Hey Buddy, Can You Paradigm?

The holidays are over and a new year has begun. 2010. Good grief…that sure seemed like a long time coming. Back in the simple and carefree days of my youth, any year with a set of digits more than 2000 was the future, man. The time of jetpacks and flying cars, self-cleaning homes and shiny silver clothing. Robots doing the work of man and man not caring. War and hurting disappearing like the dinosaurs. But here we are 10 years past that unimaginable number and we still walk and work and drive on asphalt. War is even more prevalent and pain still hurts. Remember 10 years ago? The whole Y2K scare? Everything automatic or computerized was supposed to revolt against man and we were “this” close to being pushed back into the dark ages? Or even back to the turn of the century (which seems to me, close enough to be the dark ages)? I bought into it a little. I mean, hey, it didn’t hurt to be prepared, even if nothing really happened. I bought a generator big enough to run a few major appliances, enough gas to run that generator and even a vehicle for a few days, and canned food and water to last a month. Turns out, I didn’t even have to use the generator and had extra gas for my cars, and food and water that ended up being used on campouts.

Now that it is the future, I think about the past. Sometimes my mind wanders back to when this man was just a wee lad, to the days of elementary learning and blissful naivety. I remember the three-bedroom, one-bathroom house in the heart of Florida that held five kids and one adult, and the adult took up one bedroom, leaving the children the remaining two. I shared a bedroom with my brother until he went to live in the great white north of Tennessee. That left me with three females (four, counting my grandmother) as roommates. To alleviate crowding in the “girls” room, my youngest cousin moved into my room with me. Those days are as hazy to me now as a brick-paved London street at midnight. Around Thanksgiving of this past year, the cousin that I shared a room with was asking me, “Remember the time when (insert some obscure incident here)?” and other questions that jogged my memory to remember absolutely nothing. My mind drew a blank with her specifics. But of course there are other things that I remember rather well.

With my grandmother living on a fixed income and raising the greater part of her grandchildren (the children of two of her three children), we didn’t have money for extravagant extras such as video games (Atari was the shiznit) or the latest popular anything being advertised on the lone television of the house that resided in the living room. We had to work off some of our church subsidized tuition to the private two-room schoolhouse by cleaning both the church and the school. It wasn’t that hard of work and it taught us skills needed for keeping our homes clean as adults, but of course being kids, it was torture to spend time before and after school doing work instead of playing. And the work wasn’t confined to the church and the school. There was plenty to do at the house. Windows to wash, floors to vacuum or sweep and mop, and rooms to keep clean. Outside, there were animals to feed, a yard to mow, weeds to pull, fruit to pick, eggs to harvest…you name it. My grandmother was not a tyrant, but she made sure we knew the value of work and the satisfaction of knowing that it was done to the end and done right. I still to this day attribute my finely honed attention to detail to those tasks taken to hand on the two acres of fruit trees, moss-covered oaks, and chicken houses that made up the most of what I called home.

I didn’t have a father figure growing up. My dad was out of the picture, due to whatever reasons he had for giving up his parental rights to my brother, sister, and me. Of course, I had uncles who lived nearby, but they had their own lives, and to be truthful, didn’t have much time for a molding a young boy to be a productive citizen. The closest I had to having male guidance were the preachers that rotated in and out of our church. I would do jobs for them at the house that most of them stayed at when they spent their tenure at our church. One preacher was working on a handcrafted wooden boat. After hours of raking leaves in the yard, he would meet me with a tall glass of lemonade and ask if I wanted to give a hand in sanding, sealing, and polishing the two-toned watercraft in his garage. I gladly took to task dipping a paintbrush and carefully layering the sealant onto the boat or gently sanding the alternating strips of dark and light wood that comprised an honest work of art. And what was my reward for my time in his garage? Satisfaction. That, and time on the river when it was finally done. Fishing just off the banks, even if nothing was biting, spending time with someone who genuinely cared enough to teach me things that I otherwise might not have had the chance to learn. I needed what every child needs…to be taught, to be shown…to learn by example.

Being an example for someone is hard work. It is hard to constantly keep yourself in check to make sure that the things you do or the things you say don’t affect someone in a negative light. I mean, it is easy enough to live by example, but to live as an example…your work is certainly cut out for you. There are two kinds of people that you have to be an example for. Those who don’t know you and those that do. You might say that those that don’t know you aren’t as important as those that do. But I think they are. How else can you turn them into friends, co-workers, lovers, or family? Here’s how…by showing them who you are in the most positive light, not just because you want to impress them, but because you truly and honestly are that person.

I am not a bad person. I am not hateful (I “hate” hate, if that makes any sense). I try, oh so hard, to treat others the way I would like to be treated. That doesn’t mean that I don’t make mistakes or hurt people. I certainly don’t intentionally hurt anyone, but it happens. And when it does happen…I hurt as well. I lose my patience. I sometimes let four-letter words slip past my tongue. I get jealous. I get mad. I do all these things that other humans do. And that’s just it. We do them because we are human. We mess up. As a race, we fall short of perfection each and every day. And if we care even the slightest bit about how our actions can affect someone else’s life, then we ought to strive on a daily basis to improve and somehow reverse our shortcomings and prove not only to ourselves, but to those that matter, that we can be living examples of love and life. And just who are those that matter? Everyone matters.

What is a model? Isn’t a model just a replica of the real thing? I used to be deep into the hobby of modeling. Not a fashion model, that’s for sure…I’m talking about putting together small replicas of the real thing. Model cars, model boats, model airplanes. The true modeling hobbyist knows that details are important. Deep into my days of getting Testor’s glue on my fingers and paint on my grandmother’s table, I joined the “Model of the Month Club”. Each month a model car (or plane, or boat, but usually it was a car) was sent to me via the U.S. Postal service. I remember the first time I received a package. I was so excited that I couldn’t wait to open it up and start putting it together. The package looked all official with “Fragile” warnings and “Model of the Month Club” logo. Wow. I was going to be responsible for something that not only represented the real thing, but I had to be extra careful not to break it as well. That excitement lasted just about as long as it took me to open the box. Everything (and I mean everything…well, except for the windshield) was one color and hard plastic. The “rubber” tires were hard plastic. They weren’t even black. They were the same color as the rest of the pieces. It was the lamest model I had ever gotten. I didn’t want to paint the tires black. I didn’t want to chrome the pieces that were already supposed to be chrome. It was not a good example of what it was supposed to represent. I looked at the picture on the box compared to what was inside the box…and shook my head.

I must be an example. I must improve on who I am, because I have people who depend on me for their own “learning by example”. I do not want to “be a disappointment” to those that matter (and everyone matters, right?). I think everyone would agree that the most important example that we have to set are to those who are most impressionable, those who look up to us to show them the way they ought to be, who to be, how to love, how to live. Those are our children.

I sometimes think that I am not a good father. There. I said it. How do others think of the job I do? I think most would not even know except for what they see, what I show them. Of course they wouldn’t know otherwise. But I do. Then there are those that see what they want to see and I can do no right in those eyes. I try, but…sigh…I always fall short. I have already failed at a chance to be an example…and those who know; know what I am talking about…

I see other parents interact with their kids and I think, “I’m not strict enough. They’ve got their kids under their thumbs and by golly; those kids know who is boss.” And then I see those same parents and think, “How can they be so mean to their kids? How can they treat them the way they do and try to make it come across as love?” And herein lies the confusion in my mind…how do I show love and compassion to my children and still be the one who lays down the law and dole out the punishment that comes with disobedience?

Ah. Then it hits me…

It is because of the love and compassion that I have for them that I must show them what is wrong and what’s right and the consequences that come from our actions. Be an example to myself. And part of that is to live as that model. Try to do right. Try to show love at every moment. Strive to be a good person through all the mistakes and in spite of all my imperfections. And does the mere fact that I see and recognize those mistakes and imperfections make me a better person already? Does it make me a better example to not others alone, but to myself?

I think it does.