Billy Coffey's Blog, page 43

Internet validation

I consider it a point of pride to say I'm not a YouTube guy. And though a lot of what I'm trying to do for a living involves a computer and the internet, I'll be honest and say I'm a fan of neither. Give me a letter rather than an email and a fountain pen instead of a keyboard. I understand letters and fountain pens a lot better.

But folks like me are in the minority these days. I know people who spend hours on Facebook and Twitter and Pinterest and whatever else is the Internet's version of the flavor of the week. I'd throw YouTube on that list, too. From what I understand, YouTube's the place to be.

Especially if you're a kid.

And just as certain internet sites become fads, certain aspects of those sites become fads as well. From what I understand, the newest and greatest is the "Am I pretty or ugly?" videos posted by adolescent girls. Like this one:

So far about four million people have watched that young lady. Four million. And of those four million, almost a hundred thousand kind souls have saw fit to voice their opinion.

Some offer advice, like this one:

At the moment I would say you are a cute girl with potential. If you want to move toward the more attractive look, then do away with the silly hats and things like that. Dress the part of who you think you want to be. Look up the mathmatical ratio for beauty and have yuor entire body measured. The closer to teh ratio you are the more beautiful you are. Don't get FAT. eventually men will be attracted to your sexuality. Develope this and you will move from sort of cute to hot.

Others are more kind:

you are not ugly trust me and im only 12 you are not ugly if people say u r ugly that means they are ugly on the inside and out you are a beautiful person and you will be even more

beautiful when you are older if people call u ugly dont be alarmed by that just trust your heart and trut what is is trying to tell you!!!!stand up to them! say you are not ugly and that just walk away thanks… and remember listen to ur heart and trust what you believe ur beautiful

Many resemble this comment:

yes you are ugly kill yourself

And then of course, being the internet, there are several who go like this:

MY GOD SHES HOT. ID WRECK THAT

I could say a lot about something like this. I could talk about how destructive the internet can be. Or how mean people are. Or how the comment section of a YouTube video is a damning indictment of the American educational system.

But I just want to talk about the girl.

That so much of a young person's opinion of him or herself is based upon outward appearance is a given. It's always been that way. And let me tell you, that sort of thing isn't confined to females alone. Guys look in the mirror, too. And more often than not, what's shining back at them isn't what we consider good.

What is amazing to me (amazing and also so, so sad) is that these people are now taking to the internet for validation. It's Look at me and Pay attention to me and Love me. We live in a Reality TV world, where one's value and worth is increasingly measured by the number of page views and comments and followers and "friends" we receive.

And for that, I pity that poor girl. I pity us all.

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Toeing the line

The picture to your right was taken in October 1938 in the city of Eger, in what is now the Czech Republic. Germany had just invaded. Stormtroopers were marching in. I want you to particularly notice the third woman from the left.

Hitler, of course, didn't do all of this alone. Germany was still in shambles a decade after the first World War. The Treaty of Versailles had forced the country to admit sole responsibility for causing the entire conflict. Traditional German territory was lost. A War Guilt clause was enacted, forcing Germany to repay millions of dollars in damages. Military restrictions were enabled. I would imagine it was a hard time to call oneself German. Hard to look at yourself in the mirror and call yourself a man or a woman.

So when a failed painter came along promising a strong government, full employment, civic order, and a reclamation of national pride, people flocked. When the Nazi propaganda poured forth, they cheered. And when Hitler eliminated all opposition and declared himself dictator, they pledged their allegiance.

Even now, almost seventy years after the fall of Nazi Germany, better minds than mine struggle to understand how an entire country could be brainwashed by such evil. I won't try to add my opinion to that discussion other than to say that I suppose the fear of Hitler held just as much sway in the minds of the German people as his fiery words. Many bought into the notion of an Aryan paradise, to be sure. But many others didn't and simply thought the prudent thing was to keep their heads down and do as they were told.

Which brings us to this picture:

It was taken in 1936 during a celebration of a ship launching in Hamburg, Germany. Hitler had been Chancellor of Germany for three years and already abolished democracy. German factories were rearming the country after a disastrous World War I. In three years, that country would invade Poland and plunge the world into the deadliest war in human history. Over fifty million people would perish.

The man circled was named August Landmesser. I don't know much about him other than the fact that he'd already been sentenced to two years of hard labor. His crime? Marrying a Jew. You would think getting into that much trouble would change your attitude and convince you to toe the line. Not so. Because there was August, standing in a sea of Germans on that day in 1936, folding his arms in front of him while everyone else Hiel Hitlered.

I don't know what became of August Landmesser. I like to think he outlived the evil that befell his land and lived to a happy old age with his wife. Maybe that's exactly what happened. Maybe not. But regardless, August was my kind of guy.

He refused to bow down to fear. He held strong against public pressure. I would imagine some of the men around him in that picture bought into the evil Hitler was peddling. I would imagine some didn't but saluted anyway. Not August.

August stood strong. Not by fighting and not by protesting, but for simply folding his arms. And for that, he has my undying admiration.

Faith has been in the news a lot lately, whether it's the faith of a Presidential candidate or an NFL quarterback or a New York Knicks point guard. And because faith is in the news, it's gotten mocked elsewhere. There is a swelling tide of resentment now that people should tone down the religion talk, that our differing notions of God are the cause of much of what's wrong with the world.

That we should all tone it down. Keep our heads down. Do as we're told.

Toe the line.

I say let them talk. Let them talk all they want. Because I for one do not want to be remembered as the unknown woman in that first picture.

I want to be remembered as August, who stood strong with arms folded.

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Looking back

A friend of mine is drowning in ancestral paperwork. Books and papers are strewn across the floor of his study. Piles of legal pads are stacked at his desk. And a giant world map hangs on one wall with brightly colored stickpins inserted not only into various countries, but specific parts of those countries.

He's been at this for years, he says. And there's no end in sight. It's tough work, hard work, but ultimately very rewarding. He's slowly gathering the pieces to the puzzle of his past, trying to answer the very riddle that we all at some time ponder:

Where do I come from?

He told me that as a child he found an old family Bible in his grandmother's house. Inside were the names of her parents and grandparents, and theirs, and theirs, stretching back almost two hundred years. The writing was faded and the pages were yellowed, but he was captivated. Like rolling down the window of a speeding car to take one look back before the next curve.

Sadly, there were just the names. No locations or dates. And as his grandmother was elderly, she could unfortunately offer little help in the way of more information.

That Bible now sits on his bookshelf. A keepsake and a reminder, one that says this is where it started.

He's Googled and Yahooed. He's written letters to both our government and foreign ones. He's corresponded with researchers and genealogists. And he's uncovered much.

So far as he can tell, he can trace his family back to medieval Italy. Rome, to be exact. His ancestors were quite wealthy. Landowners and artists and poets. And even statesmen. Powerful people. Important people.

He likes this. He's proud of his ancestors and their position in life. He may be a simple plumber, but he comes from good stock.

Me, I'm a little fuzzy on the history of the Coffey name. My particular branch came to this country in the mid-1600s, mingled with some Cherokee blood, and settled in the Shenandoah Valley. Before that they were mostly Irish and Dutch. Fishermen, from what I can tell, and farmers.

I could dig deeper of course, and someday maybe will. But the truth is that I'm not concerned about the more affluent members of my family tree. I don't care about landowners and statesmen.

I want to know what cannot be known. I want to know about those fishermen and farmers. The Nobodies.

The ones who carried on my family's name despite the poverty and the gruel and the taxes paid to oppressive kings. The ones who had to endure sickness rather than be treated for it. The common ones who lived a common existence and dared sail a perilous expanse of water to start over and live better.

I think of them often. And I often wonder if they thought of me.

Did they pause with their hand on the plow or the net to ponder if their name would still be uttered in this world a hundred generations later? Or did their gaze only go so far as the next row of crops or the next wave over the bow?

Was I as fuzzy and mysterious to them as they are to me?

I spend a lot of time convincing myself that only now matters. Only here. This. But as I continue on through my life, I'm finding that a little difficult to accept. Now isn't the be all and end all. It is the only moment we truly possess, but not the only moment that truly matters. Because I am the result of many moments and many decisions that mattered to people with whom I share a common bond. And those who come after me, my children and their children and theirs, will be the results of my own moments and decisions.

It is, without a doubt, a heavy burden we bear. We, you and I, stand upon the cusp of history. Thousands of years of ancestors have led to us, and perhaps thousands of years more depend upon us.

Not to be powerful and important.

But merely to endure.

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Where the magic be

image courtesy of photobucket.com

The people next to us were an extended family—nine of them, arranged in descending order from grandpa to grandchild, all occupying three tables that had been placed end to end in the middle of the restaurant. Most of their attention was focused on the grandchild. It was his birthday. He looked eleven, maybe twelve. Bright eyed and brown haired. The first volleys of acne were landing upon his chin. The boy did not seem to mind. He nodded and smiled and offered a few words here and there. It was the typical pre-teen response to nearby family, one that said I love you people but I'm now too cool to show it. I took all this in (writers will invariably call this sort of thing Research, which sounds much better than plain nosiness) and nearly moved on to the next table when the waiter arrived. He inquired as to the quality of everyone's meal and if anyone would like dessert. The birthday boy's face turned the color of his encroaching acne when everyone announced the occasion. The waiter smiled and asked, "You like magic?" The boy shrugged and snorted in the same motion. "There's no such thing as magic." "I'll be right back," the waiter said. He returned with a man I assumed was a dishwasher. His jeans and apron were soiled and soggy. He smiled down at the boy and said, "Hey there, m'man. Lemme show ya somethin." He produced a deck of cards from his apron and fanned them out face up in one fluid motion. Flicked them back with one hand. He smiled and winked at the family, who had by then already begun inching their chairs forward for a better view. "You believe in magic, m'man?" Another shrug and another snort. "Cool," the dishwasher said. He fanned the cards out again, this time face down. "Pick a card, birthday boy. Don't let me see now." It took prodding from both mom and dad, but the boy did. He took one from the middle of the deck and held it close. He peeked and then let everyone else do the same. "Toss it back in here," the dishwasher said. He tilted the deck up and down and wiggled it. "Anywhere you want, Bossman." Back in the middle it went. The dishwasher slid the cards back one-handed again and held the deck beneath the birthday boy's chin. "Blow," he said. "No way." "Come on now. That's where the magic be." Neither mom nor dad could get him to budge this time. Grandma stepped in. The boy blew on the deck and the dishwasher tapped it with his forefinger. He flipped over the top card. I didn't have to see the card to know the trick had worked. The birthday boy's bewilderment did that. The slaps on the table by dad and grandpa helped. "It's a trick," the boy said. The dishwasher raised his eyebrows. "Okay, let's try again." Another fan of the cards. The boy picked one from towards the back this time. He placed it in the middle. He handed the deck to dad to shuffle, who handed it to grandpa, then back to the birthday boy, who shuffled once more for good measure. Then he handed the deck back to the dishwasher and smirked. The dishwasher held the deck beneath the boy's chin, who proceeded to not so much blow as snort. There was a tap on the deck. The top card turned over. "Ha! That's not my card." "No?" the dishwasher asked. "You sure?" "Sure." "Dang. I dunno what happened. Guess you're too good for me." I will say I was disappointed. I wanted to see the trick. And I'll say the boy who thought himself a man was pretty disappointed too, even if he was too old to show it. "You done with your plate there, Bossman?" the dishwasher asked. "Might as well take that on back." The boy nodded and picked up his plate. His mouth fell open. His card was taped to the bottom. The family applauded. The dishwasher bowed. I have no idea who that boy was, but I guarantee I will always remember his birthday. I guarantee this too—whatever presents he was given, the best one came from the dishwasher. It was a reminder that no matter how old you think you are, there's still a little kid hiding inside. And no matter what we think, there is magic in this world. There is magic everywhere.

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Fame, fortune and being remembered

According to the overly excited man I just heard on the radio, in a few weeks a talent agency will be holding auditions near our town for children aged five to fifteen. Dozens of fancy-dressed and smooth talking representatives from networks such as Nickelodeon and the Disney channel will be there. Talent scouts from movie studios. Modeling agencies. You name it! the voice said.

And then it said, "Imagine how it would be to have your child appear in movies like Breaking Dawn and television shows like Hanna Montana!"

Seeing as how I'm driving along an empty road lined by fat cows and empty corn fields, I figure I might as well go ahead and do what the voice said. It doesn't take me long to imagine such a life for my kids. I get as far as my daughter being a twenty-year-old reality star who divorced after a few weeks of marriage just to improve ratings and my son appearing on some celebrity detox show. Then I pray. I pray for a very long time.

Of course I imagine not too many other people who heard that commercial paused to consider such things. Or maybe the did. But human nature being what it is, I doubt it. If they paused at all, it was likely so they could ponder being on movie sets in exotic locations, houses in Beverley Hills, magazine covers, and the sheer joy that would come with every opportunity to puff their chests and say, "Yeah, that's my kid."

That's why there will be hundreds of people at that audition. Maybe thousands. All in search of that elusive dream that for a very long time has trapped unwitting souls like flies in honey.

I'll admit I was not always immune. I was the seven-year-old kid standing in front of the bathroom mirror with Dad's comb in my hand, singing the second verse of Credence Clearwater Revival's "Bad Moon Rising" (because that's how I rolled). I not only pretended to be Luke Skywalker, I pretended to be Mark Hamill playing Luke Skywalker.

I was a world-famous explorer who found Atlantis and the first person to walk on Mars. I was responsible for ending the Communist threat. I hit the game-winning home run in twelve straight World Series.

Imagination, sure. But even at that age, I knew there was something else going on. Something deeper.

I wanted to stand out. To be remembered.

I think we all do.

But I think wanting to be remembered isn't enough. It's what we want to be remembered FOR.

And I think that more than anything is why my kids will be kept far away from the Hollywood wolves about to descend upon my mountains. Not because of the enormous odds that they won't succeed, but because of the infinitesimal chance that they will. I don't dislike celebrities because they've been given good lives, I dislike them because they've been given good lives and tend to live them so horribly.

I want more for my children than magazine covers and fancy houses. I want them to know that we are not defined by what we have, but by what we become from what we have.

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Love is a misshaped tree

image courtesy of photobucket.com

It was Harry Sparks who first told me the love between a father and mother was like a misshaped tree, and therefore different and better than all other love. Boyfriend and girlfriend? Husband and wife? They didn't know what love was, Harry said. Not really, anyway. Because their trees were tall and straight and perfect.

To read the rest of the story, head on over to Christianity Today's Men of Integrity.

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Small talk, big talk

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My wife and I are standing outside a set of classrooms in the Engineering department of the University of Virginia. By my count, seven other sets of mothers and fathers wait with us. Outside, a cold rain patters against the windows. In those secret thoughts that every parent has but will never confess, I confess that I'd much rather be in bed on such a Saturday morning. From the looks on the other faces, they're thinking much the same.

For the past four Saturdays, our kids have enjoyed a bit of extra education known as the Saturday Enrichment Program. Fun stuff (so the kids say). My daughter is taking a creative writing class, my son architecture. And in another secret thought, I pause to consider that this is all so my daughter can write better diary entries that no one will ever see and my son will have more ideas for his Legos.

Other classes are offered as well. Indeed, much of the sprawling campus is a flurry of activity. In our building alone, there are art classes, one for crime scene investigation, and something that has to do with the human brain. The kids go play. The parents…well, the parents are basically stuck with two hours to kill.

The twenty minutes or so before the classes let out are when things get interesting. That's when all the parents converge on the classrooms and wait. As is usually the case when surrounded by strangers, we are each in our own tiny worlds. There may be nods and smiles, even the occasional hello. Not much more, though. Not at first. Strangely enough, at first we all seem to act like teenagers and constantly check our phones for texts and emails.

But the minutes tick on. The phones go heavy. We begin to notice one another. Nods and smiles and hellos become small talk. Small talk leads to big talk.

I like big talk.

There are the normal things—where do you work and where do you live, how many kids to you have, has it been as hard to get them here for you as it has for us. We're adults, so we know to keep our conversation in safe areas (sports for the dads, groceries for the moms, raising kids for both) and not to stray into not-so-safe areas (politics and religion). It hasn't been as easy as it sounds. We're strangers, after all, and there's a feeling-out period involved. Not to mention that of the eight couples around us, two are white, three are black, two are Asian, and one couple seems to be an amalgam of them all.

I don't mind saying it's kind of uncomfortable, only because that was the unspoken consensus. It is a sad fact that you have to be so careful around people nowadays. One misspoken word, one misunderstood act, and all of a sudden things take a turn for the worse. But as we all stand there waiting and talking, those fences that we all put around ourselves begin to lower. We stop talking and start sharing.

Things like how much more difficult it is to raise kids nowadays. And how the worries and fears have grown so much more over the past few years. How tough it is to be good parents. How kids need not just a good education, but a hunger and a curiosity to learn. We laugh and sigh, we nod and shake our heads, and by the time the classroom doors finally open, I think we all understood one very important thing:

We're parents. Doesn't matter what color we are or whether we vote Democrat or Republican. Doesn't matter whether we worship Jesus or Allah or no one. We were all given the responsibility to raise good children in a bad world and keep our families together in times that seem to be falling apart.

There are waves and see-you-next-weeks as we gather our children and go our separate ways. My wife and I hear all about rhyme schemes and Doric columns. My kids have learned a lot today. That's good.

And when we get into the truck and head back over the mountains, I'll tell my kids that I've learned a lot today, too.

I'll tell them that in the end, people really aren't that different from one another. And I'll say that what we believe may always divide us, but the challenges we face will always bring us together.

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The Age of Man

image courtesy of photobucket.com

Though there are large gaps in my memory from my school years, I do remember that Mrs. Cole said we would all be happy by now. I remember her saying that and I remember it had been enough for my attention to drift away from the middle of a daydream. It's seldom that reality is magical enough to trump fantasy, but that did.

Mrs. Cole called it The Age of Man (the name itself would sound magical enough to any seventh-grader), and she said it was nearing. Science and technology had planted seeds, she said. Had planted them for hundreds of years. And those seeds were growing even then, sprouting upwards and strong. And she said we would be the ones to harvest.

We. You and I.

This being the mid-eighties, Mrs. Cole qualified that statement by saying it would all be for naught if the Russkies started lobbing ballistic missiles at us from Moscow. She didn't think that would happen, which I'm sure prevented more than a couple nightmares that night from the other kids in her class. We'd all pull through, she said. And more, we would all be blessed with a life that was far more glorious and far less painful. Medical advances would ensure that disease was eradicated. Life expectancy would rise past the century mark. Science would solve problems like famine and global warming. Reason would replace ignorance, ushering in a new golden age of peace.

The hungry would be fed.

The naked would be clothed.

We would long for nothing.

And on. And on.

That all sounded pretty good to me. Even now I remember that as one of the best days of school I ever had. I couldn't wait for The Age of Man.

I suppose we're still waiting. Almost thirty years later, not much has really changed. Science and technology have done a lot, no doubt about that, though it seems there's always a catch. The Russkies have been replaced. The hungry are still hungry. The naked are still cold.

But maybe more than any of that, we still long.

I suppose Mrs. Cole has gone to her reward by now. I'm not sure if she puttered along long enough to see that she'd been wrong. A part of me wishes not. I think we should all pass on with hope still in our hearts, whatever hope that may be.

Had I been wise back then—had I known what I know now—I like to think I'd have raised my hand and gotten the chance to speak that day. I would have told Mrs. Cole that science and technology can do a great many things, but the faith we would come to place in them would be a faltering one. I'd tell her that deep down, we're all drawn to a brighter sort of magic. We will always be more charmed by what could be than what is. Because we are made to long and wonder and ponder the Mystery, and the Mystery is something that no science and no technology can ever really answer.

That's what I would tell her.

And then I'd say what Mrs. Cole has no doubt discovered for herself—that the whole of earth is still the very least of heaven.

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Praying to the wall

He looks up at me from under blankets that cover all but his head, round eyes like tiny moons in the night. He yawns, but those eyes ask me to stay. There's something I need to tell you, Dad, those eyes say.

"What's on your mind?" I ask, and for a moment the only sounds in the bedroom are the three Legos that topple from an overfull plastic tub by the door and the wind against the window. He wants to say, he doesn't want to say, and so he looks at the ceiling and whistles. I ask him again.

"You know how we do devotion before bed? And then we pray?"

"Sure."

"I don't think I like the way you been prayin, Dad."

Of all the things I think he can say—and there are plenty—I would have never thought that one.

"Why do you say that?"

The blankets around his head inch upward as his tiny shoulders shrug.

"Well," I say, "if you think a thing, you have to have a reason for it…right?"

(Shrug.)

"You don't pray like you used to," he tells me. "You used to do it like you were talkin and you knew God was listenin. Now you do it like…I don't know. Like you're talkin to the wall, I guess, and you know the wall ain't gonna answer."

You don't like those sudden revelations that your children aren't really children at all, but growing men and women who see and hear and understand more than you think. And since this is something I really don't want to discuss with a seven-year-old—or anyone, for that matter—I change the subject.

"How was your math test today?"

"Hard," he whispers. "Lots of kids didn't do so good, I think. They kept raising their hands, but the teacher wouldn't answer them, she just watched. I think I did okay, though. What's wrong with your prayin, Dad? Is it stuck?"

"I think so. Sometimes when you get older hard things happen. And even though you still talk to God, you get the sense that He's not much interested in saying something back. That's not true, of course, but you might feel like it is. It's like you're wrestling with something on your insides."

The thought occurs that maybe I've said too much, but I haven't. His little head bobs up and down on the pillow as if saying I hear ya, Dad, been there many a time myself. And I suppose maybe he has. You don't have to be a grownup to wander from God and then ask Him why He moved.

"So maybe you're takin a test, too," he says.

"I think maybe you're right."

And he looks at me with those moon eyes that see and understand. His hands move from under the blankets to mine.

He says, "The Teacher's always quiet durin a test, I guess. But He's always watchin."

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What a man looks like

image courtesy of snopes.com

The picture you see to your right is of a man named John Gebhardt, a Chief Master Sergeant who was assigned to the 332nd Expeditionary Medical Group at Balad Air Base in Iraq. The child he's holding is a girl whose entire family was executed by insurgents. She survived despite the gunshot wound to her head.

The picture was taken in October 2006. Chances are you've seen it and know the story of how that little girl wouldn't stop crying and moaning unless Chief Gebhardt held her. So that's what he did every night in that chair, he recovering from another day of war, she recovering from a horror she likely always be shackled to.

I could go a lot of places with this story. I could talk about the fact that Chief Gebhardt is back home in Kansas now and that the little girl (whose name he never knew) was eventually released to a surviving family member. I could talk about the cruelty of war and the darkness of the world. I won't. I'm sure you know all about such things.

The website where I rediscovered this picture offered only the picture and the bare bones of the circumstances surrounding it, followed beneath by hundreds of comments. I will say I tend to skip over comments when it comes to news stories. They tend to quickly devolve into politics and meanness, both of which are things I see enough of every day. I don't have the heart to go in search of more. But my eyes drifted nonetheless, and though what I found didn't surprise me, it did offer me a chance to ponder.

The vast majority of the comments were from women, many of whom professed a deep admiration for the Chief's actions and offered thoughts or prayers (or both) for the girl. What political commentary was offered leaned toward the fact that while we may disagree with the wars our country has fought, we should all agree on the fact that our soldiers deserve our praise.

But what caught my eye was that despite all of these hundreds of voices and the different lives they each must live, nearly all of them shared a common sentiment:

This is what a man looks like.

It seemed almost sad that so many were led to offer such a reminder. It was even sadder to know that such a reminder was needed. Blame the culture, blame Homer Simpson, blame the government, blame whatever—the truth is that somewhere along the way males forgot how to be men. And though our national ills can be traced back to a great many things, I have no problem saying that the fall of men has something to do with it.

We live in a country of fathers who are not dads and spouses who are not husbands, where honor has been replaced by X-Boxes it's not only acceptable to act like a boy, it's cool.

That's why we need people like Chief Master Sergeant Gebhardt. To show us that a real man has the capacity to fight and to love. He will risk his life to defend the oppressed, and he will comfort the brokenhearted. That he will believe in the goodness that lies within us all but know that darkness lies there as well.

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