I love the in-between. Don’t mistake me: I hate transition. Irregular, unexpected Change is persona non grata in my book. But I love the in-between seasons. When I look at my nature poems (most of which were involuntarily written for writing exercises), they are about autumn or spring. Occasionally, a poem about early winter, arguably still a part of the in-between, works its way into my writing. But those are really praising Snow and not the wonders of the season itself.
One of my favorite fictional characters, A Separate Peace’s Finny, believed that if you love someone then they love you back. To him, it was the only logical, natural conclusion. I have a little of Finny’s logic when it comes to seasons. Fall mornings and evenings should have a nip in the wind, a bite that makes hot cocoa and pumpkin stew the most logical conclusion to the day. And, naturally, those cooler temperatures require fall clothes—sweaters should be deep orange and red; it’s their most natural state. Sweaters are most sweater-like when they are autumnal. Spring mornings and evenings, however, should have a playful breeze that swishes through our hair, making it wave back at the bobbing daffodils. And who would have soup in spring when the cool, fresh strawberries are available? And just as naturally, spring dresses should be bright, breezy, and floral. This week, I tried to get my spring clothes out. After all, Easter has long since passed, and Easter is in my ideal world the epitome of spring (in the same logical way that my birthday is the pinnacle of fall). But after a short jaunt to the corner store, I returned to my room to switch out my airy blue blouse for an autumnal orange turtleneck. That change of clothes shook my paradigm for seasons. It reminded me that last fall most of what I wore was my light-weight “spring” dresses, and most of what I wore this spring has been my warm “fall” clothes. After that epiphany, I looked back over the years. Usually, I roasted on my birthday because I wanted to wear my fallish clothes, and usually I froze on Easter because my springy Easter dress was several layers too thin. Although each year, I noted that my outfit wasn’t right for the weather, the next year I somehow expect it to be different. I will assume part of the responsibility for my disappointment, but I think that clothes manufacturers need a few mea culpas, too. After all, if they made light-weight dresses in fall colors and warm sweaters in spring colors, I might have something to wear that is actually seasonal instead of an idealized notion of seasonal. As is it, at some point today I will have to brave getting out of my fortress of blankets with my toes curled under the radiator for an additional boost of warmth, and instead of accessorizing with my new pale green bamboo patterned scarf, I will wrap up in my somber winter scarf. Not that it matters what I wear. No one has seen my fall or spring clothes in five months since it’s too cold to take my coat off. Hmm, I should have bought a cuter coat.
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This is the continuation of a story that came to me almost as soon as I moved to a foreign country ("Trapped").
I am not a criminal. My passport is stamped with a visa allowing me to come, live, and work here. In fact, I am working for the government. But as I sit here at the teller’s window at the bank, filling out their paperwork for the third time, I feel like a criminal. “This isn’t your name,” the teller said after examining the first form I filled out. Rather than immediately tell me what was wrong, she had silently scrutinized the form, then my passport, then me for a long ten minutes before deciding that my name was wrong. I filled out the form again, writing my name the way her country wanted it, yet feeling like a liar for changing my name on a legal form. Another silent ten minutes passed by, her eyes bouncing like a pinball from the form, the screen, the passport, and me. Finally, she told me that I couldn’t leave any boxes blank. She starred the blank field and shoved the paperwork through the hole in the window to have me fix it. I glanced at the form and inwardly groaned—I had left it blank because I didn’t know the address for where I was born. No one I know has that information memorized. I tried to explain that I couldn’t answer that question. “You don’t know where you were born?” Disbelief and disgust filled her words. Maybe, I thought, she is being polite for her country. For my country, she was being rude enough for me to call the bank manager. But she already had a group of tellers helping her treat me like a criminal or idiot. Perhaps the bank manager was already watching. “No, I don’t. I know the city,” I explained, “but not the address. I haven’t lived there in thirty years.” So, now I am filling out the form the third time with four bank associates staring down at me from behind an inch of glass. Even with this final form, the teller makes me redo my signature because it does not exactly match my passport. She asks for a copy of my contract to prove that I have income. I inwardly fume at her implication and wait another long round of visual pinball after I tell her that I don’t have a copy with me. I helplessly watch as she takes care of transactions for other tellers and count money for her supervisor, seemingly eager to help every other person in the bank rather than finish with me. Finally, she asks if I have any money to deposit. I explain that I do, but I need to exchange it first. She helps three more people before insisting that she cannot exchange my money until I have deposited money into my account. I explain that I will have money to deposit but only after she exchanges it for me. A kind person—the only kind person in the entire building, in my opinion—behind me in line hands them a few inconsequential bills to use to open my account. Then the teller helps some other people before taking my money to exchange. She carefully examines each bill, handling it, holding it up to the light, passing it around the group of tellers watching her. Finally, she shoves one bill through the window to me. “We cannot take that one,” she says. “It’s ripped.” I pick up the offending bill—a crisp bill straight from my bank only three days ago. After I turned it over several times, I saw it—a miniscule tear in the corner. Angry, I want to take all my money back and storm out of here. I want to cry out at their rudeness, condescension, and incivility. But I have already endured hours at this bank, and maybe all banks are like this here. The teller had the power to open my account and exchange my money. If I was to have money for groceries for the month until I got my first paycheck here, then I would have to swallow her insults and be treated like a criminal. One of the side effects of living abroad is that I follow the news. After all, if the nation disappears overnight, I want to know. For me, “follow the news” means to glance at headlines in my news feed; that usually is enough to know what latest natural disaster has hit the country (for the record, based on the headlines since I moved overseas, I’m surprised that large parts of the country haven’t disappeared like Atlantis) and which celebrity did something that is somehow newsworthy (also for the record, I still don’t understand how Celebrity X’s dislike of Politician Z merits attention).
Headlines reveal cultural trends. And lately the headlines fall into two categories: 1) Someone made a horrendous mistake and should be nailed to the wall! or 2) These people are amazing for loving themselves and shouldn’t have to hear criticism! Half of the stories demand perfection; half demand grace. In one interview, a man slipped and said a wrong number. The media nailed him for it. In another interview, a man made a verbal fumble. Listeners misheard the non-word he said and chose to believe he had insulted them. An announcer for a televised event was fired because people were offended by an off-handed, decontextualized comment. I don’t know how many formal apologies were issued during the Winter Olympics, but the headlines were full of the offended public demanding their grievances be heard. As someone whose job is talking, I shudder at the implications of these stories. We have all had those moments when our brains want to say one thing and our mouths say something else. We laugh at Brian Regan’s “Take luck” because we have experienced those “Oh, no! Words!” moments. I cannot be perfect. But these headlines communicate that I cannot slip, I cannot fumble, I cannot be human. My reputation and career are at stake. And everyone with a smart device is watching and ready to post it when I fail. In the first group of articles, the person talking was a villain and the complainers were the victims. In the second group of articles, the roles are swapped. Anyone who offers feedback about someone’s social media posts is dubbed “a shamer,” which, of course, is an evil, vile, villain. In these articles, if someone offers an opinion that we do not like, we call them “a shamer,” put them down in someway with a comeback, and have hundreds of people on social media affirm our right to vilify others. The purported message is that we should love ourselves and each other just way we are, warts and all. But really both groups of articles demand perfection of others. “We must accept the shortcomings of everyone,” they cry . . . except the shortcoming of that person who wrote a stupid comment on social media. “We should celebrate our progress, not focus on our mistakes,” they cry . . . except the single mistake someone made in an interview should overshadow all the intelligent statements that surrounded it. We demand that others give us grace and overlook our weaknesses, but in return, we demand others be perfect and never need grace themselves. One of my favorite authors, Paul David Tripp, says that because we do not see our own need for grace, we do not extend grace to others. That is the cultural trend I see in the headlines. If we remembered how often we fumble for words, how often we say something that just doesn’t make sense, how often we do something we regret later, then we would remember that others make those mistakes, too. Those who think they are without sin, not knowing the beauty of grace, feel safe to stone others. Only the sinner, having experienced the sweetness of grace, can extend grace to the fellow sinners around him. Having removed the idea of sin from our culture, we have removed grace as well. |
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