Learning is Change

My wife just got rid of her Facebook account. She had been threatening to do it for the last year or so. She claims that she was not using it for the right reasons. Sure, she wanted to keep up with what was going on with her close circle of friends, but she does that on the phone and through text messages on a daily basis. She also wanted to continue keep up her non-profit’s presence, but now that she no longer works there, it hardly seems like much a draw to go and lurk. In fact, she considered most of what she was doing to be lurking. She would look at photographs of old friends or see status updates from people she only “befriended” out of obligation. In essence, there was no good reason to keep using facebook for her. And other than trying to tell her that she will need an account one day to sign up for other services because Facebook connect may be the defacto login of the future, I wasn’t able to come up with anything compelling to persuade her otherwise.

Social networking is not a requirement, yet.

For those of us that work in social networks and our livelihoods depend upon making connections and cultivating communities, Facebook and Twitter are essential. For those that cannot (or will not) keep up with their friends through more conventional means, social networks are the bedrock of our contact with the outside world. For everyone else, they are a luxury. They are the thing that we do to pass the time. They are entertainment. They are a slightly more active version of television. Status updates and infinite pictures and movies are the things that we do while we are waiting in line, for something else better to happen in “real life.”

And I like that my wife still has a choice. I like that she can go in and delete her account (even if her profile picture and “likes” will probably never fully be deleted from the memory of the internet. I like that she can quit Facebook and feel no lingering effects of disconnect because she has all that she needs outside of those “friends.”

She is more open to what is in front of her than I am right now. She can dial someone on the phone and feel as though she has someone on the other end that really wants to hear from her rather than someone that is just eavesdropping on a wall posting that doesn’t seem to have a beginning or end. No one is going to “poke” her or tag her into a list of nonsense. No one is going to look her up after 15 years of non-connection and rekindle a small friendship that was doomed once she left Kansas City.

I am proud of her for quitting Facebook. It is much more than I could ever do. The connections I have on that social network are split into Former Students, High School Acquaintances, Internet Colleagues that I already connect with through Twitter, email or Skype, and my family. While I like seeing how my former students have turned out, most of the time I end up checking in just to tell one of them to take down a picture of them drinking (so they can get a job in the future). The three people I still talk to from high school I call on the phone and send emails to regularly. The internet colleagues I have collected over the years have more ways to contact me than I care to list. There is nothing that Facebook presents other than a way for my family to post pictures of our gatherings in one place. And I don’t post anything other than notes of Facebook because I don’t own anything that I put up there.

Of what value is this silo of connections?

The only thing that I can think to answer is that I don’t YET know. I am so intrigued by the singularity of Facebook. It is the only service that consumes over 500 million active users. Its potential is so amazing that I want to stick it out until I find it useful. I want to be there when they come up with the thing that connects us all together in a more meaningful way than what we like or where we went to college. But, they better do it soon. Otherwise, I might have to join my wife in the land of the Facebookless.

I love when other people parent my children well. I’m glad when my brother feels empowered enough to put my son in timeout. I’m glad when family friends get my children milk. I don’t think twice about letting other people we have chosen to share our house with take a central role in talking with my children and listening, and giving them attention.

I am not afraid of passing off my parenting duties for a few minutes when others are so willing. It is not an abdication. It is a righteous choice. I am supposed to let the village around me take part in bringing up my kids. Not because I need a break or can’t handle my own children, but because my children need to see that their are other responsible adults that care deeply for them. They need to see love from everyone and not just an insular view of it from me. They need to see the diverse ways that people can live and experience the world. And they need to see it work in their favor.

It is the same with anyone seeing things for the first time. The newbies in any community need to see that the community cares for them even if their primary mentors are unavailable. They need to know they are taken care of and will be ushered through their rites of passage.

And events that measure time, like birthdays, holidays and anniversaries must be observed. The years of use and the number of connections within a community matter. They should not be take lightly. We should know how much you have grown since the last time we saw you. We should mark when the newbie is no longer new. We should move them from the kids table. They should be able to speak intelligently about the things that were formerly out of reach.

That will allow our communities to progress, to change over time and adapt to the needs of its members. My children will one day host Thanksgiving, and I hope that by letting them know their community they will never forget just how important it is.

One younger brother, one older brother, two sisters-in-law, one family friend, one family of friends (two adults and three children),and one family of the family of friends (two adults and two children).

As it turns out, it actually requires two houses to cook for one full house. Who knew?

It feels like nothing else. Like pursuing a truth for so long and finding your every move validated.

It feels like seeing the lifetime of your ideas every day. You see them be born, grow into their awkwardness and then retire into a comfortable home.

Every day I see the changes I am making. I am not taking meetings, I am changing the way people connect with one another. I see the difference. It is me.

And there is nothing like it.

My wife got me four beautiful lowball (Old Fashioned) glasses yesterday. They have spiral lines and large circle patterns that match our wine glasses perfectly. It was a conscious attempt to bring my love for an occasional scotch into the fold. It makes it more acceptable to pass out drinks if you feel as though you aren’t just picking glassware out of the back of the cupboard. If there is some theme, some design to the glasses, it makes it feel as though you are purposeful, as if you aren’t trying to hide what you are drinking. And I most definitely am not.

It has taken me years to finally find something that is worthy of drinking slowly and pondering with others. It has taken me just as long to finally appreciate the complexity of alcohol and a disinterest with feeling the affects of it. I would rather feel the heavy based glass in my hand and hear the good conversation around me than stumble up the stairs at the end of the night. So, sometimes I use these glasses for egg nog. Sometimes they are for a little bit of orange juice. Sometimes, the Old Fashioned glasses are the perfect amount of water to soothe my palette.

It is the heavy base that makes it for me. You know that it isn’t going anywhere and that no child passing by is going to knock it over. You know as you hold it in your hand that the words you say are extra weighty and you choose them with purpose. You use the glass as a part of your gestures because it makes your point all the more. The heavy base makes the most satisfying sound as it hits the table for the last time and the ice settles against the side of the glass. The clink of putting your glasses together to toast a friend is even more pronounced because of how comfortable it is in your hand. It isn’t overgrown or awkward as a Tom Collins or wine glass can be. You don’t have to make up new ways to hold it as you might a snifter. There is a but a single comforting way of gripping a lowball and it feels like returning home every time that you do.

This small but undeniable comfort is overly sentimental. It is taking an inanimate object and placing emotions on top of it that are clearly more meaningful to me because of the experiences I have had while the glass is in my hand. I have found deeper friends and started new endeavors. I have thought about my future and wrestled with my past. They are inconsequential for everyone else in the room, but for me they are essential.

These glasses are the prop that I would like to use to advance the plot of my story. It isn’t what is in them that matters. It is their use that beckons the story forward. They are the ones begging the question, “What’s next?” They are the ones giving courage to tackle the conversations that we must have. Not because they are magical, but because they are mine.

My wife gave me glasses yesterday. Today, I thank her for all of the conversations I will have with them.

Fruit snacks are one of the most incredible treats to a child. The molded gelatinous fruit juice in the shapes of favorite cartoon characters or objects is treasured almost beyond understanding. They are toys, they are dolls, and they are food. You can get them stuck in your teeth for hours and while you try to push them around with your tongue, you taste the grape goodness with each attempt. You can line them up on the table and watch as they dwindle down to nothing, each one flying into your mouth with joy and intrigue for the forthcoming flavor.

My favorite fruit snack was a child was called Thunder Jets. It wasn’t that I wanted to be a pilot or that I particularly couldn’t get enough of flying them through the air on the way to my mouth. It was the fact that the stealth bomber, the most secret weapon of 1980’s boyhood didn’t come in every pack. It was the one fruit snack that you searched for over any other. You wanted to know if you had been chosen by the snack gods to have the sweet taste of the elusive black airplane.

If I was so lucky as to have received a bomber, I would always put it aside and let it watch all of the other planes as they dive bombed into my mouth. I would always save the most special treat for last. I would treat it with respect and play with it longer than any sticky foodstuff should be played with before reaching its final destination. It would do barrel rolls and it would make rescue runs at the imaginary people on the table. I would show it off to my friends who had to go without the pleasure of knowing the bomber on that day. I would taunt them as I lifted it high into the air and let it drop casually into my mouth, as if it were nothing that I had the envy of everyone at the snack table.

This was why I loved Thunder Jets. I was attached to them because of their exclusive and differentiating influence. The stealth bomber represented, if for only a few minutes, the feeling of winning at a game that we all wanted to play. I came out ahead and everything was put right for just a moment. And it was delicious.

I wonder what my stealth bomber is now. I feel as though owning an iPad is no longer something that sets us apart. You aren’t really winning when everyone else has their “magical” device of choice. It isn’t a particular watch or handbag or house or car, either. None of those things really seem like you were chosen for something bigger and better. The honor of having a stealth bomber is so much more significant because it wasn’t a choice.

It’s possible that the stealth bomber of today is the “like” button. It is the validation that through merely being yourself, others will promote you. It is the fact that because you shared that link or single wonderful quip that you will be showered with praise and others will look on in envy. It is the differentiating factor between the events that have significance and those that do not. It is in knowing that everything you do will not be liked and commented on that lets you know just how valuable the moments of being “liked” are.

While the moment of opening a Thunder Jets pack and finding a bomber is gone for me forever (the RIP facebook group has already been set up), I know that I can still feel the sensation of holding up a little piece of aspiration and flying it around for the world to see as they all “like” it. I can still internalize that feeling and savor and swallow the moment until I can unwrap a new thought worthy of showing off.

The more I think about it, perhaps my whole life is a big bag of Thunder Jets now. Is that a good thing?

I don’t know that I will ever get very good at shaking hands.

Try as I might, I seem to foul it up somewhere along the way. Whether it is in the firmness of the handshake or reaching out too soon. I always seem to be the one waiting around for the reciprocation of intention. I’ve got nothing wrong with the custom, and I definitely see its importance for starting the introduction process. The issue I have is that it represents an awkward exchange of contact info, a hideously inefficient way to remember names and faces. Plus, I’m no good at the act itself.

After I leave my hand out far too long and either squeeze the new contact’s hand off or apply the wet fish experience to them, I state my name, listen for theirs and then promptly forget it. I have no context for the meeting as of this point and I don’t know who this player is at all. I find myself making a crib sheet of all of the new people that I have met in my Google Docs notes or on a napkin if I’m to be without devices at this meeting. The handshakes have meant nothing because the rest of the info was still waiting to be said.

I wrestle with the notion that we should all just put Bump on our phones and do that instead of shaking hands. But then, of course, we would lose that human touch and everything would be about your identity and importance rather than just looking someone in the eyes and knowing them as the person standing in front of you.

And yet, I look into those eyes as I meet someone for the first time and I don’t know what to think. I don’t know if you are someone I can trust or if you are someone who has ulterior motives. I don’t know where your allegiance lies or whether you are the type to reflect and write. If I shake your hand, am I saying that I am starting something that I can’t finish.? Am I saying that you are someone that I would like to become acquainted with, even though I have no frame of reference except for the fates have conspired to bring us together? Are you the type of person that I would like to hang out with after work? Are you going to provide me with a wealth of resources and ideas down the line? My mind races to come up with all of the possible scenarios of how this relationship will play out. And none of them are done justice by the unorthodox hand holding I just gave you.

I can’t refuse to shake hands either. I can’t reserve judgment and then introduce myself at the end of a lovely conversation. I tried this once with a woman at a dinner party. I had been talking with her all evening and we had shared quite a bit about ourselves. At the end of the dinner with The Royal Fondue Society, I shook her hand and told her my name. She looked at me with a mix of disgust and surprise. She said, “I know who you are.” I felt as though I had insulter her intelligence when all I wanted to confirm was that we were going to know each other for longer and that she was going to remember me beyond the evening. I botched the whole thing and I haven’t had another direct conversation with her since.

The handshake is a double edged sword. If you do it as you are supposed to, the only thing gained is saving face. You do not gain the information you need to construct an understanding of what will transpire. You certainly do not seal any deals upon just meeting someone. If you do it wrong (i.e, too late in the relationship or with too littler/not enough gusto), you may gain more understanding about the relationship or show just how little you think of the ritual, but odds are that you will be relegated to the heap of people that simply do not understand social customs and you will therefore be unusable to the vast majority of the people you meet.

So, I will shake your hand. I will leave the conclusions and context for a later time. I will make nice with the custom that haunts me. I will do this because I know that once I get beyond this silly little ritual, I can get to the good stuff. I can talk and listen and create a community around the table. Those are the things I am good at. And so if I must submit to the shaking of hands, so be it.

Related articles

• Greeting Customs in Different Cultures (brighthub.com)
• The Art of Handshake (socyberty.com)

My father had a fantastic beard when I was born. He kept it for years, always handsomely groomed. I remember its scratchy texture against my childhood skin. It was like a character in our lives that no one really talked about but that we could depend on just to be there. And then one day, he shaved it off. He said that it was time, and he hasn’t looked back since.

On the other hand, I have never been able to grow facial hair. This flaw, while not fatal, is a source of contention whenever my wife brings up the college gotee I tried to sport. It was one of the most hideous accessories I could have tried on, and I kept it for months because my wife said that she liked it (she later confessed that she wanted to see how long I would keep it). Admitting defeat, I shaved it off in my 3rd year of College and I have never made another attempt.

Until now.

Two weeks ago, I was given an opportunity to grow a mustache to raise money for teachers in need of supplies and resources. While this is incredibly counterintuitive, here is the idea: If one person (me) makes a fool out of himself for a month, others will take pity on him and shower the projects of his choice with money. It with a project called mustaches for kids, which has to be one of the most ridiculous phrases that I have ever had to explain.

Within the rules for this program is probably the best support system for mustaches ever devised:

For the duration of four to five weeks, sweet Mustaches will be grown for the world to behold. Within that time, there will be weekly MUSTACHE CHECKPOINT DAYS. These events are not mandatory–we do, after all, believe in the honor system–but they are a great opportunity to meet and encourage your brothers-in-stache during the growing period. Representatives of Mustaches for Kids will be available at each checkpoint to discuss any and all Mustache issues.

Today is my first Mustache checkpoint day, and I definitely have a mustache issue. Mine won’t grow. It is stuck at half stubble. The rest of my face has grown twice what my upper lip has. I look like a 7th grader who doesn’t know that it is uncool to leave those hairs untidy. In fact, I probably look exactly like I did in 7th grade before I got my first mach 3 in the mail with a tester amount of shaving cream.

So, at this point I would like to direct the issue to my mustache:

Why? Why will you not grow? Why do you haunt my upper lip as if you alone are in control of my appearance. Why do you make it so I have to walk around self-conscious of my mouth at all hours of the day? Why do I subconsciously play with you only to find that my follicles hurt after a few minutes? Is it not enough that I waited years to attempt such a feat? Is it not enough that I watched my father grow a full beard without trouble? You are taunting me now. You are going out of your way to stick out but not grow. I think that each of your mocking hair angles is preposterous. You are a disgrace. I am only giving you another 3 weeks, and if you don’t shape up in that time I will shave you off and never think twice about it.

For verification, here is the mustache now:

If you would like to take part in giving this weak attempt at facial hair some meaning, would you please go to our Donor’s choose page and give some money to the deserving teachers there. Otherwise, all of this humiliation and self-doubt will be for naught.

Related articles

• Mustaches for Kids Kicks Off Today (chicagoist.com)

I used to walk a mile and a half each night with my wife no matter what the weather. We were like the postal service. We would bundle up and just walk as fast as we could. We wouldn’t run because it was supposedly better for us. At least that is what we told ourselves. When we got a dog, we walked with him. When his feet got too cold on a few select nights we would pick him up and carry him along the way. We walked and talked every day, and it was wonderful.

On one such night in 2004, I told her that I was starting a blog.

For the rest of the walk she proceded to tell me (after a rather lengthy explanation of what a blog was) that no one was ever going to read such a thing. Every time that I got out the computer to write, she would ask if I was blarbing again. I told her that I was and I continued to write.

I’m glad that I did.

Today I wrote my first blog post as a part of my job. I am now writing and communicating for a living. I am now taking screenshots and framing ideas for a living. This is something that simply boggles my mind. I went from blarbing six years ago to coming up with new ideas and writing them out for a global audience on a daily basis.

So, when your husband comes to you with an idea for a new platform for communication and creation, don’t mock him. Tell him to blarb and twooter and fakebook and blinkin and skybe. Tell him to do the things that he is passionate about because odds are, if he gets good at it, someone will pay him for it.