coming home

Thomas Wolfe wrote a book once called “You Can’t Go Home Again.” His editor, Edward Aswell, published it after Wolfe died in 1940, when Aswell found a manuscript called “The October Fair.” I haven’t read the book in years, but a passage of it stayed with me:

He had learned some of the things that every man must find out for himself, and he had found out about them as one has to find out–through error and through trial, through fantasy and illusion, through falsehood and his own damn foolishness, through being mistaken and wrong and an idiot and egotistical and aspiring and hopeful and believing and confused. Each thing he learned was so simple and obvious, once he grasped it, that he wondered why he had not always known it. And what had he learned? A philosopher would not think it much, perhaps, and yet in a simple human way it was a good deal. Just by living, by making the thousand little daily choices that his whole complex of heredity, environment, and conscious thought, and deep emotion had driven him to make, and by taking the consequences, he had learned that he could not eat his cake and have it, too. He had learned that in spite of his strange body, so much off scale that it had often made him think himself a creature set apart, he was still the son and brother of all men living. He had learned that he could not devour the earth, that he must know and accept his limitations. He realized that much of his torment of the years past had been self-inflicted, and an inevitable part of growing up. And, most important of all for one who had taken so long to grow up, he thought he had learned not to be the slave of his emotions.

Even sixteen years ago, this resonated with me, though I didn’t understand why.  After being away from my hometown for basically a decade, it makes sense now:

For a long time, I concerned myself with the opinions of others regarding how I lived. My appearance, my ideas and ideals, my location, my job, financial status, relationship status, even where I grew up. As I became more worried about these things, I became more insecure and unaware of who I actually WAS and more concerned with how people SAW me. Eventually, I realized that while some people’s opinions of me matter more than others (family, inner circle), none of them needed to matter more than mine. And mine, for lack of a better word, sucked. I’d found myself in a dead-end job that paid horribly and left me feeling exhausted and used, with most of my close friends off living life elsewhere. Looking in the mirror was a challenge. A friend told me it was time to crawl out of the pit, and even helped me do it. No, I’m not “better” now, but it’s a start. The new job doesn’t suck, and I may even stay with it for a while. I’ve met new people who build me up and show me genuine kindness and concern. And old friends are becoming good friends again.

But my hometown isn’t the shining city on a hill that I believed it was when I was young. My former pastor, Ron Martoia, once brought up the “(insert important ending thing here) won’t be the same again” cliche. And then he said that nothing is ever the same. Life’s only consistent is change, and I knew that when I drove west toward California, Jackson would be different when I got back, either to live or to visit. It’s changed a lot since then, and that’ll continue.

Coming back here has also led me to face some of the demons I left here. If you come from a town like this, you’re bound to have history with certain people and places, and whether they’re here or not, the void shouts at you just the same. Part of growing up and discovering yourself is learning how to let go of the things that no longer serve your life as helpful, constructive, or uplifting. It’s learning to ignore the ghosts of days gone by that make life easier as we get older. And sometimes, the ghosts present themselves as good and special, when they’re really just more of the same. It’s hard to ignore those, but if you pay attention, you’ll see what they really are: desperate attempts by your own darkness to return to the comfort and ease of the old you, while leaving the possibilities of who you are NOW to wait standing for a train that will never come.

English science-fiction writer Douglas Adams once wrote, “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I’ve ended up where I needed to be to be.” I do not pretend to understand the jagged path of my life, but with every switchback turn of this long strange trip, the road becomes a little more clear.

don’t look back

It’s been more than two years since my last post here. A lot has happened since then, but most of the details aren’t really that important. What matters now is that yesterday, after nine years away, I moved back to my hometown. I had been in Chicago for almost six years, and very little had changed for me. I’d done some growing and some learning, but mostly, I was restless and tired of doing the same thing every day. I learned that my brother, the Marine, was deploying to Afghanistan, and his two-year-old son (known from here forward as “the nephew”) was going to be without his father for a year. His mother takes care of him, as do my parents, but I knew that coming home was the right thing to do. The timing was perfect, with my lease ending this month. I quit my job, packed a truck, and drove the 220 miles between Chicago and my hometown.

I left this town nine years ago, just as the recession was taking hold. A drive around the city today reminded me that it was a recession elsewhere, but a depression here. Blight, neglect, squalor, and poverty are the norm in much of this town. When I got on the road almost a decade ago, I had (somewhat-high) expectations that once I cleared the city and the state and the region, the world would open itself to me and I would prosper and grow and experience happiness. It turns out that that wasn’t the case, and I was naive to think that way. Life has humbled me since then, in several ways. There’s an old Chinese proverb that says, “Only he that has traveled the road knows where the holes are deep.” I’ve stepped in a few holes, and fallen into a couple deeper ones, since I left, and I’m not expecting that coming back here ensures closure of the circle and the continuation of the life I left behind when I went west. There wasn’t much to leave behind then, and there wasn’t much to leave behind in Chicago. I’d made a few friends and had a crappy job and a tiny apartment that cost me way too much, but staying there just for the food and the culture wasn’t worth my sanity anymore.

So I got a new job, I’ll be moving into my brother’s place when he ships out in a month or two, and I’m reacquainting myself with a hometown that I’m seeing with new eyes and different expectations. I’m not planning on settling down here, because this town hasn’t fit me personally in years, but at least for the next year or so, I’m here. This is the road I’ve chosen, and looking back now would be counterproductive at best, and damaging to my sanity at worst. What follows from here is documentation of life in a depression-ravaged Midwestern post-manufacturing town after almost a decade away. Some of it will be sad, some will be contentious, some will be funny, and some will be up for interpretation. Regardless, the Long Strange Trip continues.

forbidden fruit

The concept of a banned book has always perplexed me. Most of my history as a reader includes some legendary volumes, including several frequently- and formerly-banned books. I understand the idea of immoral or dangerous material, but what I don’t understand is what the real trouble is with banned books. Fear and insecurity of parents and educators seem to factor into the motivation for barring books from schools, but the removal of a book from a school, to the right student, would have the same result as making something illegal: It only makes the mind crave it more.

Oscar Wilde once suggested that “immoral” books “show the world its own shame.” Such is a situation that happened two years ago with a graphic novel taught within the Chicago Public Schools system. I have not read Persepolis, though I’m familiar with its reputation. If you aren’t familiar with it, it’s about a teenage girl coming of age in 1979 Iran, following the revolution. What I found offensive about the situation was not that the schools decided not to trust the intelligence of its student body to treat the book as an explication of the culture as it was during a difficult time. What bothers me the most is that CPS felt the need to lie about the entire situation and pretend that there was no call for its removal when the link above proves otherwise.

Banning books is one of our culture’s ways of hiding shameful and difficult truths about the world, about human nature, and about the danger of ideas. “Ideas are bulletproof” says a famous anti-fascism graphic novel (V for Vendetta), and books are notorious carriers of these indestructible weapons. We use ideas to create stories that laugh at war (Slaughterhouse-Five), expose dangerous industry (The Jungle) and hateful thoughts (Invisible Man), look deeply into the dangers of excess and moral depravity (The Great Gatsby), and demonstrate the dangers of government control (1984).

One of the greatest banned books of all time was banned because of its use of violence to make a point. It was a science fiction story about a dystopian future where Aldous Huxley’s and Neil Postman’s warnings of a technology-driven future where the technology we love had all but taken control of us, had come to fruition. Books were banned and anyone caught with them was arrested and their books became inferno fodder for firemen who set fires instead of extinguishing them. Television had become the only real method of entertainment. People didn’t really have conversations anymore. (Does this sound familiar?)

Ray Bradbury’s classic warning of anti-intellectualism, Fahrenheit-451. It may be the most ironic banning in history: A banned book about a future where people no longer read books.

Bradbury once said, “There is more than one way to burn a book. And the world is full of people running about with lit matches.” I find it sad that instead of facing our own shame and allowing our youth to learn about our failures and flaws, we’d rather hide them in the name of censorship and safety which only thinly veils our embarrassment and shame. The world is messy enough. We don’t need more people running about with lit matches, trying to hide the mistakes of our history for fear that someone may not be able to handle or like a few words or a few images in a book that teaches a valuable truth. Our practice of banning books has to stop.

the voice

We each have quirks that make us different, unique, and distinct. Some of them are physical, while others are personality-based. For me, my most obvious quirk is my height. I’m short for a 33-year-old man (5’4″), and as is expected for a short child, I had my share of bullies and critics. While those days are long done, their words and actions stay with me, all these years later. Scars and souvenirs.

I’ve always been different in other ways. My personality is the most rare of the 16 Jungian types, and I’m also an Empath and a highly sensitive person. What this all means is that I’m very good at reading people, especially on an emotional level. It also means that negativity lingers more loudly in my head. Between my bullies, relationships with narcissists, friends who’ve left me at the side of the road, and other mistakes along the way, it’s the critics whose words stay more closely at the fore than the people who support me and push me to chase my daydreams.

As an INFJ and an Empath, I’m very adept at reading other people, but it’s difficult for me to distinguish between my own emotions and someone else’s. Whether it’s my best friend, a coworker, stranger on the street, or someone on social media, it’s hard to tune out the signals being broadcast to me, because the signals often become the narrative.

My story isn’t unique. I know more than a few people who’ve dealt with similar troubles and struggle to remain above water as reminders of the bridges long burned continue to surface among the cinders. The words and actions of our critics become our perspectives because no matter how much help we have, no matter how many years have passed, no matter how long-healed the wounds may be, we have no choice but to see the world differently.

Most of us do not own our perspectives or experiences; even those of us with only minor damage. They come from the words and experiences of others. We’re taught to see things through the eyes of others and accept them as fact, as a sort of half-honest empathy . Understand where I’m coming from, and you’ll understand me better, they tell us.That’s a legitimate statement, but at what point are we allowed to see the world through our own eyes? At what point will they see where we’re coming from?

Allow yourself to hear your own inner voice. It, not the voices of days gone by, is the most important voice. Let it speak for, and through, you. Let it give you back your strength and your power. Listen to it closely. It will not lead you astray.

We all have a voice in our head. The question is, is it yours, or is it someone else’s?

Some people hear their own inner voices with great clearness, and they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy… Or they become legend.

-Jim Harrison

three years later

Three years ago today, I arrived in Chicago. This whole adventure in big-city living began a year and a half before I arrived here, while I was still a resident of Fargo, North Dakota. In the first year, I found myself being grateful that I was in a city as big and busy and diverse as this one. Since then, it’s been a daily struggle to keep myself sane.

Some cities, I’ve been told, decide whether you’re worthy of living within them by testing your ability to handle it at its most intense. New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago are all members of this club, as if there are qualifications for being a resident of such a place. After three years, it’s clear to me that I’m not qualified to be a Chicagoan. Try as I may, I would rather be almost anywhere else most of the time. It isn’t that it’s a bad place to live; it just doesn’t fit.

Chicago has some beautiful places, like the Osaka Garden in Jackson Park, and Montrose Point Bird Sanctuary. It has some great food, like Frontier Hopleaf, Cafe Spiaggia, and XOCO. There are some great people here, like some of the friends I’ve made along the way. But at the end of the day, those aren’t enough for me to want to stay.

I’ve been told that I move too much and that I need to settle somewhere. That’s the point. I don’t know where I belong yet. I do know that it isn’t here. Three years in, and I feel like a visitor. An outsider. My goal is, within a year, to have picked a new city and either moved there or be in the process.

test for echo

We’re all a little different. Our quirks, passions, ideals, beliefs are all unique to each of us. I’d been hearing stuff like this for years, but until the past few months, I had no idea what it really meant.

I’m something of a sucker for psychology. It was one of my three minors in college, and the human experience has always fascinated me. “What makes us tick?” and “What makes us unique?? have always been questions that lingered in the back of my mind. A few months ago, a friend asked if I had ever taken the Myers-Briggs test (MBTI), a personality test based on Carl Jung’s theories of personality. It had been years since my last attempt, but I told her my last result. Because it had been probably a decade since my last test, I retook it on a whim, and got a different result. Much more different, and much more earth-shattering than the last one.

Jung’s theories test introversion vs. extroversion (which I’ve written about before), as well as how we gather information, make decisions, and how we assess the world around us. My score, INFJ, is the most rare of all the 16 personality types, with only about one percent of the total human population possessing this type. I’d long been told that I was weird, and strange, and goofy, and moody, etc. Until I took the test and got this result, which resonated with me on a level I’d never experienced, I’d just thought that I was, weird, strange, goofy, and moody. But I wasn’t weird, just rare.

With the help and power of social media, I reached out to other people who identified as INFJs, including my very dear friend Amelia, as well as INFJ/Introvert troubadour Jenn Granneman. There was a huge conversation today on Twitter about how those of us who identify with this moniker coped with living in a world that didn’t really seem to fit us. It began as something small but as it always does with people like us, who crave understanding and connection, it spread like wildfire, and continues even as I write this. Most of the participants in this conversation admit to being misunderstood or unaccepted in our youth because, as Introvert hero Susan Cain suggests, our culture requires us to be outgoing and bold in order to succeed. Meanwhile, people like Rosa Parks, Mahatma Ghandi, and Nelson Mandela were quiet revolutionaries and accomplished what they accomplished despite being in the limelight, not because they were in the limelight.

And that’s what we’re all looking for, isn’t it? Little, unsung victories that remind us of our strength, our power, and our inner light? Most of us will never be famous, and most of us would rather not be in the spotlight anyway. What we’re really looking for is connection. An answer to our test for an echo. A realization that we aren’t alone, and that there are those out there, in the great big noise that is humanity, who get us. We all deny ourselves of our truth in an attempt to fit with people who we want to accept us, all the while, failing to realize that we already fit with people we don’t know and don’t see, until we open our hearts, shout into the void, and listen for the response.

closing the book

Dear Facebook,

It isn’t you. It’s me.

Okay, maybe it’s both of us.

I joined six years ago, give or take a few months, because of a friend’s persistence in getting me to join during my time with Habitat. Since then, I broadcast my life, from leaving Baltimore, to this winter of my discontent in Chicago (with a hard time in California and three years in Fargo in between). We started off well, but things changed. You became a huge glorified yearbook with advertising and politics mixed in, and I became disillusioned, but like a relationship that lasted past its necessary end (something I know a lot about), I stayed.

I joined the ranks of Twitter, and Instagram, and found my people. People who had new things to say, and give, and offer, and show, without expecting much. I’ve made real, honest friends on other platforms. And while, at time of writing this, I have 635 Facebook friends, including family, I really only talk to a couple dozen of them, and I can get a hold of them elsewhere anyway.

I’ve realized how little time I actually spend with you anymore. It’s less than half-an-hour a day, and most of it is reading other people’s posts. I only post a few things now and then, and I’m more tame and low-key than I was once upon an election. You remember those days, don’t you? Of course you do.

So, It’s time for me to say goodbye. I know, you’ll say you’re sorry to see me go and some people will say I’ll be back because like a bad reality TV show, you’re an addiction of sorts. Not likely. Leaving you will give me more time to do what I need to do for myself. You bear too many memories I don’t want anymore, and it’s for the best that we go our separate ways.