One Wedding and a Four Year Old

rileyblog1.jpgMy children have a way of focusing in on reality.   Beyond the drama and all the . . . well . . . pink, both of my girls have this innate ability to see past the trappings of adulthood and unearth the raw truth behind the things my wife and I have already begun to take for granted.

My four year old gives me the best example of this today seated in the very back row of a church during a friend’s wedding ceremony.     When you combine the number of weddings my wife and I have attended and even participated in, it’s not surprising that we knew by heart every song from the ceremony.   We knew every convention followed, and noticed every deviation from convention.   Not that we cared either way.   We just kind of go on auto-pilot at weddings.

Not my four year old.   While this is actually NOT her first wedding, it was clearly among the first in which she paid any kind of attention to what was being said.   As the preacher (that’s “minister” to everyone outside of Alabama) prompts the soon-to-be-newlyweds to utter those famous last words “I do,” my wife and I smile to one another in anticipation of what we know will be the couple’s answers.   Not sharing our clairvoyance, our  middle child whispers  with the subtlety of a weed eater, “I hope they both say  yes.”

A good point, I later thought.    Anything to the contrary might not have been very conventional.    Although, I must say that it would have made for a MUCH better blog post.

Following the ceremony  is the traditional  finger food and punch reception.   Of course  my daughter wants to wait in line (an incredibly long, perhaps record-breaking line) to see the bride, which I’m almost certain she has  confused at this point with one of the princesses from  the Disney lineup.   As we finally reach the young couple (having never even met the bride) my shy child leaps forward and embraces the “princess” with no less drama than if the two  had met running full  stream ahead  in the middle of a wheat field to  the soaring strings of theatrical background music.

rileyblog2.jpgSurprised but slightly amused by the show of spontaneous and rather anonymous affection, the bride kindly returns the hug only to hear my daughter ask the most probing, thought-provoking, socially  conscious question one could expect at a time like this,   “Could I see your shoes?”

So from the mouth of babes comes (as best I can summarize) the two following truths:

1. While one can never assume a “yes,” one can most certainly always hope.

2. Forget the vows, the cake, the flowers, the guests.   If you want a true measure of how long a marriage will last, check out the shoes.

I think I got it.

On Reading Faulkner

William FaulknerI read Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying in high school.   I even wrote a literary critique on the book.   Of course I merely compiled and reconstructed the thoughts of other noted scholars on the subject.   This earned me an “A,” and so I was happy. The End.

What it did not earn me was a true understanding of how this book, or any other by William Faulkner was to be read.   This is why, when I picked up this same book fifteen years later, I had no idea what I was doing.   I was expecting to read a Twain-esque account of the humor and absurdity of turn-of-the-century Yoknapatawpha, mixed with death and a few lofty social ideals.

That lasted until page two.

By chapter two, I turned the book upside down to see if it made any more sense.   Isn’t it a rule that if you use a pronoun it should be clear to what that pronoun is referring?   Isn’t it important to let the reader know with some degree of chronology the events leading up to a dialogue?   At least within 50 pages?

He (Faulkner – see, that isn’t so hard) didn’t play by the rules.   Which leads me to the first basic rule when reading Faulkner . . . get the Cliff Notes.   Or at least the online SparkNotes.   They’re very helpful for understanding at the very least concepts like  . . . oh, I don’t know . . . A PLOT!!!   But this reader’s guide will also be glad to tell you how to interpret the thematic elements behind what you’ve just read (read: how to think).

So, with the help of my online “aid,” I made it through a truly wonderful and fascinating book about the Bundrens and their journey to bury poor Adi.   Man, talk about your screwed up families.

I took some time to recuperate and re-organize my brain into proper lobe positions.   This took approximately six months, one John Grisham novel, one Nicholas Sparks novel, and a few Capote short stories.   After that, it was off to the races again.

Light In AugustMy next project, Light in August.   First let me say that this selection was solely predicated on the availability of audiobooks through my library’s online lending system.   I downloaded the book, transfered it to my PDA (thanks to my 1GB storage card) and committed my drives to and from work to the legendary author and his strange use of the “stream of consciousness” narrative.

I’m almost done.   While it helped that the actor reading the book is VERY good, I still had to break out the old SparksNotes bookmark in my browser.   I tried, really.   But by chapter four, I was as lost as last year’s Easter egg.   But this book has a rhythm.   It has a meter that can be followed for each character.   The language changes with each dialogue, much like As I Lay Dying.   And I finally understood the one thing every reader needs to have when reading Faulkner . . .

A lot of mental RAM.

If you are like me, you like to let go of useless information to make room for new useless information.   Normally, this is OK because any other author would give you clues to keep important details at the front of your mind.   To Faulkner, everything is important.   And he will most likely give you a detail in chapter one that will not make sense until chapter seven.   If you are able to piece together the seemingly random bits of data, you will most certainly find a very interesting, if not mind-blowing connection among characters and events.

My advice, read this book.   But don’t be afraid to follow every other chapter (or every other paragraph if necessary) with a glimpse at the SparksNotes.   If you’re like me, you’ll get the hang of it after a while.   And soon, you’ll not only be piecing together what you’ve just read, but you’ll actually begin anticipating what is coming next.   (Careful, professional driver on a closed course).

If you’re so inclinded, have fun.   And remember, Faulkner is best served  with a warm pipe  on a cool Autumn afternoon.   (But don’t tell my wife.)

Normal Is The New Rebellion

I was taught to be good.   I was taught to love others, mind my manners, be respectful, and above all . . . stay out of trouble.   Of course the later eventually became more about not getting caught than anything else.   But even still, I was a good kid.

Yet even during adolescence (which my wife might argue I never completely left behind) it was clear that I would never be the cool kid I wanted to be.   I was too satisfied with being good.   Too bent on being normal, unlike my peers who seemed determined to push every envelop.   I was too much of a conformist to contribute to any kind of real diversity.   I was traditional.   I was too “goody-goody.” I’m sure to many, I was on my best day simply artificial.

Now, I am older.   I carry much more responsibility, and I am glad to accept it.   Yet, some things never change.   I am still “normal.”  Middle class vanilla at its Baskin Robbins best.   A wife, three kids, a mortgage, you know the drill.    My politics are conservative.   I believe in local responsibility, state power, and limited federal government.   I believe in prayer in schools, in One Nation Under God (in whom I also believe we still trust).   I say “sir” and “ma’am” and mean them with respect.   I do not expect anything from anyone except that they do their part.

However, it seems to me that I have become the stereotype.   I am the “normal” that constitutes that which others would seek to redefine.   While some celebrate diversity as I do, there are others that care little for my way of life, calling it close-minded, antiquated, exclusive, even intolerant.   But who will tolerate me?   Who will look out for my way of life, my rights, my beliefs?

As a Christian evangelical (I think that’s what they call me know), as a conservative Republican, as  an  opponent to abortion and a proponent of prayer in schools, I have become the minority who’s  rights now need protecting.   And there are others like me, who (like me) are not used to  having to define and defend  what it is for  which  they stand.    For we were once normal.

Now,  to be what once was normal is to rebel against pop culture.    It is  to swim against the current of mainstream media.   It is to guard the eyes and ears, the hearts and minds of my children against that which others would call normal, that which I do not.

Strange as it seems, it has become clear to me that normal is the new rebellion.