Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 133

Book banning cowards

After a Tennessee school board banned a graphic novel about the Holocaust from local middle schools, comic book store owners from near and far pledged to send students the book for free.

The Pulitzer Prize-winning graphic novel “Maus” was banned on January 10 after a vote by the McMinn County Board of Education.Written by Art Spiegelman, “Maus” tells the story of his parents in the 1940’s, following the Jewish family’s experience with rising anti-Semitism to their internment at the Auschwitz concentration camp. It depicts the Jewish people as mice and Nazis as cats.The novel was removed for “unnecessary use of profanity and nudity and its depiction of violence and suicide,” the education board said in a statement, adding the work “was simply too adult-oriented for use in our schools.”As my friend Dan Kennedy tweeted:“Every kid throughout time has figured this out on their own, but: Read the books they fight to ban, listen to the music they want to destroy, and see the art they try to burn.”Hell yeah.And it’s true. Since banning the book, “Maus” shot up the bestseller list. Local bookstores, Barnes & Noble, and even Amazon can’t keep it in stock. I placed my own order more than three weeks ago, and it just arrived last week.As is often the case, banning a book only causes it to be more widely read.Huzzah.This is important to keep in mind because throughout the country, books are being banned from school libraries and removed from school curriculums at alarming rates for a variety of reasons, often related to race and sexuality.It turns out that lots of fragile, white, conservative parents are afraid that their fragile, white children will crumble under the knowledge that LESS THAN TWO LIFETIMES AGO, black people in this country were owned like livestock. Raped, beaten, and murdered indiscriminately by their owners. Routinely separated from parents, spouses, and their own children FOREVER. Denied the freedoms afforded to us by the Constitution. Denied basic human rights.But damn it, so says those same white, fragile parents, that was TWO WHOLE LIFETIMES ago. Plenty of time for those formerly enslaved people to have created institutional wealth and recovered fully from systemic and nationalized murder, rape, and abuse. Plenty of time to move past the post Civil War violence,  lynchings, and legalized bigotry that dominated the Jim Crow south LESS THAN ONE LIFETIME AGO.No need for our children to know what was happening in this country back then.

Hell, it was A WHOLE 100 HUNDRED YEARS AGO that the Mississippi state Senate voted to evict the state’s Black residents — the majority of its total population — not just out of Mississippi, but out of the country.

On February 20, 1922, the Mississippi Senate voted 25 to 9 to ask the federal government to trade some of the World War I debts owed by European countries for a piece of colonial Africa — any part would do — where the government would then ship Mississippi’s Black residents, creating “a final home for the American negro.”

Mississippi wanted to forcibly eject all Black people from their homes and export them off to a different continent. But damn it, that was a century ago. More than enough time for Black Americans to throw off the shackles of bigotry and make a life for themselves.

Why teach children any of these truths? Why expose them to this ugly part of American history? Why give them reason to look back on our country’s past in a not-so-pristine light?

It might be too much for them.

Of course, “Maus” doesn’t deal with racism in America. Instead, it deals with the Holocaust, which happened ONE LIFETIME AGO. It depicts the violent and horrific period in our world’s history when millions of human beings were systematically murdered based up their religious beliefs. Far too terrifying to be shown to middle schoolers, even if the characters are depicted in cartoon animal form.Besides, the Holocaust is also a piece of history. A thing of the past. Why linger on such horrors? Right?Yes, it’s true that the white supremacists in Charlottesville chanted “Blood and soil” and “Jews will not replace us!” before killing counter-protester Heather Heyer and injuring many more. But that was FIVE years ago.And yes, Nazis openly demonstrated in Florida LAST WEEK, sparking Florida Governor Ron DeSantis refusal to condemn them, claiming that demands to do so was somehow an attempt to smear him and his party.And yes, on Saturday, Republican members of Congress Marjorie Taylor Greene and Paul Gosar spoke at a white supremacist, anti-Semitic, pro-Putin event.And yes, my Jewish daughter was recently told by someone that Hitler should’ve killed more Jews.But why teach middle schoolers about antisemitism and bigotry? Why expose them to the horrors of the Holocaust in cartoon form?That was something that happened long ago.Happily, students are fighting back.In York, Pennsylvania, attempts by an all-white school board to ban a list of educational resources that includes a children’s book about Rosa Parks, Malala Yousafzai’s autobiography, Sesame Street’s town hall on racism, “A Boy Called Bat” about a third grader with autism, and “Cece Loves Science,” a book about a curious girl who loves experiments, were met with organized protests by students that ultimately overturned the ban.It also resulted in a dramatic increase in sales of those books.It’s bizarre and illogical for these authoritarian school boards and narrow minded parents to think that banning books would lead to some sort of protective bubble around their children. Particularly in today’s world, where parents are placing phones in the hands of their children at younger and younger ages, affording them unfettered access to the internet, the attempts at shielding children from the realities of bigotry and hate are ridiculous and impossible.But damn, it sure is good for book sales.If these adults were hoping to put more of these books into circulation, they have certainly accomplished their mission and continue to do so.

Birthday gifts from Elysha and some students

My birthday recently passed by. Another trip around the sun.

Amongst the lovely gifts that I received, Elysha arranged for me to spend time in a single engine plane over the city of Hartford. Over the past two years, aviation has become an interest of mine, and though I have no desire to ever fly a plane solo or seek my pilot’s license, I’ll have the chance to take the controls of the plane while in the air and fly a plane for the first time in my life.

I can’t wait.

I also received gifts from unexpected sources.

Though I tell my students that all I ever want for my birthday is for them to work hard and be kind, some of my kids still bring me entirely unnecessary gifts. Homemade cards are my favorite, but these three gifts also caught my eye this year:

From a student who knew I was hunting down hard-to-find cream cheese for my cream cheese loving children, I received a box of Philadelphia’s finest.

The cream cheese shortage, by the way, has less to do with supply chain problems as you might think. In October, a cyberattack against the nation’s largest cheese manufacturer contributed to a shortage of cream cheese across the United States. The attack targeted plants and distribution centers, and the temporary shutdowns were enough to create an ongoing scarcity of cream cheese.

From a student who heard me say that an enormous pile of $100 bills would also make a great gift, she walked into the classroom and threw fake $100 bills at me.

Well played.

Later in the day, I found a carton of apple juice from the school breakfast on my desk with a note that read:

“You know how the traditional gift for a teacher is an apple? I didn’t have one!”

I am blessed with very clever students.

Best of all, they work hard and treat one another with kindness most of the time.

Reasons to be stressed

One of my clients said that my “just because I don’t want to“ lack of drinking alcohol and “never in my life” drug use stresses her out.

“Even when we’re not working together, I’m still stressed about it,” she said. “No alcohol? No weed? In the middle of a pandemic? Or ever? What the hell are you thinking?”

I’m wasn’t sure if she was worried about me or herself, but either way, my suggestion was simple:

“You be you, and I’ll be me. Okay?”

“Not okay,” she snapped, still visibly annoyed.

In response, I offered her a list of behaviors that stress me out, in an attempt to make her feel better.

My list included:

Watching people play stupid games on their phonesListening to people talk about coffee as if it were somehow an interesting or entertaining subjectColor coding for the sake of color codingAdults who run meetings as if the attendees are childrenParents who can’t hear their children’s questions because they’re too busy staring at their phonesPresentations that needlessly have more than one presenterPeople who find a restroom door locked but knock on the door anywayChildren eating grapesListening to adults threaten consequences to children that will never happenShoppers who move through a grocery store as if it’s the place to beAnyone who needlessly uses BCCThe inefficiency of a Little League practiceRelentless complainers

See? We all have things that get to us.

She said my list didn’t help.

Bermuda highlights

Thoughts from my recent trip with friends to Bermuda:
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Vacationing with friends was something I did a great deal when I was younger, but it’s been a long time since I traveled on vacation with just friends.

Someone told me before I left that being away from Elysha and the kids would give me a greater appreciation for how much I love them. “Absence makes the heart grow finder,” she said.

This was nonsense.

I knew it was nonsense as she spoke those ridiculous words to me.

I missed Elysha, Clara, and Charlie from the moment I stepped outside the house, as I knew I would. I thought about them often while I was in Bermuda. As much as I enjoyed my trip, I also found myself looking forward to getting home and seeing them again.

I certainly didn’t need to fly to an island in the Atlantic to be reminded about how much I love my wife and kids. I often find myself sitting at my table in the wee hours of the morning, anxious for them to awake so I can see them again.

I miss them overnight. I knew that I’d miss them while in Bermuda.
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We went to Bermuda to play golf, but honestly, it was the time spent with my friends that meant the most to me. We could’ve sat in a room together for four days, and I would’ve been happy.

Plato moved to the west coast a few years ago. Andrew recently moved to Boston. A group of four that once spent lots of time together no longer gathers nearly as often as we once did.

It sucks. I hate it quite a lot.

The weekend brought us back together, reminding me of how much I miss them, both individually and collectively.
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I played golf for the first time since my surgery on October 29, 2021, which made those first few swings a little frightening. I’d received the go-ahead from my doctors to resume playing, but after being warned that swinging a golf club during the first three months after my surgery would be disastrous, it was a little unnerving to swing it again.

I also have no feeling in my upper thigh – an unexpected complication of the surgery – which also made swinging the club a bit odd. Sort of like throwing myself into space.

Happily, I didn’t break. By the sixth hole, I had forgotten about my surgery completely and was swinging hard and poorly once again.

It was a relief. I can’t imagine not being able to play the game I love.
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Our driver for the weekend, Elden, was a joy. There’s nothing better than spending time with a reliable, entertaining, one-of-a-kind local during your trip. Elden was funny, sincere, knowledgable, and possibly a little crazy. Deeply curious about the world. Convinced that the lottery was a reasonable and viable way of making his fortune. Open and honest about many things.

I would love to spend a week or two doing a ride along with Elden for the purposes of writing something about him. He’s an incredibly compelling and unique person, and he made the trip so much more interesting as a result.
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The trip required a total of five COVID-19 tests.

One test two weeks before the trip to ensure that my late December – early January bout with COVID-19 was not still causing me to test positive.

Another test three days before the trip, as required by Bermuda officials.

A PCR and a rapid test upon arriving in Bermuda.

One more rapid test the day before we flew back to the United States.

The pandemic has made everything more challenging.
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I accomplish a great deal of work on airplanes, but I also enjoy talking to my seat mates when they are game. I took four flights to and from Bermuda. My first seatmate – a woman who works in advertising in New York – exchanged business cards with me after we determined that we might be able to work together sometime in the future. We talked shop for almost the entire flight.

My last seatmate was a psychotherapist who had read Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend years ago.

I’m still waiting to see one of my books being read on an actual plane, but this was close.

I spent most of both flights talking to these women. I know most people dread the thought of conversation with a stranger on a plane, but for me, I’ve always found it as an opportunity to uncover a new and previously unknown corner of the world.

That said, if my seat mate doesn’t want to chat, I don’t force myself upon them. Also, if my seat mate is a soulless monster or a mind numbing snooze-fest, I have no problem excusing myself and donning headphones for the duration of the flight.
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Here’s the thing about golf:

You don’t remember most of your good shots, but the bad ones stay with you forever.

My memories of this weekend will always include the four consecutive tee shots that I hit into a housing complex, the shot out of the bunker that nearly killed Plato, and the left-handed shot I was forced to take off the side of a small cliff that resulted in my friends referring to me as “The Billy Goat.”

I’ll also remember the two miraculous shots that I hit between narrow gaps in trees that somehow resulted in lost balls, as well as the moment I was communing with a duck (not kidding) while Plato fired off a shot, expecting me to be watching the flight of the ball instead of gazing into the depths of a duck’s eyes.

That ball was lost, too.

Bad shots are memorable shots. The worse the shot, the more memorable it is. When I play golf, I make a lot of memories.
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That being said, one good shot can also linger in your mind. On the final hole of the weekend – hole #81 – I hit two excellent shots, including a perfect seven iron, to get within 100 yards of the hole,.

It was my finest iron of the weekend.

Then I hit a ball just off the green behind a bunker. My chip went sideways into an adjacent bunker. Two shots later, I was out of the bunker and over the green. Finally, I chipped onto the green and putted to finish with a 9.

A disastrous hole. But what do I remember best?

That perfectly struck seven iron. I can’t wait to swing that club again.

One good shot will bring you back.
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The trip was planned by Andrew. All I did was Venmo him money prior to the trip. This is absolutely the way to travel. Allow your friend to make all of the decisions. In fact, all the food was paid for by Plato, and all the taxis were paid for by Jeff. I simply sent them Venmo payments after the trip, too.

It’s an outstanding way to travel.
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I had visited Bermuda 15 years ago on our honeymoon. During that visit, Elysha and I explored the island. Toured historic sites. Relaxed on white sand beaches. Swam with the dolphins.

It was fantastic.

During this visit, I played golf. Ate good food. Played a lot of setback and poker in the evenings.

It was kind of like experiencing two entirely different islands. The water was spectacularly blue and the sun was equally warm on my back during both visits, but my experiences couldn’t have been more different.

Both were wonderful. Just very different.

Three words

You meet your 18 year-old self. You’re allowed to say 3 words. What do you say?

There are many excellent choices to this question.

“Buy Apple stock” or “Buy Amazon stock” make a lot of sense.

Warnings like “Don’t marry Walter” or “Beware Francine McGuffin” or “Avoid fish tacos” might also make sense, depending on how badly you’ve been hurt by these things.

Admonitions like “Go to college” or “Start eating better” or “Leave Cleveland today” or “Don’t start smoking” also make a lot of sense.

There are a multitude of combinations of three words that could result in greater health, wealth, and happiness for your future self.

For me, the three words would simply be, “You’ll be okay.”

There were some excessively rough patches in my life. Homelessness. Poverty. Jail. Standing trial for a crime I didn’t commit. An armed robbery that left me with a lifetime of PTSD. An attempt to destroy my career through libel, defamation, and abject cruelty. The death of my mother. The abandonment of my father.

Much, much more.

All of it was incredibly challenging, but worst of all were the moments when I began to lose hope. For a long time, I thought I might never make my dreams come true. I wondered if I’d ever live under an actual roof again. Wondered where I might find my next meal. Wondered if I might spend years in prison for something I didn’t do.

I wondered if I would ever escape the endless nightmares that plagued me for more than a decade following the robbery. I wondered if those who tried to destroy my career would ultimately succeed. I wondered if I would ever live the kind of life that people around me seemed to enjoy. I wondered if I would ever be okay.

For me, the loss of hope was always the hardest. The belief that my future might be unstoppably, irreparably, and endlessly bleak was soul crushing.

I like to think that hearing my future self say, “You’ll be okay” might’ve helped me to avoid those darkest moments when I thought all hope was lost.

“You’ll be okay” would’ve meant the world to me back then. Far more valuable than any future fortunes in the stock market or anything else.

“You’ll be okay” would’ve been truly precious to me back then.

Buttons?

I first learned to drive using an automatic transmission. But shortly after getting my license, a girlfriend taught me to drive a manual transmission, and I loved it. I found that it afforded me considerably more control of the car and made driving a far more active experience.

Also, it was priceless in a snowstorm.

So for years, I tried to buy cars with stick shifts whenever possible.

Over the years, that became more and more challenging. Only 2% of vehicles sold today are equipped with manual transmissions. Sadly, it’s likely that the stick shift will one day be obsolete to the average consumer. Teaching Clara and Charlie the joy of driving with a stick shift might turn out to be impossible and pointless.

Last week I purchased a new car – the ninth car that I’ve owned over the course of my life. This car doesn’t even have a shift – manual or automatic. Instead, the transmission is governed by buttons on the dashboard.

Buttons!

Press a button and you’re in reverse. Press another and the car is in neutral. Press another and you’re moving forward in drive.

Buttons!

I’m certainly not opposed to change, and I yearn for the day of self-driving cars, but buttons?

I’m not a fan.

My Dick’s Sporting Goods card

I have a loyalty card form Dick’s Sporting Goods, called a Score Card, but I never use the physical card when making purchases. I don’t even carry it with me.

Instead, I tell the cashier that I have a card, but it’s attached to my other ring of keys.

I do this because of the next words spoken by the cashier every time:

“No problem. What’s your last name?”

“Dicks,” I reply.

The responses I receive are magic.

Sometimes the cashier pauses, hands hovering over the keys, internal processors attempting to compute.

Other times they think I’ve misheard them. “No,” they say. “I need your last name,” sometimes sounding annoyed and sometimes slowing down their speech, apparently thinking I’m confused.

Another common response is simply, “What?” After I repeat myself, there is oftentimes a pregnant pause, and sometimes, I get, “No, I need your last name,” leading us into another loop of confusion.

Either way, I can’t wait for the moment when I get to say “Dicks” and watch the cashier’s reaction. It’s always so damn entertaining.

It’s the little things, people, that can oftentimes spark so much joy.

Chasing fire trucks

When I was 22 years old, I was dating a girl named Christine. She and I worked at McDonald’s restaurants on opposite sides of Brockton, Massachusetts.

Christine was a college student working nights to earn extra money.

I was working at South Shore Bank during the day and managing the restaurant at night while awaiting trial for a crime I did not commit. I had a $25,000 legal bill to pay – which may as well have been $25 million to a 22 year old in 1993 who had recently been homeless and was entirely on his own – so I was working two full time jobs, trying desperately to pay off my debt before the trial.

Because I worked more than 80 hours a week, Christine and I had to find time to be together wherever we could. Weekends, of course, but we would also often meet around midnight at one of Brockton’s half dozen firehouses after our shifts at McDonald’s had finished. We’d park across the street and sit inside my car, talking and waiting.

Then it would happen. The alarm at the firehouse would sound, and in record time, the garage doors would rise and firetrucks would exit the station, lights flashing and sirens blaring, heading off to an emergency.

Christine and I would follow.

Many times the emergency was a medical in nature. Sometimes there was no telling why the fire department had been called. Maybe a carbon monoxide scare or a gas leak. But occasionally – more of than you might think – we’d arrive at a home or business on fire.

On those nights, we’d sit on the hood of my car and watch the firefighters battle the blaze. Most were small, smoky affairs, but a couple were roaring blazes.

Looking back on it today, our decision to use the fire department and the misfortune of others to entertain ourselves seems callous and insensitive, but back then, when we were younger and stupider, those thoughts never even entered our minds.

Instead, we saw these moments as exciting opportunities to watch firefighters at work. For two young people trapped in a seemingly endless grind, trying to squeeze out a few precious minutes together, the novelty and excitement of watching professionals do their job in a high stakes scenario was like to going to the movies.

Only better.

It was like reality TV at a time when the first reality TV shows were just starting to appear on television.

Not that I knew any of this. I didn’t owned a television at the time.

After Christine and I broke up, we remained friends for quite a while. Years later, during one of our final conversations before drifting apart, Christine mentioned those nights we spent following fire trucks and watching firefighters work. She was single at the time and worried that no date would ever compare to sitting under the stars on the hood of my car, drinking soda, eating chicken nuggets and Pop Tarts, and talking about life as we watched firefighters pour water on a burning building.

Looking back, she, too, knew how insensitive it was to turn one person’s misfortune into entertainment. “But it was different,” she said. “The kind of thing you never forget.”

I’ve always remembered those words because she’s right. Instead of going to dinner or a movie, Christine and I were doing something that no one else was doing, and it felt great.

It’s why I used to take girls on first dates to the grocery store. Dinner and a movie was easy. It was expected. Wandering the aisles at Stop & Shop, filling a grocery cart with food while making a girl laugh, was both hard and unexpected.

More importantly, it was unforgettable.

We should try to do the kinds of things that we will never forget. Perhaps not as insensitive and stupid as following firetrucks to burning buildings, but something novel and distinct. Something memorable.

Thoreau wrote that “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Sadly, he’s right. One way to avoid quiet desperation is to do something you’ve never done before. Even better, do something no one has ever done before.

Do the kind of thing that you’ll never forget.

Honestly, it’s not that hard. Just look around. See what everyone is doing, and do something else.

In order for something to be different, it only needs to be different.

I like to fight. Who knew?

Clara’s school assignment was to write a food recipe, and if possible, make the food.She chose breaded challah.I told Clara that if I had been given the assignment, I would’ve opted for canned cranberry sauce. Or a bottle of Diet Coke. Maybe a lollipop. I would’ve subverted the teacher’s expectations. Zigged when others zagged. Attempted to be intentionally annoying.As I told Clara about my cranberry sauce/Diet Coke/lollipop idea, she asked, “Why are you like this?”Why would I choose to subvert expectations? Why do I take so much pleasure in challenging the status quo? Why am I constantly finding ways to dissemble, disobey, and disagree whenever possible?Why did my mother spend my entire childhood calling me “The Instigator?”I thought that perhaps it’s simply attention seeking behavior. A childhood spent not getting the attention I desired resulted in someone who is always looking to do things a little differently.I asked Elysha what she thought. She often seems to know me better than anyone.Her response was immediate:“Yes,” she said. “That desire for attention is real, and yes, it’s probably the result of childhood going unnoticed by adults. That’s true.”I was pleased to hear I was correct.“But,” she added. “You’re also always looking for a fight. You try to find ways to argue about anything.”She explained that I enjoy creating discomfort and disagreement. I look for opportunities where I can force someone to confront a situation that exceeds expected boundaries. These situations are always good for me, she explained, because it provokes conflict, big or small, and opens up a space where I can excel.Essentially, I’m good at fighting, so I try to do it as often as possible.Elysha believes that I would’ve used canned cranberry sauce for my recipe because doing so would’ve afforded me the opportunity to debate its merits with my teacher. It would’ve allowed me to debate and argue and rhetorically spar with an opponent.All things I admittedly enjoy.I think she might be right. Also, this had never occurred to me.But I’m always deeply disappointed when some jackass or ignoramus has spouted off and I wasn’t present to fire back. I get upset when someone tells me about some act of stupidity or cruelty that I just missed. And I’m always saying, “Why didn’t someone say that to me!” when someone describes being insulted or verbally assaulted.I’m also constantly coaching people on effective comebacks and strategies for verbal sparring. I teach my own children to listen carefully when someone is attacking you, because the words they are saying are so often easily turned against your opponent. I advise children (and sometimes adults) on effective ways of silencing a bully. I even wrote a list of strategies to use against Donald Trump’s debate tactics during the 2016 Presidential debates and send it to the Clinton campaign.I think Elysha’s right. I’m often cutting against the grain in hopes of provoking conflict.I like to fight.There are, of course, other times when I fail to conform to expectations without looking for a fight.I wrote a book comprised entirely of lists, but certainly not to engage in argument or debate with my editor or readers.I teach Shakespeare to my fifth graders, but not because I want to debate the merits with my students or their parents.I attended an all-woman’s college in order to earn degrees in English and elementary educations simultaneously.I’ve never tasted coffee, but only because avoiding it has made my life so much simpler.But I also became a fan of the New York Yankees while growing up near Boston simply to spite my stepfather.I taught myself to read upside down in middle school simply to irritate teachers.I joined a lawsuit against Donald Trump in order to force him to unblock me on Twitter just so I could tell him exactly how I felt about his bigoted. asinine self.Those feel very much like deliberate opportunities to argue and debate with others.So yes, I would’ve chosen canned cranberry sauce for Clara’s assignment because doing so might garner me some attention. I’d also find the opportunity to present the idea to my teacher and classmates highly amusing.But I also think I’d also relish the opportunity to defend me choice while simultaneously pointing out the flaws and loopholes in the teacher’s lesson design and assignment rubric. I’d be hoping for a debate. A clashing of wills. An opportunity to battle it out with someone in authority.As a storyteller, I am deeply curious about myself. “Why do I do the things that I do?” is a question I ask myself constantly, and it often results in a newfound understanding of self and an excellent story.For someone deeply curious about himself, there is nothing better than being married to someone who seems to know you far better than you sometimes know yourself.

COVID-19 recommended protocol

Just for the record, I agree with Ed Yong of The Atlantic in his piece:

It’s a Terrible Idea to Deny Medical Care to Unvaccinated People

Refusing medical treatment to unvaccinated Americans suffering from COVID-19 would be inhumane.

Inhumane even though the vast majority of Americans currently hospitalized for COVID-19 are unvaccinated.

Inhumane even though unvaccinated COVID-19 patients are putting our healthcare workers at unnecessary risk.

Inhumane even though unvaccinated COVID-19 patients are causing many hospitals to suspend elective surgery once again.

Inhumane even though unvaccinated COVID-19 patients are creating enormous and unnecessary stress and strain on our doctors and nurses.

Regardless of their ignorance and selfishness, unvaccinated COVID-19 patients deserve medical treatment, as does anyone in need of medical care.

But I’m also not opposed to requiring unvaccinated COVID-19 patients to wear an “I’m an ignorant, selfish jerk face” tee-shirt for the duration of their hospitalization.

I’ve been told that shame does not change behavior, but it makes the rest of us feel a little better.