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Do You Measure Quality of Life by Indulgence?

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Since when has it come to be that quality of life is directly proportional to how well we let ourselves indulge?

–––

Worse yet, how has it come to be that the quality of our children’s childhood is determined by how willing parents are to indulge their kids? I am not talking about Game Boy, X box, or having a cell phone…honestly I wish I were. I am talking about food. In the current model, a good parent feeds their kids vegetables, fruits, and healthy foods Monday through Friday, but come the weekend, a party or special event allows them to let their hair down and have a little fun. Fun which meana drinking an occasional Pepsi, eating an occasional fast food burger, or having a little candy at a friends house. In other words, indulgence.

I have to ask: Who said we get to be indulged?

Why in the world aren’t real foods considered an indulgence? I get told all the time I am depriving my children of a childhood by not eating at restaurants, by bringing whatever foods they might eat to a friends house, by not stopping for the occasional ice cream while on vacation. These comments have gone so far as to insinuate I am harming them, and isolating them by these actions.

Harming my kids by cooking fresh food for every meal, harming them by teaching them the truth about our food supply and the commercial interests which control it? By allowing them to know the truth…conventional farming is inciting genocide across the planet, not just for bees and birds, but all wildlife and for humans too.

How major corporations force their products on farmers

How the FDA lies to support the myth that these foods are safe

How real foods are maligned as being dangerous while aspartame, MSG and artificial everything is not only promoted but funded for consumption by kids especially.

For this, I am ridiculed.

How incredulous is it to be harangued for nourishing, protecting, and educating your children? Furthermore, why is it that we so strongly associate the ability to indulge with quality of life? As if having a Dominos pizza or Mountain Dew were rites of passage on the way to manhood.

My kids are allergic to glysophate, allergic to 2,4 D, and in my mind, they are allergic to genocide.

Shouldn’t we all be? It is easier to pretend the issue is about health, that way a little indulgence is just a little side road on the general path of health…something which can be easily overcome by overall good habits. But this has never been about health.

Think about it, the major food manufacturers spend billions per year marketing their nearly addictive products to the public. McDonald’s alone, a company who should have had no reason to spend 988 million dollars in 2013 to continue to market the idea their foods are not only good for you but make for a happy, economically sound and beautiful life. Everyone knows their burgers are hardly even from cow, their fries have strange inedible ingredients, and the McRib is composed of yoga mat material….and no one cares. Their presence in poor communities is no accident, nor is the effect they have when introduced into new countries — rising rates of diabetes, and heart disease just for starters. Their products are slow, insidious genocide and they are only one company.

Life would be more comfortable if I played along with the normal whole foods shopping suburban mom stereotype. In fact, it would be so much easier on me too. But I know every action I take is my voice for the consequences. Much like I can’t agree to a little domestic violence, I also can’t agree to partake in a little genocide.

Perhaps I should follow the main stream, take a middle ground position.

Be opposed to some but not all vaccines, some but not all antibiotics, and some but not all conventional foods. I know this would make so many people much more comfortable about their own choices. Maybe I should still entertain the illusion for my children that if they just think what the schools tell them to, prepare to go to college — no matter how exorbitant the current costs — accept they will be in debt for much of their lives and set their mind on getting hired into a good job. A job with benefits, vacation, and solid pay. Never mind what the company does to provide all those things. Maybe this would ease the tension and make those around me more comfortable.

Better yet, I could go all in, encourage a bit of bullying, a little bit of drinking, a small about of fraternity debauchery and chalk it all up to having a youth well spent. After all, this is by media standards a pretty “normal” childhood. I have it commonly suggested I should save the truth for when my kids ask for it, and allow them to know what their peers know now, as to not keep them too distant from the modern reality.

Funny thing is, my kids ask for the truth every day, and I tell them everything I know every chance I get. Consequently, they can already point out the way movies but white pure backgrounds behind the savior and dark or red behind the villain. They can explain why not to use a microwave, why you shouldn’t eat fast food, they can identify wild plants and tell you what remedies to use for particular conditions. My kids can also tell you about the murderous, genocidal, evil man named Columbus, who we still celebrate for his “discovery” of America. They can describe the teachings of the people who were here before his invasion, and they can tell you that in this history there is nothing to celebrate.

I guess, when it comes down to it, if “normal” means I have to accept genocide, and I have to teach my kids to be complacent about intentional murder, planetary destruction and rape, then I don’t want to give them a “normal” childhood. Nor do I want to allow them to exist under the illusion that a little of any of these activities is Ok on vacation, or for a celebration, or to fit in.

Maybe they will turn their backs on all this when they grow older, maybe they will eat fast food, work at a bank, and drive a BMW. At least I will know I tried to do my best, I showed them the absolute truth as I knew it, and I focused on the only values which I believe matter:

Live with compassion and constant awareness of your actions

Take responsibility for what you do, say and buy

Understand that we are here for one purpose…

…to live a life of kindness, filled with good deeds and focused on protecting the weak so all may have the chance to live long, healthy lives.

Photo Credit: Getty Images

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Quick Smoke: Nub Cafe Espresso 438

Each Saturday and Sunday we’ll post a Quick Smoke: not quite a full review, just our brief verdict on a single cigar of “buy,” “hold,” or “sell.” I’ve been curious about Nub’s line of coffee-flavored cigars since its introduction last year at IPCPR. I picked up this short (4 inches), thin (38 ring gauge) Sumatra-wrapped […]

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What the Romans Can Teach us About Immigration and Integration

The ancient Romans extended many of the same rights to immigrants and ethnic minorities as they did to the elite. And their empire lasted 500 years.

By Ursula Rothe, The Open University

As a Roman historian, I’m struck by how often people ask why the Roman empire ended, since a far more interesting question is surely how it managed to survive for such a long time while extended over such an enormous area.

At its largest, the Roman empire encompassed an area from Spain in the west to Syria in the east, and while start and end dates are largely a matter of perspective, it existed in the form most people would recognise for over 500 years.

The empire of course had many great strengths – but it could be argued that one of the most important keys to its durability was its inclusiveness.

Come together

Roman society was, of course, marked by stark inequalities. It was inherently misogynistic and rigidly classed, while slavery was ubiquitous. But in other ways, it was surprisingly open-minded – even by the standards of 2015.

In 48 AD, a discussion took place in the Roman Senate concerning the admittance of members of the Gallic aristocracy to the venerable body.

According to the Roman senator and historian Tacitus, there was opposition to the move; some senators said that Italy was perfectly capable of providing its own members, and that it was enough that northern Italians had been admitted without having to resort to foreigners who had been, until recently, their enemies in war.

But as Tacitus reports it, the then-emperor Claudius championed the move:

My ancestors … encourage me to govern by the same policy of transferring to this city all conspicuous merit, wherever found. And indeed I know, as facts, that the Julii came from Alba, the Coruncanii from Camerium, the Porcii from Tusculum, and not to inquire too minutely into the past, that new members have been brought into the Senate from Etruria and Lucania and the whole of Italy, that Italy itself was at last extended to the Alps, to the end that not only single persons but entire countries and tribes might be united under our name.

We had unshaken peace at home; we prospered in all our foreign relations, in the days when Italy beyond the Po was admitted to share our citizenship…. Are we sorry that the Balbi came to us from Spain, and other men not less illustrious from Narbon Gaul? Their descendants are still among us, and do not yield to us in patriotism.

Everything, Senators, which we now hold to be of the highest antiquity, was once new.

Of course, this account probably doesn’t record precisely what was said on that day; Tacitus often embellished his historical narratives by putting rousing speeches in the mouths of key personalities. But an inscription in Lyon, commonly called the Lyon Tablet, indicates that this address did take place.

And whether authored by Claudius or Tacitus, the content of the speech as recorded shows that 2000 years ago in Rome, prominent figures were putting forward the idea that incorporating citizens from a variety of ethnic backgrounds could strengthen rather than weaken a state.

All for one

By the time of the events described above, for example, Roman citizenship had been extended to large parts of the Mediterranean population and could be acquired by people anywhere in the Roman empire, usually by serving in the army or in regional government. This bestowed the same nominal legal rights on the inhabitants of Egypt and Britain as were enjoyed by the citizens of the city of Rome.

Under the spirit and letter of Roman law, citizenship was generally less a matter of ethnicity and more one of political unity.

Of course, Roman literary sources are hardly devoid of bigotry and cultural chauvinism. But there is little indication in the literature of anything resembling the contemporary view in some circles that bringing in new people represents a threat to national culture or a drain on resources.

Despite substantial evidence both for immigration to Rome from different parts of the empire and geographical mobility within the empire, the impression in the surviving record is of an overriding pragmatism when it came to the adoption of new things and people into the Roman system.

In 2015, as European debates about immigration and diversity take an increasingly emotive and activist turn, there is a real need to bring facts and rational argument back into the fold. And while some sections of the political establishment would hold that a pragmatic approach to immigration will lead “us” into dangerous, unchartered waters, the Roman example shows that this is far from true.

After all, everything of the highest antiquity was once new.

This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.

Photo: Jimmy Walker via Wikimedia Commons

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What My Mother’s Dying Taught Me About Living

After 40 years estranged from his family, Spencer Dryden becomes his mother’s end-of-life caregiver and learns something about how to live.

—

My father was darkness, my mother was light. Most of my life was lived in the darkness of a father I couldn’t please. I spent nearly forty years estranged from my family, but never really able to escape his shadow. For just a short time at the end of my mother’s life, I got to live in her light and it has made all the difference in the world for the direction of my life.

My mom and dad moved to Florida in the 1970’s while I was in college back in the Midwest. They eventually retired to an Oceanside cottage near St. Augustine, Florida. My mom nearly wore herself out caring for him as his health declined. I wasn’t there when he passed. In the years following his death, my mother lived there alone under the watchful eyes of some wonderful neighbors. She had a very active life. One neighbor called her “the energizer bunny”.

My sisters are great cooks. We called our arrangement “gourmet hospice.”

Eventually the parts wear down. Just after Christmas in 2012 my mother fell severely ill with a recurring bladder infection that had dogged her for several years. Each time she would end a course of antibiotics the infection would return and leave her a little weaker. The treatment made her so sick that my two sisters — both health care professionals— decided to stop chasing a cure worse than death, discontinue the antibiotics, and bring my mother home for at-home hospice. They called me to let me know their plan. She was slipping so fast I wasn’t sure I could get there before she passed. My wife and I flew down to Florida. Then, as if by some gift, she improved, or at least stopped slipping so fast. My sisters were soon overwhelmed by the demands of work and the care regimen so I decided I would go home, pack for a long stay, and return.

The timing couldn’t have been better for me. I was the at-home dad, but my boys were old enough to care for themselves. I had done enough hands-on care giving that I was comfortable doing all the things you need to do with a frail elderly person. My mom was in good spirits and always cheerful. We enjoyed many conversations and made a point to try to get out of the house every day if for nothing more than to take her for a pedicure or to her lending library. We had visits twice weekly from a hospice nurse who did bathing and skin care (she developed the inevitable bed sores) otherwise we did everything else. My mom was stable enough that I was able to be there alone during the week so my sisters could tend to their careers. It was a party every weekend. My sisters are great cooks. We called our arrangement “gourmet hospice.”

But she slowly succumbed. My sisters and I were with her when she passed away just before Easter 2012. In the aftermath, I realized some very important things that I learned by being present at the death of a loved one.

Live in the present moment.

We worked around an 18 hour day. I learned to nap while my mom napped, which was often. I didn’t notice at first, but I found myself less and less worried about the future. For the first time in my life, any day could be the last day. Sunrise and sunsets became a ritual. With less energy expended on worry or regret, I had plenty of energy for the long days. I wish I could say that it carried over seamlessly to my life after her passing. I’m at least working on it.

There’s something out there beyond this realm.

My mother was an Episcopalian with a more relaxed view of religion than my father. We were raised under the stern spiritual climate of the Catholic Church of the 1950’s. She converted. The God I know is angry, always ready to mete out punishment, guilt and shame. At death we are judged for our sins and guaranteed at least some time in a holding tank called Purgatory, where we must endure more suffering before being admitted to heaven.

There’s something out there and it’s good, and it doesn’t require a life of regret, guilt, shame and self flagellation to earn it.

And then there is hell. Eternal suffering. It makes for great fear and anxiousness about death. My mother was different. She loved life but she wasn’t afraid of death. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but when I would sit with her I often felt a benign presence, peaceful, comforting, but just out of sight. I told my sisters that if I had special spiritual goggles I’d see the room full of loving faces waiting for my mom to let go.

In her last hours in semi-consciousness she would move her arms like she was pushing on a door and mumble, “It’s too heavy.” We thought she was trying to push through the door to another world. We would ask her, but she was too incoherent to answer.

I’m not anxious to die, but the fear of death has lost its hold on me. There’s something out there and it’s good, and it doesn’t require a life of regret, guilt, shame and self flagellation to earn it.

Start living my dreams.

My mother lived a quiet life without a touch of malice. After her passing, I was amazed by the outpouring from the neighborhood, her church, the swim club, her golfing group. She touched so many lives with her simple goodness. I have spent so much of my life striving for success as a way of acceptance, my mother did it with a generous spirit. Like so many parents, especially at-home parents, I had lost contact with things I had aspired to do, always promising myself I’d have time, sometime. My mother’s passing helped me see that my time is limited. I’ve stopped striving and have started living more, even indulging in a life-long desire to be a writer. I don’t know if I have enough time to “succeed,” but for once I’m enjoying the journey.

Thanks Mom.

—

Picture: Author’s Own

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5 Daily Habits That Will Make You A More Positive and Happy Person

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Above-freezing readings 'warm' Northeast amid snowstorms

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Guy Races NYC Subway Because He Can

Guy says, “The most difficult part was getting people to move out of the way.”

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From Bowling Green to Wall Street — it is man versus public transit machine. Spoiler alert! High fives all around at the end! That isn’t all either, here’s another one racing the Circle Line from Mansion House to Cannon Street. Who are these subway racing men?

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Turkish military enters Syria to evacuate troops, tomb

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The Theory of (Overcoming) Everything – Interview with Eddie Redmayne

For men, overcoming adversity is supposedly a rite of passage. Steven Wagner tests that theory, and finds the answer is in the essence.

—

The story of Stephen Hawking, so insightfully told in James Marsh’s The Theory of Everything, shows us that overcoming physical adversity, devastating as it can be, isn’t the whole story. It can require putting pride to the side as well.

For men, overcoming adversity means more than mere struggle, it is seen as a rite of passage; men are expected to prevail against any challenge—and preferably alone—if they are to be considered, well, men.

About one year ago, tragedy struck my home-away-from-home as fire destroyed the historic lodge at Wilbur Hot Springs in Northern California. I had turned 40 there, turned 50 there, spent holidays there, fell in love there, honeymooned there, and grieved the death of my father there. It was my sanctuary, the place where I meditated and simply worked on myself and (to me) my complicated life. Though the springs themselves were not affected by the fire, the loss of the lodge was devastating. For me, it was home. It brought tears and a frightening sense of insecurity every time I thought about it.

We may lose everything we hold dear, and yet our essence remains, if we are able to access it. If we trust, respect, and nurture it.

The Wilbur community rallied with generous support, and the owners and employees soldiered on, determined to rebound. Within just a few weeks of the fire, they had converted offices and massage rooms into bedrooms, reopened (in a most limited way) for the public, and announced plans to remake the lodge to the best of their ability. I immediately booked quarters and went back to Wilbur, expecting to be shocked and further saddened when I saw the damage in person. What happened was just the opposite. Everyone there seemed happy. They were in acceptance. And excited about the prospect of rebuilding. They were just fine!

When I slid into the curative water for my first soak, I understood: Even if every single building and tree burned to the ground, the water—the essence of the Springs—would still be there, flowing with the same innate purpose, the same healing qualities, and the same invigorating magic. It is the same with our lives. We may lose everything we hold dear, and yet our essence remains, if we are able to access it. If we trust, respect, and nurture it.

◊♦◊

Is there any greater example of overcoming personal adversity than the story of Stephen Hawking, who, after being stricken with ALS while in college and given two years to live, went on to marry twice, father children, live for decades (still ticking!), and oh-by-the-way, develop the most advanced cosmological theory since Einstein met Relativity?

The Theory of Everything is a stellar telling of Hawking’s extraordinary and exemplary real life. Based on the memoir by his first wife, Jane, the film shows how spirit that refuses to be diminished, that continues to honor its very essence no matter the loss, can not only thrive, but change the world.

The film is powered by two extraordinary performances. Eddie Redmayne, the young British actor who stole Marilyn Monroe’s heart in My Week with Marilyn, completely inhabits the character of Stephen Hawking, delivering a turn that is as moving as it is impressive. Redmayne actually gives two distinct performances in the film, the physical shape-shifting required by the real circumstances, and then, once he was contorted and essentially unable to move, an internal communication that brings the life drama, and Hawking’s humanity, front and center. With Theory, Redmayne leaps onto the A-list, and is a formidable contender, if not the front-runner, for Best Actor at the 2015 Oscars tomorrow night.

Likewise Felicity Jones, who (like Redmayne) has been building an impressive resume in British theater, period television, and costume drama over the past several years, is making her move into the mainstream. She is a revelation in Theory, her long-suffering Jane holding space (without stealing the scene) in nearly every frame with Redmayne. Though the role is subdued, it is equal; she simmers and grieves with quiet urgency and feminine strength, and very nearly makes the film hers. Oscar was right to honor her with a nomination for Best Actress this year.

Perhaps the biggest takeaway from Theory is the unmistakable sense that Stephen would not have survived, much less thrived, without Jane. Sometimes, for a man of pride and accomplishment, accepting help can be harder than needing it in the first place. And sometimes refusing help can deeply hurt the person offering it.

“When I met Stephen, it was absolutely clear that for him the disease is secondary,” Redmayne said.

Stephen and Jane Hawking are the perfect example of teamwork overcoming insurmountable odds, in which fear of vulnerability could have proven fatal. And we see a similar dynamic present in the relationship the film demanded of its leads. Just as Redmayne needed to overcome the physical trials as an actor playing a paraplegic, Jones needed to graciously support Redmayne’s performance without losing the center of her own character. At the heart of the film we see the actors doing for each other what the characters are doing in the story.

I sat down with Redmayne in San Francisco recently, and talked with him about the challenges he faced playing the iconic physicist. He explained that it was Hawking’s approach to life that gave him the key to unlock such a fearless performance, chained to a body that does not work.

“When I met Stephen, it was absolutely clear that for him the disease is secondary,” Redmayne said. “He has no interest in the disease. He has never looked back—he’s always been someone who looks forward. I wanted to really take from that. I spent four or five months working on the physical elements in order that they were so embedded that I could then really play with the other actors. I really tried to make the disease secondary.”

I was very interested to hear about his friendship with Hawking, and Redmayne was clearly still in awe.

“I can’t get over how privileged our lives as actors can be, and the people you get to meet. It was one of the great meetings of my life. I was horrifically embarrassed when I met him—I spent the first 20 minutes telling him about himself because I was so nervous. But just spending that time and hearing all the stories and his classic one-liners — I’ll never forget that day.”

I doubt anyone will ever forget Redmayne’s indelible work in The Theory of Everything. Or Felicity Jones, either. Redmayne’s performance was as difficult to achieve as any actor can face. But he had the perfect role model in Stephen Hawking. And so did Jones in Jane, to be sure. Let the essence be our guide!

The full interview with Eddie Redmayne for FlickNation:

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New Pentagon chief visits airfield in southern Afghanistan

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Learning to Love the Crust Punks and Society’s “Other”

Rather than being a quiet anti-consumer/industrial protest in solidarity with the earth, it’s actually just about people.

–––

As part of my year-long quest to better, more fully and authentically follow the life and teachings of Jesus (a spiritual practice I’ve called My Jesus Project), I’m working this month with Christian Anarchist mentor Mark Van Steenwyk on exploring “Jesus the Radical.” The first task he gave me was simple, though not necessarily easy (like a lot of Jesus’ teaching, incidentally). He told me to reduce the amount of time I spent driving myself places, opting instead for public transport and walking whenever possible.

Rather than being some form of quiet protest against the consumer/industrial complex or some expression of solidarity with the earth, it’s actually just about people. It’s all too easy to go from our homes to our garages, then cars, then offices and back again without really connecting meaningfully with anyone. As such, it’s easy to slip into a routine of isolation, in which we exist in a self-validating echo chamber, further strengthening our ideologies, but at the expense of our human connections. Put more simply, Jesus would have told us to get off of our asses and engage people face-to-face more often.

This practice has already presented several interesting opportunities. In addition to simply walking or riding around, part of the practice’s intent is to look people in the eye (not in a creepy stalker way) and try to really recognize their humanity, beyond any initial reflex of categorizing them as some kind of “other.” From here, the hope and trust is that we make awareness, compassion and human connection an intentional spiritual practice, from which stronger, more Christ-like community will emerge over time.

“Daddy,” she said, “is David itchy?” I’ve actually met David a few times, and I’ve known him to slip in and out of schizophrenic episodes pretty seamlessly.

The first “opportunity” came in the form of David, who asked me for some money on the street. Instead, my six-year-old daughter and I offered to share a meal with him. He accepted and asked for a bowl of chili and a large coffee from the shop next door. We went in to order and to take everything outside to the patio (he felt more comfortable there instead of inside, and based on his hygiene, I thought it was best for all), when Zoe pointed to him through the window. “Daddy,” she said, “is David itchy?” I’ve actually met David a few times, and I’ve known him to slip in and out of schizophrenic episodes pretty seamlessly. When he does so, he scratches himself habitually, to which the folks in the restaurant cringed as he stared at the floor, mumbling all the while. “Yeah baby,” I said, “at least his brain tells him he is. See, David’s brain has something that makes him sick, kind of like when you have a cold.”

“Then he should take some medicine.”

“Probably so,” I said, “but sometimes when you get a brain sickness, it makes you not want to take the medicine that will help you. Then it’s hard to do anything else to take care of yourself.”

“So that’s why he walks around in a sleeping bag instead of going to a home?” “That’s right.”

Her averted eyes were well timed, as by now, David had taken to masturbating under his clothes while looking at two women through the window.

“That’s so sad,” she looked down. Her averted eyes were well timed, as by now, David had taken to masturbating under his clothes while looking at two women through the window.

“Excuse me,” I said, to the woman behind the counter, “can you cancel our order except for the chili and coffee? Oh, and you should probably make that to go.” After handing him his meal, I shook David’s hand – the other hand – though he was mid-episode and didn’t seem to really know who I was anymore.

The next day, I stood behind a man in line at the pharmacy who actually reminded me of some of the “bangers” I knew back in Pueblo, Colorado: a town notorious for a heavy gang presence. On one cheekbone, he had the word “MONEY” tattooed, and along the other was “POWER.” My first reaction was to judge him both for defacing his body that way (unlike the sensible, responsible ways I’ve been tattooed, mind you), and for being so superficial about his priorities. Then it occurred to me that, in a culture where both money and power are likely scarce, this is probably a representation of freedom from a seemingly helpless cycle.

He was faced the other way, so I couldn’t make eye contact, but from the side, his glare communicated “don’t screw with me.” But after he walked away, I remembered a woman in her eighties named Billie from Milagro, the church we started back in Pueblo eleven years ago. The second time she met Chuck, a newcomer who was tattooed and pierced, head to toe, she took his hand and looked him in the eye, smiling.

“Your tattoos are amazing,” she said. “Would you mind telling me about them?” Not surprising, Chuck adored Billie from then on, and she, him.

When we got further in downtown, the requisite “Crusties” boarded, complete with several dogs, a gallon jug of what they proudly announced was orange juice and vodka, and a vaporizer full of weed.

Finally, I took the train from beginning to end recently, from the airport on the far northeast edge of town to my home in the southwest. When we got further in downtown, the requisite “Crusties” boarded, complete with several dogs, a gallon jug of what they proudly announced was orange juice and vodka, and a vaporizer full of weed. There’s a pretty robust constituency of teenage and twenty-something folks in Portland who choose to live on the streets (at least by day; some of them go home to apartments or couch surf at night) as a way of life. The panhandle though they are generally able-bodied, and they make a point of pushing your tolerance level to – or even – beyond its breaking point.

Though I was one of the only people on the train, they sat on three benches, completely surrounding me. Though their shouting and general obnoxiousness was evidence enough of their presence, the smell was an equal assault on the senses.

My initial response is generally contempt, as they seem happy to live off of the generosity of others, while apparently able on some level to provide for themselves if they wanted to. One of them even referred to one of their friends as a “Trustafarian,” which was a phrase I learned back in Colorado to describe a trust fund kid who still tried to embrace a street “Crusty” lifestyle.

Suffice it to say I don’t really relate. And yes, I held on to my phone a little tighter as they spit, swore and carried on, almost literally in my face, as if to say, “can you handle me?” But then I listened more carefully to the substance of what they were talking about, beyond the bombast. They shared stories about friends, both those they were looking forward to seeing and ones with whom they had lost touch. They were excited to be headed to Goose Hollow where a cohort of their tribe were gathering to be together for the first time in a long while. aside from the context, it was not unlike an evening we would look forward to with our friends.

And then, in a quieter tone, off to the side, I heard one of the guys talking his girlfriend about names he had been dreaming of for their kids once they got married and made a life together. And that’s when The judgmental fog began to lift and I realized that the rest was really just superficial bullshit. At their core, they wanted exactly the same things from life I did, or any of us do. They wanted community, family, relationship and love.

I smiled, imagining her lovingly holding that as-yet-only-imaginary baby in her arms, looking at it with the same love that every mother and father should experience with their newborn.

As their stop neared, the couple resumed their profane back-and-forth with the rest of their friends, grabbing their backpacks and milk jugs to go join their friends. As they girl across from me stood up, she glanced at me, just for a second. She was the one whose boyfriend was dreaming of family with her, someday, in some other context. I smiled, imagining her lovingly holding that as-yet-only-imaginary baby in her arms, looking at it with the same love that every mother and father should experience with their newborn.

“Have a good night,” I said. She offered a timid half smile and hopped off the train with the rest of the Crust Punks, disappearing into the dark at the stop in Goose Hollow.

—

Photo: tuppus/Flickr

The post Learning to Love the Crust Punks and Society’s “Other” appeared first on The Good Men Project.

New Post has been published on Made Man Society

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New Post has been published on Made Man Society

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