L Eckert-A Tribute to Texas

Today I Feel Sorry for....

Today I feel sorry for the unemployed and disenfranchised,

sitting at the television watching dreams they cannot join in.

The pitiful soldier returning home to nothing, lied to and used for the monetary gain

of the Neiman Marcus, Saks crowd, still believing his sacrifice was to protect Americans.

Working class men and women are now working much harder for less...they should be grateful

some greedy business owner can throw them a job, like throwing a dog a scrap from the table of

broken

dreams.

I feel for the ridiculous follly of the young and uneducated, wasting valuable time, having babies (want and ignorance) hiding in society's robes.

Unable to earn, they will simply soon take....what they have no right to possess. Or do they?

All around us, and in our own family, we look upon the self entitled twits of everyday judgement.

The curtain calls.

 

Trucking Soliloquy on All Souls

Today the children are studying The Outsiders, a novel written by prominent Oklahoma author S.E. Hinton. In chapter 5 the main characters hop a train, and the young imaginations around the room ponder the possible destinations as if they themselves were fleeing authority on a ride into the unknown.

A bit bored by the hour after hour repetition, my own mind begins a bit of independent wandering. I am thinking about my bad luck with people.

I would drive my truck all around the country then return home; sadly, my journeys were always more about the people and less about the places.

Bitterly jealous relatives without any understanding of human decency, busily judging my life, like squawking vultures perched upon my shoulder sharing my view of the highway constantly pick, pick, picking away.

I grew so tired of their ridiculous questions, unfloundering ignorance, and snide suspicions. Most of them possessing no knowledge at all of where their food and clothes hail from, the endless ports of call around the continent, our massive transportation hubs, distribution centers, or the miracles performed each day by hardworking truckers.

Our transportation system, the finest in the world, and completely misunderstood by the general public, is the only industry preventing us from slipping into third-world status.

I think about the parade of former supervisors. The one with the pistol in his desk, the dopey, the cheap fraud, the guy with the wall behind his desk covered with continuing education certificates for trivial things like air brake safety and log book training, several cowards, and especially the men who encouraged me, and now applaud my achievements. As I stand on the brink of success or failure, the people who care about me are merely amused by the two-faced liars clinging to their misguided beliefs.

Whatever becomes of me, my child, my home, my image—the dishonest collection of thieving, petty, jealous relatives, and meaningless acquaintances, will surely fade into the tracks of proverbial nothingness, forgotten by the world, like snow simply drifting from the road.

But I have done something first—not once, but twice. And later, after all of this, I will find something else. And, once again, I will do it first, and I will not be forgotten. For this, I will suffer the vitriol, for, it is basically worth it.

The Quest for a Hero: Onward Ho!

Imagine a rudderless yacht pitching and yawing into the bleakest, darkest abyss, an empire without its noble champion, the meaningless monarch wandering into the mead hall hours after the Court has already assembled, exiting stage left before all of his other players, flapping his jacket like a goose poised for flight.

In my quest for a hero, I need not look here; yet, you know who you are.

No matter where she lived, her house always smelled like wet plaster. I sat in her overstuffed Lazy Boy recliner trying to appear painfully stupid, while some of the worst advice to ever pass tonsils flowed across the room into my seemingly ignorant ears.

"You should just use some White-Out on that document, photocopy it, and take it right up there to the tax office. No one will know there is a lien holder on that property."

Amused, and somewhat stunned, by the low-life assumption that I would falsify a document of any kind was rather maddening.

"I might think about it," I told her, "But I wouldn't want anyone to imagine I was trying to steal something."

"Well, you aren't really stealing," she replied. "You are simply owed the money, and you will be saving attorney fees."

I remember when my hero first made his presence obvious; she asked me, "Why would anyone of any stature care about you?" Her newer and larger chest heaved in anger, while she glared at my mother screaming, "Well, it's real to her!"

Anyone that purveys bad advice to you is not your friend.

Someone is pretending to lead the people, when instead he is simply enriching himself. However, over on the other side of the spectrum are people who actually sacrifice for their internal beliefs. Looking beyond the obvious and into the theme of the 'goose poised for flight' is an art I have mastered. Should we cook the goose, or let him remain? I believe even the most cowardly bird can be salvaged…..almost. It all really depends on how cheap the bird is, and whether or not he keeps a tawdry Court.

But in the quest for a fictional hero, one must usually 'cook the goose.' And in the case of an anti-hero, we often find our truest subject. As for me, I wouldn't want the purest of heroes, nor do I want Terry Eagleton's painfully honest interpretation of evil to dance across my pages. Or has it already done so?

Her rooms always smelled like wet plaster…hmm?

Dog Walking: the route to success?

Tonight I am almost too tired to write. But certain symbols of mundane everyday life keep passing by the eye of my mind. I know until I indulge myself sleep will elude me. So now I must banter on about something as strange as parantheses on a woman's face...one on each side, a perfect closure for a mouth much too wide.

Some say I am too fixated on dog walking. I worry about my own Scottish friend, and the cow dog up the street, a small chihuahua flouncing about the parking lot, and a tiny mixed luxury dog enduring trip after trip to Marek's Vet Clinic, hastily ratcheting up a huge bill for its owner.

I know how angry and confused the dogwalking crowd feels; often I am in that box myself; however, I don't cater to purveyors of child pornography, or old witches intent on the destruction of innocent life.

This week a Court in Houston sentenced some pervert to 200 years for child pornography. His sentence made me smile...I hope our local accused pervert (Stephen Wayne Sudduth) suffers a fate even more harsh. All of this in the shadows of our local school, imbedded in the community, a part of each person walking the dog.

As for me, the people who love me know I am simply "kicking the can." I rarely "walk the dog," unless it is understood I am pulling a load...then, indeed, I am "walking the dog."

Can all of this be the route to success? Can you bypass a college loan, or shun learning a valuable vocation, and simply walk the dog into financial security buffered by taxpayer money? I think it's possible...at least in Sealy.

Good night you fellow can kickers...I love you!

Writing and Reading Green: What about John Steinbeck?

Professor Heather E. Bruce of the University of Montana, published a fascinating article in January's edition of The English Journal, Green (ing) English: Voices Howling in the Wilderness. As most of my readers already know, I am a John Steinbeck fan. I visit the Steinbeck Center in Salinas, California; I read his works regularly, and I have studied a bit about his life. Even though I am only an undergrad, and a poor one at that, I still appreciate his early contribution to conservation and ecological awareness. As I read Professor Bruce's piece, I drank my Bombay Sapphire, munched on popcorn, and eagerly awaited her words on my favorite author's early achievements on this subject matter. My mind flew to the dustbowl of Oklahoma, his intricate descriptions of blight, dust, and the underlying causes. I reminisced about the characters in "The Grapes of Wrath." I thought about the enemies he had made in California farming, and the banning of his book. I started to worry.

Not once did the professor mention John Steinbeck. She included Simon Ortiz, Langston Hughes, Mark Twain, and many important literary figures. I loved her discussion of the Mississippi River and how it had become a character in its own right. She reminded me that since Twain's time we have seen very negative changes in the delta region, and how ecological damage is compounded by disasters such as Katrina, and the BP oil spill.

John Steinbeck's best friend was marine biologist Ed Ricketts (1897-1948). Ricketts influenced much of Steinbeck's work and the underlying themes of ecology, and preservation. I could not believe the professor completely disregarded Pulitzer Prize winner John Steinbeck. I read her article again, and I scanned it for his name, or Ricketts, but nothing. Together Ricketts and Steinbeck explored and studied species, habitats, and even indigenous peoples. They traveled to Mexico, and other foreign countries, searching for new life, and recording data. These experiences contributed to all of Steinbeck's work.

In spite of this exclusion, I still love Professor Bruce's very informative and inspiring article. She is correct, it is our responsibility to share with our children the importance of environmental justice, and how this is demonstrated in our important literary works. It is artful, the blending of ecology with the mind of the character, the details of a scene, the realism of a period in time. How we have toxified our environment, and the descriptions of abuse, are important concepts to share in our reading and writing. In this way, we can teach responsibility to those who are disconnected from nature by an urban life, or poverty.

I am going to check again! She must have mentioned him….

A Child's Sticks and other Thoughts on Respect

My child had a collection of sticks standing like little soldiers beside the front door. Sometimes they dropped across the threshold, and I would always ask him to gather them up so they wouldn't trip anyone; he would. His sticks would accompany him for walks around the neighborhood, a way to pass the time and make boyish discoveries. It was a learning opportunity for him, and it tested the patience and social maturity of those around us. Of course, they couldn't pass the test, and as soon as my child headed off to school in another state, someone took his sticks and threw them away. When he returned and found his sticks missing, he was heartbroken and disappointed. This was personal property; something he would have been glad to move had they simply asked. Symbolic of how they feel about me and my son, the sticks took a trip to the dumpster, a malicious and unnecessary, disrespectful, and cowardly ploy. It was a snot-faced and inexperienced sort of hateful act, much like parking in places you don't belong, and holding onto junk you can't afford.

I remember sitting home one weekend, tired from the road, but in for a good time, when I was excluded from a very special event. It was just another case of blatant disrespect...one of the attendees had the bad judgment to suggest that because I am whom I am, I probably wouldn't have anything to wear, nor the funds to pay my way. Finding proper attire, and some money to blow on a good time, hasn't been a recent problem for me. Maybe I couldn't have made the invitation list no matter what, but to suggest I am such a pauper, was, well, just a bit below the belt and disrespectful.

It's true, I am an underachieving vagabond of sorts that is addicted to travel. Real relationships are unsustainable; I am on the fly all the time. But I love everyone, and I am completely harmless. Like most people heavily engaged in the written word, I am extremely empathetic to the suffering of others, and sensitive to insult. It doesn't matter that my occupation is male dominated and most are tough as nails, and not harmless...I am different than my cohorts. I am a mother, and I feel my child's pain. I withered, and felt ashamed, for my child's loss of respect for his neighbors. Once again, he was forced to experience the terrible sting of a personal attack, childish as it was.

Whenever I philosophize about respect, I think of it as something to lose as opposed to earn. I never respect someone solely for their occupation. I have seen too many disgusting teachers, preachers, presidents, lawyers, and doctors who have done little, or nothing, courageous and trailblazing. You couldn't earn my respect even if you were a rocket scientist, however, I might marvel at your career. These ideas should never be confused; if you confuse them, then you have cheapened the personal importance of respect, you have made it less. I have had respect, for different philosophical reasons, for people in all walks of life. I have had none for some holding the highest degrees. For that reason, (careers aside) I expect people to respect me and my child. We are not less, we are but a bit more, and my occupation only enhances whom I am, it is not the total sum of my success as a learner, teacher, mother, friend, or relative.

I am bothered by the disrespect we have endured, but that's about all. It's like a gnat in your wine glass. Those who have fallen over the rim suffer the same swimming, struggling, yet never dying, in a perpetual circular motion of meaningless existence...the hole in their hearts, and the emptiness in their minds, is everlasting simply because they are confused about respect. They deny it to those who are worthy, and grant it to the superficial and phony.

The Thanksgiving Holiday Load: Writing Perspectives from the Plane

Tonight I am home, and the housekeeper has cleaned, and my trailer is partially loaded with wonderful holiday produce. The dog is underfoot, wanting a walk, and I am tired and wet sitting in a bath towel. The old lady downstairs is blaming me for her heart attack, and another man nearby has played his cards too soon; he has shown his true colors.

These ideas bring me to once again discuss the power of the written word, and the failures of the spoken. When you listen to gossip and revel in its force, then you are surely a fool. But if you take a document and you write your story, and you intertwine with your feelings, your truth, and the substance of your problem, then not only are you enlightened by the power of your activity, your literacy, but your readers will hear the ring of truth.

I live in a community where ignorance is championed and education is thrust aside. Writing is considered stupid. People are not encouraged to gain knowledge, they are advised to fit in. So groupthink, bullying, and a lack of individuality is highly encouraged. Once again, today, I was told to move. I simply will not move, I like it here. This is a place where change is desperately needed, and the fiefdom is losing its way.

But this is only a speck of a place, with little, or no importance, to the big picture. Whenever I write about writing, metacognitive, I ponder the possibilities of nonfiction. I read some fiction, but not much. I only like the stuff that borders extremely close to historical, or present, reality. For example, if I was to write a fiction, it would have to include some of the characters I have found in Sealy: the flouncer, the old biddies, the women in flip-flops, the local molester, the townhome president, the treasurer, the thirty-something complete failure, and of course the mean old woman who constantly lies about children, and pets, for attention.

My setting would have to be pretty accurate, a severely flawed, rather tacky townhome community with huge social and monetary problems. But something this trivial seems a waste of time. These people, their actions, and their cheap agenda is simply not worthy of the pen. They are not "Tortilla Flat," and they are not "Cannery Row." They are simply narrow characters without depth; they are too shallow to inspire art.

So what does someone like me write about? I am looking for an interesting character, a truth, a philosophy, a way of life beyond the norm, someone who has a message to send. I want to write above me, and not below. I want you to find me.

Critical Thought can Eradicate Flip Flops and White Out

Paulo Freire, Brazilian born educator, was a leader who helped bring diplomacy, critical thought, and a multicultural focus to the composition classroom. Reading him tonight reminds me of how the public school agenda primarily sustains itself politically. The motivation to focus on children is overshadowed by the more dominant adult goals: career, pay scale, prestige, cronyism, and climbing the administration tower. How can students who are accustomed to this "inequitable structure" even be brought to consciously acknowledge its presence and then reconcile with the injustice?

Providing students with a class focused on the tenants of democracy and social change creates a community of writers willing to explore the boundaries put into place by the traditional power structure. Studying authors of various diverse situations and backgrounds provides a platform of open discussion and free ideas. Enthusiasm for writing is enhanced by the student's critical evaluation of one dominant culture's marginalization of another's place in any open setting: school, politics, public areas, etc.

I frequently encounter people who will ask me what inspires me to write. Injustice is at the root of most great writing. I am only an amateur, but my favorite authors and thinkers were motivated by their anger at the inequities they personally experienced.  My mind is not so open that it is closed. I do have boundaries, and I do not consider myself a Marxist. Instead, I believe those who misuse the power structure are the true socialists in some sense. They have managed the system and shaped it to benefit only those whom they find worthy, their favorites. In many cases their workload and contribution is minimal, they have no reason to succeed, and oversight is canceled by the system they have created. They are not employed in a school district because they want to change and improve the lives of children; they are in the system, and accepting taxpayer's money, to maximize their own security. This is why we have a problem with disenfranchised and uneducated youth. You may think this sounds like capitalism, however, I believe socialism fails once corrupted.

When diversity and outside ideas are not welcome in the school community, then the agenda is suddenly obvious; the public school must sustain itself politically. The structure is created and maintained not for students, but for adults.