ask the slightly more common yet more curious, “Why didn’t you pass me?” as if I am Santa Claus handing out letter grades from a big fat sack.

 The answer, almost always, is basically the same, and it is almost always unwelcome. 

“You didn’t do the work.”

Perhaps the problem was assignments incomplete or tests for which they were unprepared.  Regardless, it always comes back to work, really.  School assignments are work.  Studying is work. 

Perhaps too many days were missed.  Getting up in the morning is work.  Going somewhere we might not want is even harder work, particularly when we aren’t feeling well.

Perhaps the student was removed from school because of boorish behavior, but this, too, is basically a question of work.  Following rules is work, especially the ones we don’t like or might not understand.

It goes without saying that I cannot speak for every teacher, but in all my years in education, I cannot remember a single student who honestly tried hard in my class but still failed.

Now, that statement might seem anecdotal and perhaps even irrelevant, but it’s worth noting for the following reasons.  For one thing, there is a dangerous trend in education that suggests that in order to be effective, teachers must entertain their students.  Now, to be sure, there is nothing wrong with having fun in school, and it is true humans generally do learn better if they are engaged.

However, we also need to keep in mind that although our young people may supposedly learn differently than we did, these same young people will someday, quite soon, be filling prescriptions, building houses, fixing sewers, removing tumors, and running our country.   All of these tasks require hard work, and none of them are inherently entertaining in and of themselves.

Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, hard work can be edifying.  Accomplishing a difficult task can be emotionally gratifying.  Why in the world would we want to deny such a gift to our young people, particularly when, if we are honest with ourselves, reflections of jobs well done punctuate so soundly the memories of our own younger days? 

If a student fails, we should not make the assumption that so, too, fails the school.  Schools do not and should not exist to entertain.  At their core, schools ought to prepare students for success in society.  At their best, schools can teach students to improve that society.  However, neither of these goals will come easy, and thus a school that fails a student for not trying may actually be teaching that student one of the more valuable lessons they will ever learn:  effort counts.

The flip side of that, of course, is that the effort should be coupled with purpose.  I did not like to pick strawberries and I did not like to even eat strawberries, but somebody did.  Those strawberries were eaten; my efforts, bellyaching aside, were not in vain.  That also counted for something.

Without such a purpose, I may as well have been picking weeds.   

Lost

We were lost.

Less than an hour in Paris, and we were already asking for directions.  Our goal, as you might assume, was the Eiffel Tower.  Our questions, needless to say, were spoken in English.

The first few people we asked basically ignored us. We eventually found our destination (it is, after all, a tower) but at the time we were unimpressed with what we considered a lack of courtesy. 

Now, before continuing, it is important for me to emphasize that during our stay in France seven years ago, we asked literally dozens of people dozens of questions, from the asinine to the complex.  Most of those questions were answered quickly, pleasantly, and, crucially for our monolingual brains, even in English.  But, yes, a few Parisians seemed rude.  At the time we felt a bit offended.

Reflecting back on that experience, it occurs to me that being offended, at its core, has as much to do with our own expectations for behavior as the behavior itself.  We were offended when our questions—which we thought were fairly reasonable—were ignored.  We were offended because our expectations—as travelers, as guests—were not met. 

On the other hand, however, one might also find it a bit offensive for someone to visit a place called France without knowing any French.  After all, we had already taken the time to travel across an ocean.  How much more trouble would it have been, really, to practice a few basic phrases, or, at the very least, not leave our translation guides back in the United States?

All in all, though, our brief visit left us with very fond memories. Unfortunately, recent events have stirred up those memories for all the wrong reasons.

As I write this, Paris remains on edge.  Most of France and much of metropolitan Europe is on edge.  Parisians, along with almost everyone else on the planet, have been reminded, again, that we live in very uncertain times.

We occupy a brutal world.

Those who murdered the journalists at Charlie Hebdo last week carried out their crime because they were offended.  Their religious beliefs had been insulted by a satirical magazine that has earned its reputation.  Many news organizations, such as the New York Times and National Public Radio, have even chosen, due to their graphic content, not to display the intense cartoons that have incited so much anger.

Such is the nature of satire, however.  Without being offended on occasion, how can we be sure of our beliefs in the first place?

For example, when the late night comedian insults my own religious beliefs, I have a choice.  I can turn off the television.  I can, perhaps, even boycott the products advertised after he’s done talking, particularly the ones I do not use.  If I’m feeling especially quixotic, I might even write a column about how offended I am, and how his insults represent merely the latest in a cultural barrage fueled by increased religious insensitivity.

Whatever.

Regardless, I do not threaten him or his family.  I do not take up arms.

Why?  Because ultimately his words, like all words, are between him and God, and the God I believe in doesn’t need my help censoring people.

Being offended is one of the litmus tests of a free society. Free people speak their minds, even when those minds offend.

That particularity is an element of our modern world that terrorists and their handlers don’t get.  After all, it’s OK to be offended.  It means you’re alive.  It means you’re real, and that maybe even your convictions are real.

Years ago, a young man from the Middle East had an interesting take on the concept of being offended.  He taught that even when someone strikes us, we ought to ignore our basic human impulse to strike back.  We should even, crazily enough, turn the other cheek.  We should love those who harm us; pray for those who wish us ill will.

These are good ideas, because we now live in a world where that basic human impulse to seek revenge can literally kill each and every one of us.  These are the ideas that can lead all people, regardless of language, regardless of background, in the right direction.

Without these ideas, we are all lost.

Express

It is the year 2015.  We are an entire decade and a half into the 21^st century, and yet the age-old question remains.  Are we alone?  Recent advances in technology have allowed astronomers to peer deeper into the chasms of the universe, and, like hidden specks of gold, earth-like planets are continuously discovered.  But do they contain life?  Perhaps more importantly, do they contain life capable of communicating with us?  The answer to these questions may be partially found nearby, tucked inside the tiny town of French Lick, Indiana. 

For much of the world, French Lick is best known as the boyhood home of Boston Celtics legend, Larry Bird.  In much earlier days, however, due to its proximity to mineral springs, the town earned a reputation as a tourist destination.  The area continues to support a set of historical resorts, as well as a full-fledged casino and an indoor water park.  Perhaps the area’s most popular draw, however, particular in the closing months of each year, is the Polar Express.

This one-hour train ride is based on the movie of the same name, which, in turn, was based on the popular Christmas book written by Chris Van Allsburg.  In the story, a young tyke hops a ride on a giant locomotive filled with pajama clad children on its way to the North Pole. The movie follows the same basic plot but allows Tom Hanks to voice at least three different parts:  the energetic conductor, a wizened Santa Claus, and a ghostly hobo eager to feed the young boy soup made out of his disgusting socks.

This attraction, which our kids have enjoyed for the last two years now, has become one of the highlights of the season.  Keeping with the theme, children and some of their more enthusiastic handlers, despite the cold, will stand in line and then board the train dressed in pajamas.  Very soon each car of the train is greeted by its very own entourage of elves, two or three teenage girls who have somehow been able to remove all irony from their demeanor.  Once everyone is boarded, the train begins to lurch down the tracks, slowly moving away from town. 

Very soon the movie’s catchiest song-Hot Chocolate!-pours out of the speakers.  During this time, the elves, now kind of dressed like chefs, I guess, move down the aisle and serve each patron a delicious Styrofoam cup of, well, you know, along with a cookie. 

Now, objectively speaking, this is a weird little trip, partially because the train is not actually traveling anywhere.  It follows a river, slips through a tunnel, and then stops at a spot in the woods that has been decorated to supposedly seem like the North Pole but in reality looks like a very-colorful meth lab.  And then it’s going to go backwards.

 All of this weirdness is enhanced even more so by the conductor, a grandfatherly gentleman who, halfway down the line, begins to lip sync the actual book.  He walks down the aisle, holding the storybook, while a disembodied narrator reads the story over the loudspeaker.  This is then followed by more singing and dancing, and before it’s all over my own father is being decorated like a Christmas tree by not only his own grandchildren but by complete strangers.  The end.

Now, I know what you are most likely thinking.  “Cute story, but I thought we were talking about aliens or something.”  We are, but before we return to the aliens, let’s take a brief branch line to the shopping mall. 

Imagine you are at the shopping mall, and you are at the food court.  You are standing in line for your overpriced pretzel, and the guy behind you begins to mumble something about 19^th century robber barons. You try not to turn around, you tell yourself, “Don’t be rude.  Don’t do it!” but you look, and, sure enough, he’s wearing a banana on his head.  The guy has somehow tied an actual banana to the top of his head and is wearing it like a hat.

Most of us will now try to ignore the crazy person.  Why?  Because we are jerks.  More than anything, the banana guy probably just needs someone to talk to, but ninety-nine percent of us will pretend like we don’t see him. 

Finally, what does this have to do with aliens?  What does this even have to do with the Polar Express?

Ladies and gentlemen, in the shopping mall of our universe, we are the banana-heads.  We are the planet no one wants to talk to.  We pay good money to dress our children in pajamas, put them on a train going five miles into the woods, and then take pictures of them standing next to a stranger who will, we tell them, despite his girth, slide down a chimney and give them toys they have not earned.  And he will do this in one night for the entire planet.

Is anyone really that confused as to why no intelligent life has tried to contact us?  And the Polar Express is just the tip of the ice berg.  According to a research paper written by one of my students, every year human beings spend over a trillion dollars on weapons.  We spend a trillion dollars literally killing ourselves, and yet we wonder why not a single extra-terrestrial has stopped to say, “Hey, how’s it going?  Want a pretzel?”

It’s not all hopeless, though.  Not everyone ignores the banana-heads of the world.  There are people walking the malls right now who make it part of their day to engage and to listen to those who have something to say, even if it doesn’t make a great deal of sense.

So, are we alone?  Considering the dimensions of this place, probably not.  But as long as we’re wearing fruit on our head, we shouldn’t hold our breath.