You Won't Like Me When I'm Angry...

Just the other day (which is usually a way of saying "it was recently, I don't remember when the hell it was"), my son (Eric) was climbing his chest of drawers.  We've told him numerous times not to do this.  The chest of drawers is not very heavy; we only keep baby clothes in it.  When he climbs it, it easily tips.  Such was the case on this "other day."  (Whenever the hell it was.)

Joy and I were in the other room.  I don't remember what we were doing any more than I remember "when the hell it was."  All I remember is hearing numerous crashes, followed by Eric's shrill screams.  "What the hell?" I said as I stood up to walk back into his room.  Joy quickly jumped to her feet and ran in ahead of me.  Finally, after many many attempts to keep him from climbing his chest of drawers, and after many months of worrying about what would happen if he disobeyed us, it had happened.  Eric had pulled the chest of drawers down onto himself.  Clothes were everywhere.  Eric was buried under a pile of white wooden drawers.

Joy rushed to Eric and removed him from the "rubble."  She quickly checked him out.  No cuts.  No scratches.  No blood.  Not even any bruises.  Eric hadn't really hurt himself (thankfully).  He was just scared.  So Joy comforted him.  She held him in her arms, placing his head on her soft, warm breasts.  (Ahhh... I love those breasts.)

Meanwhile, I stood over both of them, nostrils flaring, teeth grinding, fists clenched.  I felt the rage of God (or perhaps the demons) rush through me.  I wanted nothing more than to take my hand and slap it across Eric's face, screaming, "You see?  That's what you get for doing stupid shit!"  Oh, I wanted to hit him.  I wanted to hit him hard.  And I wanted it to hard.  Bad.  I wanted it to hurt so badly that he never (ever) even thought of climbing that chest again.  I wanted to leave a scar so deep that he would feel my strike every time he so much as stepped within three feet of that chest of drawers.  Sure, it would probably result in him feeling my strike every time he stepped within three feet of me.  But it would be a small price to pay to keep him from scaring me like that again.

I didn't hit him.  As much as I wanted to hit him (and perhaps Joy as well, just for being there), I didn't.  I just stood there, nostrils flaring, teeth grinding, fists clenched.  Even as Joy took Eric out of the room and I cleaned up the mess, I wanted to make Eric hurt for what he did to me.  What he did to me.  That's when I realized that when I get scared, I get angry.  And when I get angry, I want to hit something.  No, I want to destroy something.  Most of the time, I want to destroy Joy.  (Fitting, really.  When I'm angry, I want to destroy Joy.  Anger hates other people being joyful.)  On this occasion, I wanted to destroy Eric.  And the thing is, Joy knew that.  As soon as she heard the crash, she knew that's how I'd be.  That's why she rushed to get into the room before me.  Sure, she felt the urgency of making sure Eric wasn't seriously hurt.  But she also knew that if I reached him first, I could (and would) likely destroy Eric.  She knew she had to get to him first to prevent me from doing something I would later regret (and I would have).

I talked to Joy about this later.  She told me that that reaction wasn't necessarily unnatural.  When something potentially dangerous happens to our children, we first react in fear.  We worry that something terrible has happened to our children.  And when we learn that they are okay, we hug and kiss them and thank God that no real harm was done.  Then we turn on a dime.  We suddenly become filled with intense anger.  Anger at our children for bringing that fear to us.  That fear led us to anger.  That anger leads us to do whatever we can think of to make sure they never (ever) even think of doing whatever they did again.  For some of us, it's a simple squeeze of the arm.  For others, it's yelling at our children.  For others, it's a swift spanking.  For me, it could have been a swift, firm, open hard across the face.  That's what I wanted on that "other day."  (Whenever the hell it was.)  I wanted to destroy Eric.  At least I wanted to destroy any chance of ever climbing that chest of drawers again.

When I get scared, I get angry.  When I get angry, I seek to seriously hurt... something.  Or someone.  I seek to destroy.  Like the Incredible Hulk, my arms bulge out, ripping through the sleeves of my shirt.  My skin turns a sick green.  I grow ten feet.  My weight quadruples.  Everything that is me leaves temporarily, trapped inside this mutation that has resulted from a chemical reaction in my brain brought on by intense fear.

Moral:  Don't ever scare me.  If you scare me, I will destroy you.

It's okay, son.  It's only God trying to kill you.

The Most Important Rule...

Jennifer Aniston must ALWAYS be #5.

So what if Matthew Fox did have sex with that 22-year-old stripper?  Can you really blame him?

(25-year-old.  My bad.)

Kalina: The Story of a Little Indian Girl

When I was three years old, my parents moved to a house on the outskirts of a small town of Lebanon, Tennessee.  This was back before Don Fox became mayor and brought lots and lots of booming business to the town.  Sure, we had the usual suspects: Wal-Mart, McDonald's, Wendy's, Burger King.  But it wasn't the slowly declining, would-have-been-awesome-had-Mt. Juliet-not-beat-us-to-the-punch town that it would be some twenty years later.  The fact is Don Fox did a lot of good for Lebanon.  But somewhere along the way, businesses stopped coming, and the former reject town of Mt. Juliet suddenly picked up the torch and started running.

This process hadn't begun in 1984, when my parents moved into a practical, one-story house about 10 miles outside Lebanon.  The house was a dingy brick home with a nasty car port on one end (a car port that would later be turned into an outstanding living room).  The house sat on one of many hills that covered the 45 acres of land that accompanied it.  It seems my parents had aspirations of running a farm.  In my time in that house, I vaguely remember cows.  I remember the large barn where the cows where kept and fed (and I remember occasionally feeding them).  More vividly, I remember walking to into the barn one day to find a cow hanging from the rafters by its feet, its stomach cut open, its insides everywhere but inside.  I remember having never seen a slaughtered cow before, but not thinking much of it.  It didn't gross me out.  It simply... was.  Shortly thereafter, I remember there being no more cows.  Just an empty barn.

Shortly thereafter, the cows were replaced by rabbits.  Dozens of them.  I remember being told that we were going to eat the rabbits.  "Eat rabbits?" I thought.  "That's disgusting!"  But it wasn't disgusting to my parents.  I remember growing to love the rabbits.  I believe I even gave them names, although I don't remember any of them now.  I remember how their poop looked much different than ours.  I remember how they didn't eat the same things I ate (which likely contributed to the difference in poop).  I remember being confused when, after being nursed back to health and returned, a baby rabbit was brutally attacked and killed by its mother.  ("It's because she doesn't recognize him.  She thinks he's an outsider," Mom would try to explain to me later.)  And when the time came, I remember my grandfather ("Pepa" pronounced "PEE-paw") walking out to the barn with a big stick in his hand.  I knew he was going to "beat the rabbits over the head" in order to kill them.  I didn't watch, nor did I eat.  They were my friends, remember.  I had given them all names.

I remember finding two little kittens running around the property.  I remember wanting them as pets.  I remember Dad trying to tell me that they wouldn't make good pets.  But they were kittens.  Kittens always made good pets.  So, against his better judgment, Dad caught the kittens and brought them in as pets.  They seemed to make great pets at first.  The problem (and the thing I didn't understand at the time) was that they were wild.  They didn't know how to live in a one-story house with air conditioning and processed cat food.  They knew how to eat birds and snakes and whatever else they found.  After days of not having raw meat for food, they started to do what came naturally: they ate the meat that was there.  They started to eat each other.  I remember watching as patches of hair would disappear from their coats.  I could see the raw, red spots where hair used to be.  Before long, one cat was dead, and the other was close behind.  While I still didn't understand why they wouldn't eat the food that we provided for them, I agreed to let Dad take the remaining kitten back out into the wild.  I never saw it again.

I remember that animals weren't the only things to come and go at the farm.  I remember walking into our living room one day to find Mom sitting in a chair, crying.  Dad stood behind her, trying his best to console her.  I remember asking what was wrong.  The only response I remember getting was, "The baby's dead."  I don't remember Mom being pregnant.  But I vividly remember Mom losing the baby.  Likewise, I remember the image that popped into my head as they told me (as best as they could back then) what had happened.  I remember envisioning a little baby lying at the entrance of what looks like a cave.  I remember the baby rolling back into the darkness of the cave, never to be seen again.

As I got older, I learned that this had happened multiple times, both before and after I was born.  (In fact, my parents almost named me Samuel, for I was like the Samuel from the Bible.  A special gift to a mother who had previously been unable to bear children.)  After many miscarriages, my parents decided to adopt.  They started off looking for children in the United States.  But it wasn't long before they found Holt International (http://www.holtinternational.org).  They became highly interested in adopting a child (specifically, a baby girl) from Korea.  When I was eight years old, after years of waiting and preparing, my parents finally had the little girl they'd always wanted.  After the arrival of my sister, Katherine, my parents no longer tried to raise animals on the farm.  They knew farm life wasn't for them.  What they could do, however, was raise children.

When Katherine was about 3 years old, something else came and went.  Another child.  An Indian girl.

Kalina.

I don't remember how it started.  I just remember that Kalina was a "friend" of Katherine's.  Living ten miles away from town, kids didn't often come over to play.  All Katherine and I had were each other... and our "friends."  Being the movie person that I am (and was), my "friends" were all celebrities that I saw on TV (for some reason, Farrah Fawcett was one of them).  Katherine's "friend" was Kalina.

I take it back.  I do remember how it started.

One day, my Mom walked into the dining room to find Katherine staring up at the wall.  Mom looked up to see what she was looking at.  Nothing stood out.  All that was there was the newly-painted molding that outlined our newly-installed French doors.  It wasn't long before Mom realized Katherine was laughing.  But it wasn't a constant laugh.  It was sporadic.  She would laugh, it would gradually subside, and she'd eventually stop.  A few second later, she would burst into laughter again, as if being suddenly tickled.  But no one else was in the room.  No one except Mom, who wasn't close enough to touch her.

"What are you laughing at, honey?" Mom asked.

"The little girl is making funny faces," Katherine replied.

"What little girl?  Can you show me where?" Mom asked.  Katherine then walked over to the door and pointed at a vacant spot on the wall.

Shortly thereafter, the little girl had a name.  Kalina.  We don't know where the name came from.  Katherine didn't know anyone named Kalina.  We didn't know anyone named Kalina.  And we definitely didn't know any Indian families.  But we went with it.  It was probably just a word that she made up herself.  Besides, Kalina kept her occupied.  Kept her happy.  They would play in her room.  I would hear my sister talking to Kalina.  Laughing.  Playing.  All that dumb little girl stuff.  It didn't matter where the name came from.  All that mattered was my sister was happy.  No harm, no foul.

That is until one day, while my Mom slept (she was a night nurse in the newborn nursery), Katherine started screaming.  Mom's impulse was to yell at me to stop aggravating her.  It wasn't until she came to my door and realized I had been in my room the whole time that she rushed into Katherine's room to see what was wrong.  Katherine sat on her bed, tears running down her face.  When Mom asked what had happened, she said that Kalina had scratched her.  When Mom took a look at her arm, there were fresh scratches all over it.

Mom always enjoyed learning about other cultures, and by then she had already built up a vast knowledge of Native American culture and history.  We had attended numerous pow-wows, purchased multiple educational videos and "therapeutic" CDs of Indian music.  Mom had even gone through the trouble of making Indian costumes for Katherine and me.  (Making one for me could be rationalized by the fact that I was a boy scout; Katherine's was merely recreational.)  The Kalina incident paved the way for even more research, this time on the legends of Indian spirits of those who have long past gone.  Before long, she had come to the conclusion that our house was sitting on an ancient Indian burial ground.  As a boy, I thought this was the coolest thing ever.  I had recently watched Pet Sematary.  I knew what Indian burial grounds could do.  And although I knew the things that happened in that movie were pure evil, the thought of something eerie like that happening -- the thought of an actual Indian spirit dwelling in our house -- was the coolest thing ever.  The next day, I told all my friends the story, not only of my sister's little Indian "friend," but that we were living on an Indian burial ground!  My Mom, of course, didn't consider it to be something to get excited about.  ("It might anger the spirits.")  She quickly told me to stop talking about it to my friends.  Then, she did more research.

I remember Mom coming home one day with a deck of what looked like Tarot cards.  I don't remember much about what the cards "told" us.  All I remember is that, for a good little church of Christ boy growing up in a good little church of Christ family in small-town Tennessee, this was extremely odd.  Good little church of Christ boys don't play with tarot cards.  They're of the Devil!  It wasn't long before Mom "snapped out of it" and gave the cards back.  She agreed; tarot cards were of the Devil.  But that didn't change the fact that Kalina was still in the house... and she was still hurting Katherine.

After more research, Mom learned that the woman who ran the storage facility where we kept some of our unneeded stuff had gone through a similar situation as a little girl.  In order for her to get rid of the spirit, she had to perform a sort of cleansing ritual.  A bonfire of sorts.  A ritual that gave the spirit permission to move on.  ("Run to the light, Carol Anne!  Run to the light!")  This woman gave my Mom everything she needed to perform the ceremony.

The odd thing is, I don't think we ever needed to perform the ceremony.  Within the next few weeks, Kalina disappeared.  Katherine never mentioned her again, and before long she couldn't even remember who she was.  And that was that (kind of a crappy ending to what was otherwise a pretty cool incident).

Most would read or hear that story (and most who did) would say Kalina was nothing more than a simple imaginary friend.  And there's a part of me that believes the same thing.  But there's also a part of me that wonders whether or not Kalina was real, and if so, who she was.  Mom believed our property lay right smack dab in the middle of the Trail of Tears.  In that case, it's possible there's more to Kalina than mere childhood fantasy.  And I'll admit, part of me (that little boy inside) still thinks it would be cool to know she was real.

Lots of things -- animals, unborn children, imaginary friends -- came and went while we lived in that little house outside Lebanon, Tennessee.  But the one I will always remember most is that little Indian girl.  Kalina.

"As you read, remember... there is always another side..."

Understanding the battle...

The purpose of this blog is to hopefully provide an example of how one person can (and will) constantly move from one extreme to another. The problem is we choose a side to show and a side to hide. I say this is a problem because the more we feel we have to hide, the more frustrated we become with life and the people around us.

The simple (and yet, complex) fact is stated in the foreword. Everyone has both sides. These sides conflict. And it's understandable to want to choose one side to focus on so that you don't feel like a complete nut job. The problem comes when we push the "other" side down so far that we lie to ourselves, saying the other side doesn't exist. It does. There are no exceptions. Everyone has this sense of contradiction. Everyone is a hypocrite.

Don't believe me?

Take this whole "Coexist" movement that's sweeping the nation. While I understand and agree with the heart behind the movement (which is to be respectful of other beliefs and cultures), the only way it will succeed is if its "followers" realize that sometimes coexisting means realizing there are some people you just CAN NOT get along with. There are some people that you WILL NOT agree with. Why? Because not everyone is exactly the same. (Likewise, not everyone is equal. But that's another post.)

Simply put, sometimes "coexisting" requires staying away from certain people.

"Wait, did you just say that in order to get along with everyone, we have to realize that we aren't going to get along with everyone?" Yes. "But that's a contradiction." Exactly.

The problem is in order to realize this, one would have to come to grips with the fact that that realization is a contradiction.  Unfortunately, in our culture, contradiction constitutes a loss in credibility.  Consequently, we blind ourselves from one simple truth: NO ONE is 100% consistent.  NO ONE.

Every "coexist" advocate has someone with whom he/she CAN NOT coexist.

Every accepting person has someone or something he/she DOES NOT accept.

Every tolerant person has someone he/she DO NOT tolerate.

Every forgiving person has someone he/she CAN NOT forgive.

Every "open-minded" person has something about which he/she is closed-minded.

Every pro-life lobbyist has someone he/she would love to see dead.

Every murderer understands the pain when a loved one dies.

Every follower of Christ worships the Devil.

Every follower of the Devil brings glory to God.

Every faithful person is unfaithful.

Every saint is a sinner.

Everyone who loves hates.

Everyone who hates loves.

Every good person is evil.

The door will ALWAYS swing both ways.

This blog is the result of a man who has accepted his contradictions. A man who embraces his hypocrisy.

A man who loves and cherishes his wife, but craves (and often actively seeks) physical relationships with many other women.

A man whose heart aches for the "innocent" victims of murder, but has the angry desire to end the lives of the "guilty."

A man who has a strong desire to be a blessing in people's lives, but believes people are the worst thing to ever happen to this world.

A man who will embrace Good one moment... and Evil the next.

For that is the one thing that is common of all mankind.

"As you read, remember... there is always another side..."