Character – Page 6 – Snail Trek Blog

Bicycle Hoops, Bicycle Heaps

It was dusk, and in the landscape of cold concrete, a bright yellow bike, and four cheerfully-painted hoops intended for chaining bicycles jumped out of the dull gray surroundings. The bright oval hoops resembled the iconic rings of the Olympic competitions. Someone rested their bicycle on a trip to the store, or perhaps on an appointment to meet a friend. What story could this bicycle tell?

As a kid growing up in Germany, I rode a green three-speed bicycle with a whirring generator pressed against the wheel to power its lights at night. It was a 9-mile bike trip from my house along the Rhine River to my elementary school, and it was my brother’s and my favorite weekend expedition to spend time with our friends.

My green bicycle also served me well when my mother sent me to the next village to purchase small amounts of groceries. I would inevitably treat myself with gummi bears at the store, so I particularly savored these expeditions. On one occasion, coming home with a loaf of bread strapped to the rack on the back wheel’s fender, suddenly my bicycle squealed to an abrupt halt; the back wheel suddenly froze in place, leaving a long skid mark, and me very nearly dismounting into thin air over the handlebars. As I barely controlled my near-disastrous dismount, I was pelted with bits of who-knows-what, flying in every direction. It was bread. A bump in the road had dislodged my cargo – the loaf of bread – and flipped it into the air and launched it into my spokes, where it was effectively shredded, pieces propelled in all 360 degrees. My pride bruised, but spokes unbent, I hastened to the bakery to replace the load—and refresh my stash of gummi bears for my second ride home to my waiting mother.

A few years ago, I saw a tangle of bicycles on a street in Amsterdam, heaped together and temporarily discarded by their owners, who were rendezvousing with friends or completing essential errands. A strange scene, I thought, bikes piled up like that. I stepped closer, quietly, cautiously sneaking up on their cold frames, worn seats and spindly tires.

Until my ears adjusted, I mistook the sound for birds twittering. Gradually I could make it out—the sound of joking, of laughter, of stories coming from the bicycles themselves, about their usual mounted riders: the owner whose backside had so overgrown its throne that the embarrassed bicycle seat shuddered to feel his royal rear descend upon it. The gears gushed in howls of laughter over retelling their own story of the chain pulling loose from the sprockets just at the moment its rider pulled up to an attractive maiden’s bicycle, upending him and launching him upon his bottom, effectively removing the seat of his pants. And then the most tender story–a woman’s battered purple bike, at the top of the heap of partying bikes, who admitted her fear on being hastily discarded at the hospital door by her owner – the rider – a woman about to give birth. Her owner possessed no other means of transport to medical care. The protracted hours had ground by with no news of the pregnant woman. Finally, worried over her well-being, the old purple bike heard the triumphant howls from the husband who had arrived late. His wife had delivered a baby girl. Carefully, the new father had then loaded the purple bike into the car, tenderly touching spokes and handlebars while affirming, “Good bike. Faithful bike….”

Like a tear on a child’s cheek, a drop of rain fell on the purple bicycle’s worn frame and slowly worked its way down, until it fell on the other bicycles below.

“You are the only one he wanted to testify on his behalf.”

What if each of us had only one person we could call to the witness stand, and the strength of that one person’s testimony could free us from being behind bars for the rest of our lives?

And yet, under the legal system, we are guilty. But that one person – the right person – might speak on our behalf, altering the conviction that, by law, we deserve.

Last week I received a subpoena from the Court of Los Angeles Attorney for the Defendant’s office. I am to appear at the sentencing hearing of one of my former parole office Literacy Classroom students. The defendant is a 45-year-old “two-striker” who, before coming into my classroom, had been imprisoned for twenty-five years. He was now on parole. One more felony would make him a “three-striker,” eligible for a mandatory life sentence.

While in my classroom, where I teach people who are on parole, the defendant never caused me any problems. He was polite. He had previously never even touched a computer, such as we taught him to use in the classroom. He had left my class suddenly; he just stopped showing up. I later learned that he had been arrested and convicted for the burglary of a 99 Cent store. That made him a three-striker, fully eligible to spend the rest of his life in prison.

Small theft. Huge consequences. He had just earned himself a life sentence.

His lawyer, the public defendant lawyer who had sent me the subpoena, asked if I would testify in court on his behalf as part of a plea bargain. I explained there was not much I could talk about except his classroom attendance record and his classroom demeanor. I couldn’t speak to anything else. She indicated that she was eager to have me in court, regardless.

I was, she explained, the only person he wanted to appear in his defense, to testify in his behalf. I was speechless. My appearance could determine whether he will spend the rest of his life in prison. My decision is made; I have no choice but to appear.

Since then, I continue wondering, and perhaps it is good to ask ourselves two questions:

Whose lives do we affect to the degree that we would be asked to show up in their defense?

And: Do we have friends in whose lives we have invested well enough, that we could ask them to show up at our own defense?

The Inclusive “We,” Part 3

When “We” Becomes “You”

– “I, struggling and feeble, floated, detached, along with other river-traveling rubber ducks.”

He is a well-know motivational speaker with insights that chip away at my preconceptions in just the right places. Most of us recognize a high-quality speech when we hear it:

– Excellent, stimulating content.

– Well-selected illustrations.

– Appropriate tone and delivery style.

– Well-paced presentation.

– Ahh, not too longwinded! (Research says that most of us can pay good attention for only about twenty minutes. I think I max out at fifteen.)

But just why was I having such a hard time listening to his discourse? Why was this battle of resistance within me? Well…he seemed aloof, above it all, having conquered his own shortcomings and now obtrusively barreling in on mine.

What could be the matter with me?

As he spoke, I started identifying categories of words, and that’s when I realized what was going on.

He shoveled out barrels of certain pronouns in his homily. I tripped over the quantity of them and quickly lost count. By the end, I drowned in the pronouns “I” and “You,” which separated him from me. He seemed to have “arrived” by constantly referring to his audience as “you.” He seemed above the fray.

Other pronouns received nary a mention. Scarce as gold veins in a mine, I was at a loss to find any of them. Not once did he mention the inclusive pronoun “we,” which would have indicated we were on this life journey together.

Noticing the imbalance was unavoidable.

I never heard him once utter the inclusive pronoun “We,” which would have linked our successes and struggles together as people with common challenges. Instead, my life (“You”) was juxtaposed against his (“I”).

It appeared that he had successfully run the rapids, dodging life’s obstacles, now a river’s length between us; it seemed that he, successful in all aspects of his life, had crossed the currents without me, while I, struggling and feeble, floated, detached, along with other river-traveling rubber ducks (“We”), still weighted down by our shortcomings. His success and his advice was unapproachable.

Unlike those in my previous two posts, he was not “We”-centered. He did not appear to join with us to help meet our common needs. The well-known motivational speaker did not include us as part of his family. He was exclusively “Me”-centered, and that made all the difference.

The Inclusive “We,” Part 2

Morro Bay can be a tough spot to find reasonably-priced, comfortable, cozy, breakfast restaurants. Geared to tourists, many eateries feel like a cold gastronomical production line. Then we found The Coffee Pot. It faces opposite an ocean view; diners require the capacity to enjoy a good view of the parking lot.

Upon our second visit, the place was packed, and we understood why. Our first visit was punctuated with overhearing pleasant conversations and the enjoyable care of an industrious, agreeable staff. This time, we joined others who waited on sunny benches outside until tables became available.

Within moments, the owner himself came out with a steaming pot of coffee, sweetener and creamer, and cups enough for all of us. He shared a magical smile as he stooped to offer us refreshments and to apologize for the delay. After we were seated within the restaurant, he flitted from table to table, touching regular customers on the shoulder as he greeted them, sitting and chatting with an elderly couple near us for a long while. Then he stooped to gather spilled items beneath a table, near the waitress’s feet—never reproaching the server.

I observed his winning ways during our entire meal, and as we departed, I thanked him for being an unusually hospitable host and an outstanding example to us all.

“I don’t do this for the money,” he explained. “I do this because I love what I do.”

He was not “Me”-centered. Instead, he wanted to help meet our needs. The owner of the Coffee Pot Restaurant included us as part of his family. He was inclusively “We”-centered, and that made all the difference.

The Inclusive “We,” Part 1

Tootling along a country road near Paso Robles last week, my wife alerted me to a sign for the Kenneth Volk winery. Now we know that winery, one of our favorites, and the tasting room, are in Santa Maria, not Paso Robles. We stopped to investigate and discovered that this weekend was the grand opening of this brand new location’s tasting room. Once inside, we began a tasting, and shortly thereafter, the dirty worker near us went to the back room. We asked about this new venue, and our server replied, “Why don’t you ask Kenneth Volk himself? I’ll get him.” Out from the back room came the same dirty, disheveled “worker” who had just been with us, his hands soiled from planting tomatoes. He apologized. “Hi, I’m Kenneth Volk,” he announced. We were astonished. THE Kenneth Volk, the owner of the winery, then spent the next half hour with us, pouring wines and explaining the subtleties of the Art of the Grape. When we asked for a picture with him, he insisted we take two—one in the shade and one in the sunlight.

So why did Kenneth Volk make such a deep impression on us? In his humility, he did not question our credentials. He didn’t ask if we were Kenneth Volk club members. He didn’t rush away to other chores, though his new establishment’s grand opening would be the next day. He didn’t apologize for his working-class appearance.

He was not “Me”-centered. Instead, he wanted to help meet our needs. Kenneth Volk included us as part of his family. He was inclusively “We”-centered, and that made all the difference.

Civility Goes Subjunctive

Just one railcar missing from the morning train commute can easily demonstrate how far civility has plummeted. The five-car train reduced to four cars meant standing room only. The train was packed. Still, packages clustered on seats from earlier-boarding passenger remained unmoved so that other passengers could not be seated. The passengers who stood in the aisles numbered more women than men. Not one seated male passenger offered his seat to a standing woman.

Just as an English grammarian notes the gradual demise of the subjunctive case in English grammar, something feels missing. Mostly vanishing from English usage is the classic subjunctive phrasing, “If I were you,” replaced by the colloquial but grammatically incorrect, “If I was you.”

So, likewise, courteous behavior is apparently vanishing from our societal deportment. For a seated man not to give up his seat for a standing woman was once unthinkable. Now—not so much.

What I missed on this morning’s train ride was anything resembling the notion, “If I were more civil, I would give up my seat for a woman.”

Beautiful! Civil and subjunctive!

Yellow Line

I listened passively to the chatter between two computer geeks about how to keep personal computer data safe and secure. Just as I was tuning out the conversation, they identified two critical principles that go way beyond computer geekdom. I haven’t been able to get these two simple, profound principles out of my head.

Geek Principle #1: Impulse Control

The geeks explained the number one way to guard against Internet virus pirates who steal and corrupt data files is to control dangerous impulse practices. Don’t use easy passwords. Be careful which Internet sites are visited. Share personal information sparingly and wisely to keep yourself safe online.

Geek Principle #2: Proactive Practice

They described Proactive Practice as the consistent application of the Impulse Control principle on an ongoing basis.

Living by these two principles, according to the geeks, will protect us and the environments we care most about: ourselves, our families, and our enterprises. My thoughts? Like a yellow line of demarcation, these principles may help to keep us on the side of the street where we belong.

Now–ratchet the focus from computers to other life issues. How well do we implement these two principles?

The dude throwing trash from the window of his car–how does he think that’s okay? Did it start with a gum wrapper and de-sensitized Impulse Control?

The gradually growing love handles just above my belt. When did my weakened Impulse Control allow food choices and exercise habits to gradually conspire against me?

Temper and impatience can bubble below the surface, barely out of sight. When did I grant access to those treacherous partners to attach to me like remora fish?

But even after I identify the areas where I lack of Impulse Control and try to corral the behaviors that hinder me, the job is only half done.

That’s when I need to apply geek principal #2–Proactive Practice. Consistent vigilance through Proactive Practice will help to keep destructive behaviors on the far side of the yellow line.