Choosing My Path

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had a problem with authority.  It’s not that I mind rules, which I think are important, with one caveat…I have to buy in to the rule.  I have to believe in it.  A double yellow line might as well be a brick wall dividing lanes in the road.  I’ll never cross them.  But I’ll smuggle food and beverages of all types into a theater.  See, I respect the traffic rule.  I believe in it.  But I think $9 for popcorn that costs me $.50 to pop and smuggle is insulting.  I respect dress codes until they are enforced by authoritative d-bags, then I’ll push the envelope as hard as I can.  I just freaking hate being told what to do.

I grew up in the Latter Day Saint faith.  I don’t consider myself Mormon anymore.  I’ve debated whether or not to share my faith journey on some public level.  I’ve never really been one to publicly riff on my personal beliefs in any detail..  I don’t generally like social media debates.  They tend to be self-serving and rarely to the point.  But for some reason I feel that giving my faith journey life through writing will somehow complete it.  Or at least be an integral part in my continuing life saga.  And I partly want to repay those whose own stories have strengthened me personally.

I don’t remember being able to comfortably testify of the truthfulness of any religious principle.  I’m confident God, or something god-like, exists.  It’s the only thing that currently makes sense in my mind.  But beyond that I just don’t know.  And I really don’t care.  This doesn’t mean I haven’t testified of the truthfulness of LDS doctrine.  I certainly have.  But it always felt like it was a duty and not a self-guided action.  I chose to serve a mission.  I had life experiences that led me there.  I’m forever grateful for the mission experience.  But even there, surrounded by strangers, I never fully knew that what I was testifying of was actually true.  I’m embarrassed by this.  I’m embarrassed that I didn’t have the guts to accept my own self-awareness as reality.  And I’m embarrassed that I misled people by promising them fact when I didn’t really know.  But I was young.  My brain hadn’t fully formed yet.  And I was doing the best I could.  I was doing what everyone else around me was doing so passionately.  It was play ball or go home.  I chose to play.

I’ve come to understand that the most talented liars believe their own lies.  They believe they aren’t actually lying because they have forced their minds to be OK with untruth.  It’s some fundamental rationalization that I believe truly imaginative or hyper-focused humans can’t control.  It’s basic instinct.  Emotional survival. 

I started to become cognoscente of my own untruth shortly after my move to Austin.  I really liked the church here.  It felt far more real than any Utah ward environment I’d been in, with the exception of that beloved West Jordan ward.  People thought differently out here and were more accepting of fringe ideas and even faith crises.  I found through conversation that there were others like me that were starting to recognize the motions they were going through.  Robotic tradition.  I remember playing piano in primary and thinking “these kids won't think for themselves because we are implanting their thoughts and beliefs here and now.” 

I didn’t know how to confront it.  Where do I start?  This is scary territory.  The LDS faith is not easily abandoned and leaving has “eternal consequences” not just for you but for your family as well.  I wasn’t comfortable accepting terms like “fell away” when it came to my faith journey.  I wasn’t falling from anything.  I was finally moving forward.  My subconscious mind still hadn’t grown the balls to admit serious, basic doctrinal issues and church history that I secretly hated.  It went to the easy things.  Disgusting inexcusable polygamy.  Shameful barring of the blacks from the priesthood.  Aggressive action against gay marriage.  And finally the use of shame and guilt to manipulate young people into towing the moral line as interpreted by the church.  I took my four issues to the bishop in 2011.

That bishop is an amazing man.  We met frequently.  Weekly in his office.  We read from the scriptures.  We prayed.  I read and prayed on my own as well.  He assigned study topics that we later discussed.  And it was this bishop that helped me see that my core issues weren’t polygamy, priesthood racism, gay marriage, or shame.  My core issues were whether or not there was a GOD.  If Jesus was real.  If Joseph Smith was a hero or a cad.  My mind's ear heard the record scratch and we course corrected toward basic gospel principles.

We moved to the Dallas area in 2013.  What a soulless place that was.  The only bright spots of the move were our neighbors, the schools, and the bishop.  I continued conversations with this bishop almost immediately.  He’d come grab me out of whatever class we were in and we’d chill in his office.  He’d hang his suit coat up and sit in a normal chair.  No behind-the-desk positioning.  Just two dudes talking casually about existential stuff.  I kept praying.  I’d stopped reading scriptures by this point outside of family scripture time.  For 18 months we talked.  Worked through some insanely difficult personal issues and I never once felt judged or patronized by him.  What a great guy.

We moved back to Austin at the end of 2014 and immediately started working with another bishop.  Same issues, mixed in with personal and family difficulties.  I don’t envy that job.  I admire them for taking the job and doing their best.  I was called to teach the 14 and 15-year-old youth.  There were 26 of them in one class.  My “team teacher” hardly ever showed so I handled that mob on my own.  There were some great kids in there.  And there were three or four that will end up in prison because they suck as humans.  I don't care if that's unfair because they're young.  They're horrible people already.  As time passed I found myself less and less comfortable teaching gospel principles.  The pre-existence, resurrection(s), millennium, judgment, and kingdom placement just sounded so foreign and preposterous to me.  I’d been rationalizing teaching the youth from a “curriculum” that wasn’t my own.  I didn’t have to actually testify of anything, right?  I just had to deliver a curriculum to the class.  Should be easy.  Yet after several months I could no longer teach that class in good conscience so I asked to be released.  Concurrently I had experience with people that met the criteria for exaltation, i.e. ordinances, but proved to be wholly disgusting, vile, black-hearted people.  And I finally vocalized my #1 hang-up with Mormonism...the concept of a "checklist God."  I know too many incredible, giving, loving, beautiful people that hold different, myriad beliefs.  I can't imagine an eternity where they are barred from entry to God's presence because they failed to be baptized by the right guy, marry in the right building, and belong to the right church.  Yet people that have filthy, repulsive souls that manage to check those boxes while hiding behind facades of service and commitment get in.  Nope.  Not in my world.  If that's heaven then give me HELL.

I had a couple very close friends that were transitioning or had transitioned out of the church that were recommending resources for people like me.  This was the first time I’d heard of any “essays” or a “CES Letter” or “Mormon Stories.”  But at my core I was still resistant to any kind of authority steering me in any direction that I wasn’t choosing for myself.  My whole life I was told to only read certain things or accept certain ideas.  I wasn’t going to let any other agenda dictate the future of my mind and soul.  So I stuck to the things that I knew.  I tested the claims of the LDS church.  I put Moroni’s Promise to the test (which I’d shared countless times in the mission field) and you know what I got?  Nothing.  SILENCE.  It wasn’t because I didn’t study hard enough.  Or pray long enough.  It was because there was nothing on the other side confirming anything to me.  Period.  And at this point I decided to “leave” the church.

My wife and I talked about it for dozens of hours.  We discussed it with our therapist.  And finally came to a joint conclusion that leaving was the only authentic choice to make.  We gathered the kids and told them about my journey and my decision.  They each reacted differently.  There were tears from some and instant acceptance from others.  But at the end of the conversation, they all threw their arms around me and told me how much they loved me and that I was the BEST DAD EVER.

Navigating the transition has been hard at times and weird always.  All of a sudden there were rules that I’d subscribed to and, on some level, “bought in on” my entire life.  And magically they were no longer there.  I could drink bourbon and beer.  I could wear black undies.  I could shop on Sunday.  And it was all initially weird.  But Sherri was a rockstar and the kids were outstanding.  We navigated it all the best we could and we continue to do so.

I am proud of the way I transitioned.  I used my own brain and my own soul to put church practices to the test and came away confident in my decision.  With the exception of a handful of months, I was fully worthy to go to the temple.  I’m not proud of the time when I wasn’t, but I am proud that I ended in good standing.  My daughter turned eight during the middle of this journey.  I didn’t know how my journey was going to end with the church so, after discussing at length with the bishop and people I trust and admire, I decided to baptize her myself.  A temple recommend was needed to confirm her.  I was temple worthy but didn’t hold a recommend…and didn’t want one.  I wasn’t comfortable interviewing to enter the temple so spiritually conflicted, so I arranged to have her uncle fly in and confirm her.  And I’m proud of that.  I am happy that I didn’t let emotionally difficult scenarios influence my authenticity.  Instead I talked to my daughter as frankly and honestly as possible and she was totally fine.  She was ecstatic to have Uncle Derall come out and confirm her.

People I have loved for years have left the church.  One of my favorite mission companions on the planet was excommunicated for refusing to stop posting his views on same sex policy to social media that conflicted with official church stances.  His was the first Mormon Stories episode I watched.  I slowly started to inform myself with the church essays, CES Letter, and personal accounts of others that have transitioned.  I’m happy I waited.  My spark would have ignited into a brushfire if I’d gone there early on and I wouldn’t have so thoroughly tried.  Now they are simply supporting materials that validate some of my fundamental struggles.  What the church labeled as “anti-Mormon” literature is largely just information and opinion that differs from core teachings and doctrine.  There’s certainly some inflammatory and ugly stuff out there, which I categorically avoid.  But there’s also some incredibly intelligent, well-researched information.

I’m not angry at the church.  Some social and cultural policies drive me bat-shit crazy, but I don’t take it personally.  I’m not picketing conference or tongue-slapping church leadership.  I can genuinely look back on aspects of church membership fondly.  The community, for the most part, has been unreal.  I fully support my children being brought up in the church.  If they choose that path then I will support them and wish them happiness.  I sincerely hope they will examine their beliefs early in life instead of waiting until they are 33 years old and terrified, then choose whatever path works for them.  I still go to primary programs and church functions and have dear friends that are all in.  Two of my closest, most respected and intelligent friends are true believers.  I don’t think anything less of them for buying in and they don’t think less of me for choosing my own way.  Life is a series of decisions.  We all do the best we can with the information and instincts we have.

So what now?  I don’t know.  I don’t really care.  I’m happier for sure.  I’m in no rush to replace a lifelong religion with a new one.  I have work to do on myself.  Physical, emotional, maybe even spiritual.  I believe in The Cosmos.  It reciprocates what you put into it.  I believe in kindness and love and full acceptance of others.  And I have to believe that whatever God exists will appreciate that, smile, and welcome me home.  Or maybe blackness.  Either way I’m good.

The Slow Death of Innocence

I believe that children are born innocent. Completely innocent. I also believe that as they grow up, that innocence is slowly and methodically destroyed until they die cynical and bitter. The culprit? Knowledge. Knowledge is to innocence, what water is to rock. A seemingly-innocent, yet corrosive element that leaves nothing but destruction in its wake. They both contribute to creation, yet they both destroy ruthlessly and without prejudice.

As children grow up they are introduced to various experiences and facts about life that shake their little cores. A child will never be the same after he kills his first animal. I don’t mean snails or worms or spiders, but actual relatable animals. Like a bird or a squirrel. Some may enjoy it. Others may be horrified by it. But regardless, that kid will never…ever be the same after extinguishing that life. A little bit of innocence dies.

Similarly, kids are never the same after they learn the truth about Mr. Claus, P. Rabbit, and leprechauns. Those are beautiful, magical things that add an element of happiness and fantasy to life. The destruction of those fantasies can be brutal for some and perfectly logical and normal for others. Yet in either case, knowledge kills the magic and innocence dies.

Chief among such learning experiences is the true nature of birds and bees.

My 8-year old came to me a number of months ago after taking a bath and said, “Dad, what are my balls for?” Naturally my answer was, “they’re for warming your hands on the sideline while the defense is on the field.” His quizzical look let me know he didn’t know what a sideline was, or a defense for that matter, but I shrugged it off with the standard, “I’ll tell you when you’re older.” A few months later the question came again. This time “go ask your mother” bought some time and gave temporary relief. VERY temporary. Minutes later he was right back at it. “I’ll tell you when you’re older. Like 22.” I knew this could only go on so long. Finally, weeks after he came at me again, “Dad, what are my balls for? It’s my body and it’s my right to know.” How in the holy freaking hell can a 9-year-old be that wise in his question phrasing? Is he really mature enough to have this conversation? So I tested the water… “Buddy, tell me what you know about how babies are made.” I was fully expecting an answer like “Well dad, everyone knows that rays of magic sunshine mix with unicorn laughter to make the baby and then the flamingo delivers it to mommy’s tummy.” Which is only half wrong, since there IS magic and there IS laughter involved in the baby-making process. Unfortunately, his answer was smart and linear and logical. Completely wrong, but quite clear and a plausible alternative for the actual method. Bloody hell. He was ready…

Yeah, well I wasn't. Dude is in third grade! If he could just hold on for two more years then I could allow the government to teach him courtesy of the “maturation program” and I could just pick up the pieces with a dry and scientific Q&A. What are we paying these useless teachers for anyhow? With any real luck I could put it off until 8^th grade when he gets to watch that revolting video in health class with the detailed description of an erection, complete with thermal imagery. I’ll never forget the afterbirth from that video. Talk about death to innocence.

Alas, it was not to be. It was time. One calm, sunny day coming home from the grocery store, Talmage and I had “the talk.” I have to give him credit. He was pretty calm, albeit shocked. He was having a hard time grasping the fact that it could go there and cause that to happen. I held nothing back. We covered all aspects of “Teh Seks.” The physical. The emotional. The spiritual. I was very detailed in my description and positive in my delivery. We covered parameters and rules. We talked about the importance of it in God’s plan. I have no delusions….that innocence is dead, and that’s a healthy chunk of innocence, but the damage was minimal. It was a clean cut, not the gruesome tear that it could have been.

My favorite of his myriad questions was,“Dad, how long do you have to sex for?” "Well bud, if you’re lucky about 12 seconds. But sometimes it can take hours.” “Ooooo, gross.” Just wait young buddy. Just wait.

Fine Dining....at Taco Cabana?!

I recently took my family to Taco Cabana here in Austin. On a side note, I believe it is physically impossible to NOT sing “Her name was Lola….” when driving past The Cabana. It was our first time through the Cabana doors and I was kind of excited. I figured I knew what I was getting myself into. This was not atmospheric Mexican food with waiters, menus, and glass cups. Nor was this Ghetto Mex, i.e. authentic Mexican grub served big, fast, and cheap. This was full-on fast food Mexican…a direct competitor with Taco Bell. It would be perfect for the kids and a pleasant change from a typical border run…outside the bun.

The décor was quite cute. The tables were decorated with different beer logos and each had an umbrella overhead. The menu was interesting and inventive and the family fajitas immediately drew my attention. There is a full salsa bar dedicated to different types of sauces, jalapenos, and various condiments. I ordered our food, we found our tables, and started setting up camp. Only two other tables in the entire restaurant were taken. There was an older, fat couple at one table and what appeared to be a father and teenage son at another.

I have a two-year-old daughter. She is equal parts diva, princess, and mermaid. She has attitude oozing from her body and the most emotive little personality you’d ever see in a munchkin so lovely. When she speaks, you hear. You might not listen, but I guaran-ass-tee you that you’ll hear her. It’s impossible not to. She’s got this little high-pitched squeal that will sound angry or happy, depending on the situation. She was excited to be at The Cabana and she wanted the world to know.

Less than 10 minutes (and 3 squeals) into our meal I noticed that the fat old lady at the other table had managed to rise to her bulbous feet to make her way over to our table. I just assumed she was going to compliment us on our darling little children that were so full of energy and excitement. Quite the contrary. About five feet from our table, as she approached, she cupped her puffy hands to her ears and hissed “she is too loud.” Sherri was dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, this is a public restaurant” Sherri said. “Yes, but she doesn’t need to scream” replied the wrinkled mass of flesh. Then Sherri and I started in on her at the same time. “She’s a CHILD.” “She’s only TWO.” “This is TACO CABANA.” Defeated and dejected, The Jelly Thing turned and waddled back to her table. Her husband hung his head and said nothing…probably dreaming of his “happy place” where he was married to a woman that didn’t require him to grease her down and toss a Twinkie through the door to get her in the house.

Are you kidding me? Had this woman actually complained about my daughter’s shrill-but-happy sounds interfering with her joyous snarfing of $9.00 worth of barely mediocre burrito? Memo to Hog Lady: If you are interested in a romantic, quiet dinner with your unfortunate mate, do NOT roll into the Taco FREAKING Cabana. Taco Cabana is not a haunt for the Austin elite. You will find children. You will find teenagers. You will find the occasional transient that scored a few bucks under the viaduct. But you will also find mass quantities of beans, meat, and cheese (for pennies), so I can understand why you would want to squeeze yourself in there. Just adjust your expectations, mkay?

Shame in Victory

“This is the one”, I thought to myself. We’d been at it two hours. It was raining hard now and the sun was dipping further and further behind the mountains to the west. My shoes were soaked. My knees were scraped and bleeding. I analyzed my surroundings and stared hard into the eyes of my opponent. My Goliath. He towered over me, even as he crouched at the ready. “He’ll be expecting a juke”, I mused, “and this time I’ll take it right at him.” I smirked as I ran through the process in my head. This was the one. It had to be the one. I don’t think I could take much more abuse and failure. My body and spirit couldn’t handle it. My muscles tensed as I prepared my assault. I was David. My stone, a soccer ball. And Goliath was going down.

I sprang. My heart pounded as I dribbled the ball ever nearer to my nemesis. He deftly bounced from side to side as I approached, chest heaving, lips curled into a snarl. I faked a juke to the left. He took the bait. I instantly popped the ball back to the right with the outside of my foot and barreled straight into Goliath’s former position. “Hahaha!” I shouted, “I got y-UGH!” My entire body was suddenly thrown from its feet and flung into the chain link fence to my right, sending shocks of pain through my right shoulder. Goliath was big, but he was nimble. He had caught my left hip just as I was passing and drove me into the fence. The ball lay motionless on the grass.

Goliath casually picked the ball up and rolled it back to its starting spot. “You were saying?” he said flatly. Emotionless and cool. I began to sob. The rainwater on my cheeks gave way to saline tears. I wanted to go home. I wanted this to end. I wanted nothing more than to get past my enemy so I could finally go in the house and get dry. Goliath must have sensed my despair and somehow found compassion in its monstrous black heart. “That’s probably good for tonight. Your mother has times table flash cards for you still. This is 3rd grade now…math can be a bugger.” “Ok dad”, I whimpered. He put his arm around me as we walked toward the house. “I thought you had me on that last one buddy. Good move.” He tousled my hair. I smiled through my tear-filled eyes. I was happy.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have never ever, in the history of my life, beaten my father at any reasonable sport. I have no memory of my dad taking it easy on me. None. Even at basketball, my strongest sport, my old man found ways to win. He has had multiple knee surgeries and enough ankle sprains to turn his tendons into snot inside his shoe, but the man is a competitor. He is a beast. Since I was old enough to touch a ball or hold a racket, my father has not once allowed me to win. And I’ve tried every avenue imaginable to beat him.

Our last tennis match was in 1996. I was 19 and about to leave for Europe for 2 years. Somehow, deep inside, I knew this would be the last time we would face each other. Dad was 51 years old and was running out of cartilage. I’d planned the match for weeks. I knew his weaknesses were his knees and I planned to exploit my advantage to its fullest. I ran him like a dog. Up to the net, back to the base line, side to side. Cut shots, lobs, dink serves, overheads. Somehow the bulldog managed to chase most of them down. His plan was simple…just hit the ball back to me and eventually I’d break down mentally and beat myself. His plan worked of course. He took me 4-6 7-5 6-4 in the most grueling, filthy tennis match ever played. When we were done his knees were swollen to the size of cantaloupes and I had a blister on my thumb larger than a quarter. We barely made it out of the building, but we hobbled out smiling.

Oddly enough I’m grateful for it. I am grateful that I was taught to compete. I was taught to apply myself 100% in every contest, whether it be a championship basketball game or a contest to see how many ping-pong balls I could consecutively throw into a glass jar. I am by no means as competitive as my father. I’m not sure anyone is. But I am grateful for the example I was shown. But even my father, as rabid a competitor as he is, would think that the story linked here is atrocious and foul.

A high school girl’s basketball team beat their opponent 100-0 last week. If you are thinking this happens all the time, you are wrong. NFL teams running up the score can’t be compared. The U of U doing onside kicks in the 4th quarter of play while already destroying its opponent isn’t remotely the same. These were not two teams on a level playing field. These were not two teams that belonged in the same sporting universe. The victim here has a grand total of 20 girls in its school…not necessarily a large pool to select talent from. This school is specifically for kids with learning disabilities like dyslexia and ADHD. The offending school deployed a full-court press for all but the final 4 minutes of play, essentially rocking a 45-minute layup drill. The victim school got a grand total of seven shots off. TOTAL.

The coach responsible for the blowout was almost immediately fired and the small Christian high school issued a formal apology and forfeit of the game. I think that is fair and appropriate. The coach, however, defends his decision and says the game was played with honor. I couldn’t disagree more. There is nothing honorable in blowing out a team of disabled girls by a score of 100-0. It is shameful and should be an embarrassment that follows him the rest of his life.

I hope the young ladies involved have learned a valuable lesson. There is a time for competition and there is a time for compassion, and they CAN coexist in the same contest. It is why 2nd, 3rd, and 4th stringers are brought into games. There is an aspect of sportsmanship that has nothing to do with aggressiveness and tenacity. It involves respect and fairness. I will always be grateful to my philistine father. He taught me to be a badass AND a gentleman on the court. Sometimes the gentleman surfaces slowly, or not at all, but I know he’s lurking and he’s always there to make me feel stupid when I act like an idiot.

Passing the Smell Test

My mother was a clever parenter. As a young kid my mom would lure me outside to play, then quickly go back in the house and lock the doors. I really couldn't ask for more though. I grew up on a full acre of land with fruit trees, swing sets, trampolines, and a tennis court. Every once in a while though I'd get thirsty and knock on the door, "Mom, I'm thirsty!" "The hose is right over there" as she pointed and smiled. Sandwiches and lemonade would be delivered via the doggy door at lunchtime and the doors would open again just in time for dinner. Now that I'm an adult with kids of my own I see her wisdom and brilliance. She gave me the opportunity to explore and have fun while giving her time to get things done in the house without the constant fighting, bickering, and destruction that typically came with me around my sisters.

As I grew older her ingenuity and tenacity evolved. I am convinced that it is completely impossible to pull a fast one on my mother. She claims her "holy ghost tells her stuff." I say no. It's a constant, unrelenting, fierce process of checking homework, reading notes, rifling through drawers, calling parents to check up on me, tailing me to school, and hiring the NSA to keep a satellite bead on me at all times. I always thought the unmarked black van parked outside all my extracuriculars was odd. Personal privacy was a foreign concept. As long as I lived under that roof, my stuff was her stuff and my life was hers.

I distanced myself as a teenager and mom had to reinvent her sleuthiness. Her personal space invasions became more discreet and never confrontational. And she invented "The Smell Test." The nose cannot be fooled. My silver tongue could lead her down many paths of ridiculousness, but a quick whiff would confirm or deny anything I said...

"So where did you go tonight Ty?"
"Oh, this dude named Travis had a party."
"Was it a good party?"
"Of course mom, we played bridge and pin the tail on the donkey and danced to the soundtrack to 'Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.' Then we sat around and discussed what college courses could best help us accomplish our goals in life and best prepare us for our missions." *gnarly sarcasm*
"Uh huh. Any drugs?"
"No way mom."
"Booze?"
"Oh please."
"Cigarettes?"
"Gross mom, no way."
"Good boy, come give your mother a hug."

Unbeknownst to me, until a later time, this was no ordinary hug. As we embraced she was smelling my clothes for cigarette odor, my neck for lipstick or girl-scent, and breath for liquor. She'd also look intensely at my eyes for unusual redness or high-gloss. How freaking brilliant is that? Sometimes I passed, sometimes I didn't. Sometimes she'd call me on it and sometimes she'd let it go. I appreciate my mother's love and her zeal for my well-being. She let me grow up on my own terms and in my own time. And mom, I promise I'm really close to the whole "growing up" thing.

Last night I got to put The Smell Test into practice for the very first time as a parent.

My youngest boy, Eric, is trouble. He's creative, inventive, destructive, and FUN. And lately he's had some dread fascination with his own urine. He'll whiz on just about anything. Walls, rugs, floors, carpet, etc. Sherri has found urine-soaked paper towels just hanging out on the floor. There is no apparent rhyme or reason to the wayward whizzing. Eric just doesn't want to conform to "The Man's" standards and pee in the toilet when there are so many other creative and fun places to place the stream.

So Thanksgiving night I'm in my office on the piano, laying down the bass and guitar tracks to Bread's "Aubrey" when Talmage starts to holler, "Daaaaad! I neeeed you!" I run out of the office in the direction of the screaming and find my two boys in the bathroom. Eric was standing over the toilet with his manhood in his left hand and the orange cup that had held my refreshing beverage in his right. "Eric, what are you doing buddy?" "Nuttin' dad." "Uh huh, why are you holding that cup?" "I'm not, dad." Eric has a problem with telling the truth, no matter how obvious the lie. "Right...Eric, did you go peepee in dad's cup?" "Nope." The toilet was finishing its flush at this point so there was no evidenciary support that his urine ever made it INTO the bowl. "Eric, give me the cup." All that was left was the remnants of some seemingly carbonated liquid in the bottom. I'd been drinking Mt. Dew, aka "The Nectar of the Gods", which didn't really help my cause in determining just what liquid might be in the cup since Dew and urine look identical. "Eric, tell me the truth right now, did you whiz in dad's cup?" "Nuh uh."

I had three options here. A) Forget about it and just wash the cup out, holding to the idea that igorance is bliss, B) drink what was left and hope for the best, or C) give it a whiff. Clearly B was a bad idea and I quickly tossed it out. I was left with A and C. The blue pill and the red. Would I take the blue pill and go about life as usual, never knowing and never caring about what REALITY was, continuing in a dreamstate of relative happiness unaware of TRUTH? Or would I pop the red pill and see just how far down the rabbit hole goes? I'm a truth guy. I went red. I inserted my schnozz and gave it a nice, big whiff.

We had green bean casserole for Thanksgiving. I was unaware that green beans had a similar effect on urine to that of asparagus. My smell test to the orange pee cup resulted in a fragrance that quite nearly knocked me on my can. It definitely was not the Nectar of the Gods clinging to the bottom of the cup. That was Eric's man scent...and it was strong. I debated washing the cup and sterilizing it so we could use it again, but I realized that was foolhardy...there's no way I could ever see an orange cup again and smell or taste anything other than salty Eric juice. I decided instead to burn the cup to a bubbling lump of molten plastic after exercising the demons from the artifact with my mighty priesthood.

If I'd been using my brain I would have cultivated a sample of the urine and sold it to sports therapists and boxing trainers globally. I guarantee no smelling salt in the universe is as potent as those few drops of Eric pee.

Teaching Moments

I was blessed with a bright and highly inquisitive son. Luckily for me, Talmage is also very trusting. In fact, he’s quite gullible. This is fortunate because sometimes I am asked questions that I just don’t have an answer for. Have you ever tried to explain electricity to a 4-year-old? Having a gullible child makes it easy for me to get creative instead of logical. I don’t need to go into detail about friction, charged particles, or alternating current. I just explain that there is a family of mice inside the wall on pedal bikes that ride really fast to make the plugs work. And if the answer makes sense to his young brain, he accepts it as absolute truth. Of course this might prove damaging when he tells his 5th grade teacher that birds can float because their stomachs are helium balloons filled up by circus clowns and dwarves. But we’ll cross that bridge later.

Talmage’s constant questions have presented me with a variety of neat teaching opportunities. At times I can let my creative waters flow. “The juice that comes out of the spider you squished with your shoe is poison, because spiders are evil and God hates them.” “Leaves change color in autumn because they are mad at the cold weather, then they fall like tears before it snows.” And then other times the questions are very sincere and honest, deserving fair and serious answers. One such teaching opportunity came on Saturday.

We were driving toward the freeway after a fun afternoon of bowling at Fat Cats. I was oblivious to my surroundings; I’d just bowled two awesome games and came out the ultimate winner among Pearsons. As we pulled up to a red light, Talmage asked, “What’s ‘vetname’ mean dada?” I lifted my head to see what he was talking about and saw a very dirty, very sad looking homeless man standing just outside Talmage’s window holding a sign that read “Vietnam Vet. Need food. Need help.” This topic is ironic. The queen of the Blogiverse, Dooce, hit this very subject recently, found here. Her take is different than mine, but very respectable. If you want an occasional chortle and highly entertaining read, check out The Dooce. Very edgy, very bright, and sometimes uncomfortable. But a brilliant blogger nonetheless. Heads up to the LDS folk though. She has regular target practice at our expense.

My own personal feelings toward the homeless have never changed. My heart aches for them. My stomach is a mixture of sadness, pity, shame, guilt, and disgust. Each and every time, I wonder what circumstances could have lead to this person’s situation. Where is he from? What’s his name? What’s his family like? Would he REALLY spend my $5 on beer?

My feelings for panhandlers, however, have changed dramatically. I used to allow my emotions for destitute people to govern my thoughts toward beggars. Now that I have a few years under my belt and a few bad experiences giving money to panhandlers, I see things very differently. Living in Italy introduced me to the gypsy culture. Filthy dirty homeless looking women, children, and babies all over the streets begging for money as a cover for their true source of income, pick-pocketing. President Flosi warned us on our very first night in the country. He was a former FBI agent that went undercover in Rome, infiltrating the mob. He was very familiar with the gypsy culture as an organization. He told us that no matter how badly our heart bled, do not under any circumstances give money to the gypsies. They were not poor. They were not homeless. Gypsy men drove nice cars and they lived in decent homes. They didn’t work honest jobs and allowed their centuries-old tradition of begging and thieving to fund their lives.

From time to time, especially in Europe, you’ll find someone that will actually perform something, THEN ask for money. I’ve seen people play harmonicas, violins, flutes, bucket drums, and guitars. I’ve seen singers, dancers, gymnasts, and magicians. I’ve seen people selling flowers, jewelry, and even rocks. All clearly poor, and all clearly in need. But they were doing something to EARN their loose change. They were respectable. The only difference between John Popper and the kid on the train is skill level and choice of venue. They both do the same thing for a living. It’s the people that don’t provide any product or service, but still expect reward that bother me.

I had a man come to my window when I was a teller at Wells Fargo wanting to change a $50 bill for smaller notes. The bill was clearly a fake. He went on and on about how he had fallen on hard times and was working as a laborer on a construction site and the foreman paid him that bill for his day’s work. He claimed to be a convert to the LDS church and carried on about charity and second chances for close to an hour. My branch manager got involved and PERSONALLY lent the man $50.00 with the understanding that he would pay it back. I’m not sure if he was exercising charity or just trying to get the guy to leave. I would have bet my kingdom that he would have come back to repay the $50; he was so convincing and sincere. We never saw him again.

Have you ever met the guy at the mall parking lot that needs money for a bus ticket back to Provo? I’ve seen him several times. On one occasion he hit me up twice in the same day, at two different malls. When I called him to the carpet he smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and walked away.

I was truly uncomfortable talking to Talmage about homelessness, poverty, and charity. He couldn’t wrap his young brain around the fact that people would choose to live on streets and beg for money:

“Why does he sleep on a street daddy? Wouldn’t cars hit him?”
Well, he’s not actually ON the street buddy. Probably in a park or in a parking lot.
“Why doesn’t he sleep in a house?”
Because he doesn’t have a house, kiddo.
“Why doesn’t he buy one?”
Because he doesn’t have any money.
“Why doesn’t he work at Cookietree and make bacon like dad?”
Cookietree isn’t hiring, broseph.
“Well why doesn’t he get a job somewhere else then?”

Why, indeed. I want to give him money. I’m a sucker for things in pain. I can’t hunt, I won’t fish, and I flinch when I kill a moth. Suffering people pain my soul. But unless the circumstance is truly inspired, I won’t give panhandlers money.

I explained to Talmage that most homeless people can work to improve their situation. The government has programs in place for employment, housing, and health care. I also explained that every month, on a particular Sunday, we don’t eat lunch or dinner and give the money we would have spent to help feed hungry people. We donate our time whenever we can at the DI, the cannery, the dairy, and the pasta plant to make sure that food is made to feed them.

I don’t think my answers satisfied Talmage, and I’m thankful that they didn’t. I want him to form his own moral compass as he grows up. I want him to treat the destitute in his own unique fashion, hopefully with empathy and compassion. He may be the guy that gives the man $20, or a combo meal from McDonalds, or a heavy coat. I bet he won’t care if he’s really a vet or if he’d spend the money on cigarettes or sell the coat for drugs. I’m already beaming with pride. I’m grateful for the chances I have to exercise fatherhood and teach my children.

On a humorous note, here’s a collection of photos of unique signs asking for money. I would absolutely throw down some spare change for this kind of creativity and humor:

A Phoenix From the Ashes

Today is September 11th. I refuse to pander like so many others do on this day. We all know what happened in 2001. We all felt violated and vulnerable. Most of us were angry and demanded justice. Our nation’s finest are still overseas making sure that nothing like that happens again. One of my best friends on the planet is in Afghanistan. Memo to all militant terrorists: If you see a bearded white boy with a bright red afro and a gun, I suggest you find the nearest pile of rubble and hide. His name is Mike Jackson and he’ll go full-on Rambo apeshiz on your greasy murderous butts.

There is a mythical creature called a phoenix. Those familiar with the Harry Potter series, specifically the second book/film, will recall Dumbledore’s “pet” phoenix, Fawkes. A phoenix is a mythical bird with a tail of beautiful gold and red plumage (or purple and blue, by some sources). It has a 1,000 year life-cycle, and near the end the phoenix builds itself a nest of cinnamon twigs that it then ignites; both nest and bird burn fiercely and are reduced to ashes, from which a new, young phoenix or phoenix egg arises, reborn anew to live again. (Wikipedia, 2008.)

September 11th, 2001 reduced my spirit to ashes. No one really knew what the implications of the attack could be. Were we at war? Were other areas of the country at risk? What could I do to protect my bride and myself? But on September 12th, 2001…just one day after the horrific attack on my freedom, a gorgeously perfect 7 lb. 6 oz phoenix arose from those ashes of despair and brought beauty back to the world. Talmage’s birth stood in stark contrast to the ugliness and terror we had known just hours before. My world was suddenly all innocence, pride, and hope.

I’m not blind to the ugliness still in the world. But I choose to not focus on it. Instead I allow my mind’s eye to wander back to another day. A beautiful fall day when my life would change forever. I choose to see the cherubic face and slightly alien-shaped head of my best little buddy, “The Sausage.” And I feel peace, I see hope, and I can’t help but smile.

El Destructo

Kids have unique personalities. I, for instance, was ridiculously afraid to talk to strangers. At 10 years old, if I went into a 7-11 to buy a $.10 candy and the clerk didn't give me change from my dollar, I would have walked away without saying a word. I would have preferred to be out the $.90 than have to create any form of confrontation with the clerk. That's changed a bit in my older age, but I am still definitely a "white" personality. I avoid conflict, often at my own expense, and depend on peace. It is a necessity that all things are functioning and happy. I can't get into an argument and let it remain unresolved. I have to have closure and know that the universe is once again working as intended. I should have been an educator or a social worker. But nooo, I had to choose sales. A world of never-ending confrontation. That largely goes unresolved.

It makes me wonder what other people were like as children. Did Ted Kaczynski tinker with broken radio parts? Did Michael Jordan play with balls? Did Bill Clinton chase skirt? I'm hoping not. Because I don't wish my youngest son to grow up a human demolition ball.

Eric has earned a number of nicknames at his young age and they get progressively more violent. His first nickname was "Rico" and sometimes "Coco." Talmage somehow invented the nickname "DayDay" which stuck for a while but has become a distant memory. Some of his nicknames come off the cuff and border on ridiculous, i.e. "Schmokaka." Of course Talmage, poor soul, has grown up as "Sausage" so Eric can't have MUCH to complain about. Recently Ashley has started calling him "Eric the Red" for he is as the vikings of olde. He pillages and plunders. He walks into a McDonalds playground and completely owns the place. His goal is, for example, the ball pit. If there are other children between him and his ball pit then those children are obstacles keeping him from his prize. They are expendable. Just like a viking feels entitled to his loot, Eric the Red feels entitled to his...erm...balls. And anything in his way shall fall.

He has also earned the nickname "El Destructo" from grandpa. Eric Derall = E.D. E.D. = El Destructo. I think this name fits best of all because he seems to feed off of destruction. Like when Dahmer would eat his victims to permanently absorb their life-force, Eric gains power and energy when he breaks things. Or at least disturbs them. For instance, if I were to build a house of cards on the kitchen table then call for Eric to come upstairs from the basement, there is a 95% statistical probability that he would unceremoniously destroy the card house as he walked by. If there is a stuffed-animal dog lying on the floor, Eric will kick it. If grandpa Pearson has neatly groomed his flower beds, El Destructo will kick dirt out of them into the sidewalk. He sees cleanliness and harmony and looks to add dirt and discord.

Naturally he does all of this in a cute way. He is a sweet kid. He just has far too much viking testosterone in that little body. I am going to share a few stories about Eric.

When Eric was a small toddler he had some problems with constipation. We would regularly include a laxative called "Miralax" to his bottles or juice and sometimes it would do the trick. Other times it wouldn't. In those particularly rough times we were forced to go to the dreaded enema. Now for those that are unfamiliar with an infant enema they have a clear plastic bulb filled with the slippery juice and the tube is protected by an orange plastic cover. It looks like an orange stick with a ball of water on the end of it. After administering this hateful thing to my child Sherri asked me to throw it in the trash. So naturally I left it on the floor. That following morning I was doing some work on the computer while Eric and Talmage were bumping around the house. Eric had his binkie like always. Just sucking away. After about a half hour of him bouncing around sucking on his binkie I looked up at his face. There was the orange butt-stick hanging out of his mouth while he sucked away at the plastic ball that was shaped almost EXACTLY like his binkie. Half of me laughed, part of me was horrified, and the rest of me was grateful that my child was being pacified, regardless of how. Butt-stick? Fine. Just don't cry.

El Destructo's nursery leaders love him. He really is a very fun kid and is HIGHLY entertaining. They shared a story with me last week on Sunday. Some time ago they were delivering a spiritual message about the birth of Christ. They held up a picture of the three wise men and asked, "Eric, do you know who these men are?" "Yes", he replied, "that's He-Man, Skeletor, and Power Ranger." Can you imagine the gifts those three would have brought? A furry loin-cloth from He-Man, red spandex from the Power Ranger, and from Skeletor a maniacal need to rule Eternia...?

El Destructo and Talmage typically play well together. Although anytime the play gets physical, Eric pretty much manhandles his older brother. For instance, yesterday they were playing light sabers. Talmage is huge into Star Wars right now, and if you recall the movies, The Jedi have a power called a "force push." The jedi simply raises his hand, palm facing out, and the enemies are blown back. So Talmage carefully instructed his brother, "ok Eric, when I hold out my hand you need to grab your neck and fall to the ground, ok?" "Ok." They thrust and parry a few times then Talmage brings up his hand. Eric summarily whacks Talmage's outstretched hand with his lightsaber. And I swear there's a little orange fire in his eyes when he does it. Talmage cries, recovers, instructs Eric that he was SUPPOSED to grab his throat and fall. "This time do it Eric, ok?" "Ok." Thrust, parry, thrust-thrust, parry, force push, WHACK! Fingers crushed by the hard plastic of Eric's light saber. And this time he's smirking. And those eyes burn hotter.

I can only imagine what kind of teenager and man Eric will be. If he can manage to route his energy and determination positively then I'm confident he will be an amazing and successful man. If not...lock your doors and tune in to America's Most Wanted.