My writing about my family’s experience with Lynn’s Multiple Systems Atrophy has resonated with a lot of people here and on our CaringBridge site.
A recurring theme is they appreciate the “honesty”. And how I sometimes use humor to lighten things. And many of my readers, like me, are also “on the back nine” and so final chapters are more relevant than if I had a younger, hipper readership.
Honestly though, the “honesty” feedback perplexes me because I feel like I’ve only been able to paint about 15% of the picture. There’s way more that I’m leaving out than I am including.
But maybe, everything really is relative, and people are used to even far less transparency?
Of course, it’s impossible to perfectly quantify how much someone lets their readers in. Just know, when you listen, read, or watch anyone’s story, there’s always way, way more to it. Always.
Why aren’t you and I more forthright with others? More vulnerable? More honest especially about what’s most difficult. And about our related, negative emotions?
As a male, I have the excuse of not having been encouraged to communicate my emotions growing up. But I’m sure that’s true for boatloads of women too. And so that’s a lousy explanation that really doesn’t get at my reticence to be more honest.
Another explanation that I’ve touched on previously is not knowing how to be more honest without compromising others’ privacy. Hell, the picture I included with the last post, I got in trouble for it. Because it was a “tender moment”. Which is exactly why it was such a good picture. So there’s that. Lynn didn’t want me to share her tenderness with you. So what’s a writer to do?
Maybe, if I outlive her, and the odds in Vegas are that I will, I’ll be freed up to paint far more of the picture. Even 16-17%.
My wife’s debilitating illness has given me a front row seat to a profound gender dynamic. A dynamic that informs today’s mostly mindless discussion of masculinity.
First, even before we dive in, let me muddy the water a little. Some men, albeit small in number, are superseding the ways males are typically raised.
Cases in point. When we moved into the new crib 11 months ago, Travis, unannounced, showed up with dinner for us on the first, exhausting night. A few weeks ago, Michael dropped in with (amazing) carrot cake and two loaves of Wagner’s (amazing) cinnamon bread. Allen (okay, sure with Patty’s help) baked dinners and drove over hill and valley to lighten our fall when I was teaching. Brian fills Lynn’s hummingbird feeder and repairs her recumbent.
National Public Radio ran on oddly common story on it’s website last week about a dying woman who needed lots of home care. A female friend of the woman ended up singlehandedly providing most of it until the very end.
I would’ve placed the odds of the woman’s key caregiver being female at 95%.
Almost exclusively, my wife’s female friends have taken action. The men in our orbit, on the other hand, have almost always offered sympathetic words. One close male friend recently sent me an email in which he said, “Let me know if I can do anything to help.” That, as it turns out, is the male default. It’s safe. A way to maintain distance. A sure-fire way to not be too bothered.
To my “one close male friend” who I hope isn’t going to read this, I need so much help I don’t even know how to start articulating it.
Most women, in my recent experience, don’t wait around for a guidebook on how to help, content not to receive it. Instead, a larger proportion of them move towards people in need.
Joan heard Lynn say she wasn’t enamored with the industrial gray plasticware I purchased on-line for her. So she showed up one day with much spiffier tumblers. Vivian routinely shows up unannounced with soup and gets down on her knees and huddles with Lynn when her body shuts down. She doesn’t really bother to email or text, she just appears at the door.
I watch Little Chris during one of her regular visits and tell her, “Man, you are so skilled and comfortable at meeting Lynn exactly where she is. It’s a beautiful thing.” She proceeds to tell me that when she was in high school, she cared for a housebound woman every day after school for a few years. And how formative that experience was. I don’t know if Little Chris had a brother of similar age, but if she had, I’m 95% sure her parents would not have suggested him for the job.
We expect girls and women to be nurturing as if they’re somehow uniquely built for it. We give boys and men a pass in the form of exceedingly low expectations. And so most males don’t develop that wonderful female instinct to act. Not to wait to be told how to help, just to show up. To look ailing people in the eyes. To hold their hands. To help them get undressed and dressed. To feed them. To console them. Until the end.
More men will be more hands-on caregivers when we expect boys to be more nurturing. Absent that expectation, women will continue do the vast majority of kind-hearted caregiving.
Anyone out there? Anyone? Yes, still alive. Do note however, that I did not go so far as to say, “Alive and well.”
But there’s enough negativity in the air without me adding to it, so today I’m all unicorns and rainbows.
I just wrapped my semester of teaching first year writing and a course titled “Multicultural Perspectives in Classrooms”.
I’ve only told the inner circle, of which you are now a part, that it might have been my last rodeo.
So let’s fast forward to Grace, a first year writer, and the last day. Grace is a black belt in tae kwon do. In her paper on social infrastructure, she wrote beautifully about her tae kwon do studio where she grew up and now teaches.
There are two types of students, those genuinely seeking an education and those simply wanting certification. The later sacrifice curiosity for figuring out “what the teacher wants”. Other “tells” are how they tune out their classmates and focus intensely on grades. Not their fault I have to remind myself. Our factory model of education tends to socialize students to prioritize product over process, but I digress.
Grace was all education from the beginning. Her eyes locked on mine from the jump. Near the end of the last class, an informal day of peer editing small groups, she asked, “Do you have any more advice for us?” I thought that was sweet, since I understood her to be saying she didn’t want our time together to end.
Flashback. December 1993. Guilford College. Greensboro, NC. The end of my first college course, a small senior seminar. I waxed philosophic for probably ten minutes using as many ginormous words as I could muster. Reminding my students of all they had been blessed to learn under my tutelage.
At the very end of the sermon, a hand. “Ah,” I thought, “Josh is going to thank me for changing his life.”
“Dude! You have a pierced ear!” Josh’s observation inspired his classmates to chime in on why the hell I had never worn it to class. Things quickly spiraled down. In the end, no one thanked me for the sermon or for changing their lives.
Back to Grace. Still haunted by Josh, in response to her question I said, “No, not really.” The look of disappointment inspired me to add, “Well, just keep doing exactly what you are and you will flourish.” Weak, I know.
An hour later, I was making a quiet get-a-way. As I entered my car and looked across the parking lot to see if I could pull out, there was Coleton, Hudson, and Lily walking side-by-side in my direction. All three of my first year writers smiled at the surprise interaction. I lowered my window and asked whether Coleton, wearing short sleeves in December, ever gets cold, and we made some more small talk. I had no idea they were friends outside of class, a class whose theme was “The Art and Science of Human Connection”. Obviously, they had connected. “My work here is done,” I thought to myself.
During that final week, after recycling a quarter century of paperwork, I texted the Good Wife, “My take-away. I’ve done a lot of good work. For a long time.”
Then Makida, a talented young writer from Ethiopia, wrote me. “I wanted to let you know how grateful I am for the incredible impact you’ve had on my first semester. It’s been almost six years since I had a teacher who made me love learning as much as you have; my 7th-grade chemistry teacher was the last, and he has always been a special figure in my life. You remind me of him in the best way, with your encouragement, kindness, and ability to bring out the best in your students.”
And Jordan. “Thank you for providing a space of enlightenment and discomfort for my brain this semester. I feel as if I had the ability to grow a lot.”
And Emma. “I’ve had a hard time putting my appreciation for you and your class into written words. This was my last semester at PLU, and I feel so grateful to have had a chance to learn from you before my undergraduate journey came to an end. I typically struggle in humanities classes because I’m not a very talkative student; but something about the way that you structured your course made it easy for me to participate and engage. You have an accepting and approachable energy that makes your students feel comfortable having brave conversations in class. . . . I’ve taken a lot of difficult classes at PLU, but none of them challenged me in the ways that this course did. I came into this semester thinking I knew a lot about education from my mom, but I never realized just how much there was to learn. You said on the first day of class that the skills we would learn in EDUC205 would be useful in many different careers and areas of our lives. While I still don’t know if I’ll ever teach, I know that I’ll use the lessons I learned in your class to make an impact on the world in some way. I think that regardless of their vocation, everyone should take a class like this. The multicultural introspection and reflection that I experienced was more valuable to my career as a physician than any biology course I’ve taken in my time at PLU.”
These messages made me want a do-over with Grace, but it was too late. In hindsight, my advice to her and her classmates would have been to pursue work that does more than provide economic security. Find work that enables you to make a positive difference in others’ lives. Work that enables you to express your values. Work that is mutually rewarding. Do that, and you won’t consider it work.
Having blogged for a decade plus, I run the risk of repeating myself. But maybe you’ll forgive me if I come clean about it.
In September, 2018, I started a post titled “What We Get Wrong About Honesty” this way:
That it’s mostly telling the truth to others. But being honest with one’s self is a more essential starting point, and because we lack any semblance of objectivity, far more difficult.
None of us are ever completely honest with ourselves.
Especially as a writer, I want to be more honest with myself, and by extension, my readers. I suspect that starts with more honest internal dialogues.
My older sissy said something seemingly innocuous to me awhile back, that I can’t stop replaying in my head. I was telling her I want to really improve my freestyle swimming, but it’s hard given the years of imperfect muscle memory. I explained that I had checked a book out of the library that broke the freestyle stroke down and had watched lots of youtube vids.
I thought I had made a convincing case that I wanted to improve, I for sure had convinced myself, but when I came up for air, she offered this brutally matter-of-fact reply, “No, you don’t.”
Staggered by her honesty, I forget what came after that.
As soon as I regained my footing, I realized she was right. My efforts to improve were superficial at best. I hadn’t worked with a coach. I hadn’t used video. I hadn’t committed to the drills that help improve one’s catch.
Despite saying I want to improve, my elbows still drop, I still slap the water, and I don’t rotate nearly enough. My stroke is a mess, but that’s not the point. The point is, with no coach, with no video, with no commitment to drills and going slower to eventually go faster, I should stop lying to myself about wanting to improve. I should just accept that my stroke will always suck.
Of course, my shite freestyle doesn’t matter, at all, but the all important question raised by my sister’s “No, you don’t” is what else am I lying to myself about? Surely, lots of stuff of far more consequence.
I may never have high elbows, but can I learn to be more honest with myself, and by extension, you? I don’t know. But I think I’ll try. Just don’t tell my sister.
Said one technology analyst this week on the heels of artificial intelligence chip maker Nvidia’s red hot quarterly results. Meaning just like when the internet caught fire in 1995, Nvidia is igniting a whole new technology whose trajectory requires educated guesses.
Let’s press pause and ponder whether we’re better off now than in the early 90s. Inevitably my privilege contributes to my belief that we are a lot better off. Partially because of convenience. Specifically, we take for granted the time we save on almost a daily basis from internet-based personal tech. Case in point. A friend recently posted a picture of himself on Facebook at the Westminster, CA Department of Motor Vehicles where I got my license 46 years ago and I thought, “Why the heck did he go in person?” because I can’t remember the last time I went to the DMV.*
Granted, not a substantive example of human progress, but I suspect it is the cumulative effect of relatively simple and smallish such examples that translate into an improved quality of life.
More meaningfully, here’s a far-out social media adventure I went on last week after an extended family member posted this gem to the ‘Byrnes Family’ group text.
That’s my oldest bro teaching me the sweet science in Muhammad Ali’s hometown. As I looked at it, my attention drifted to the background and my best friend’s house. Jimmy D and I were in separable from ages 3-9. Heartbroken over the end of our friendship, when we moved from Louisville to Ohio I sobbed in the back seat halfway there.
Where the heck is Jimmy fifty-five years later I wondered? A quick google search turned up his dad’s obituary from 2020 including his and his sister’s places of residence. A few seconds later, I was on Jim’s Instagram page looking at his island home just off the Maryland shore that he and his husband were selling.** Then I watched a video from inside his home art studio where he talked about his process. Another quick search turned up his new location. After scouring his instagram and admiring his big white fluffy dogs, I visited his sister’s Facebook page and saw a picture of Jim and his elderly mom. And then back to the obituary and some remembrances including an amazing picture of a very young Jimmy with his parents and sisters on the back brick patio of his Cardiff Rd home. . . the one in the picture.
A miracle of modernity.
I listen a lot to people on the forefront of large language models and my take-away from their predictions is that this technology will greatly accelerate economic productivity and further save people time to pursue more non-work interests and activities.
Not all boats will rise to the same degree, because they never have, but artificial intelligence will in all likelihood induce a much higher tide. White collar people in particular will work less while enjoying simple and smallish and quite possibly complex and more substantive improvements to their quality of life.
BUT will any of us be happier? One way to get at that is to reflect on whether we’re happier now than in the early 90s. Despite internet-fueled economic growth, there’s lots of evidence that we are not. In fact, some would argue that a large part of the internet’s legacy, especially among the young, is steadily worsening mental health. And a coarsening of civic life.
Another way to approach the question of whether we’ll be happier in a post AI world is to consider whether it will foster stronger interpersonal connections. Will it, I wonder, enable us to enjoy the company of more close friends? I also wonder whether it will enable us to slow if not reverse the environmental degradation that threatens our well-being. And will we, I wonder, experience more art that moves us more often, and in the end, makes us feel more alive. Alive in ways that renewing car tabs on-line and skimming friends’ Instagram pages never will.
In the same space of time, 29 years from now, in 2053, I suspect we won’t be much if any happier than we are right now. I would like to be wrong and still around so that you can recall this post and roast me for not being nearly optimistic enough.
*needed to do an eye test to renew his license
**someone in my fam asked if I knew Jimmy was gay, “LOL,” I said. “We were six, I don’t think I knew what ‘gay’ was.”
Suffice to say, my personal life has gotten significantly more difficult of late. Obviously, this isn’t the time or place for any details. Just know, as your humble blogger, I am “compartmentalizing” these days.
The GalPal wants me to find a therapist to help make things less difficult. I know lots of people who are benefitting from therapy, and intellectually I am definitely pro-therapy, but when push comes to shove, I am Resistant to seek the help of a mental health counselor myself.
Not only am I pro-therapy, I believe our well-being depends largely on the quality of our closest interpersonal relationships, and those relationships depend largely on our willingness to be vulnerable about our inner lives.
The gender stereotype that males think and talk almost exclusively about tangible objects—whether news, weather, or sports, okay maybe cars too—doesn’t apply to me. I’m always thinking about deeper things than just how bad UCLA men’s basketball is this year.* What to do with the nearly constant deeper inner dialogue, that is the question.
Two imperfect answers spring to mind. The first was modeled by a friend a week ago when he asked if we could talk. He suggested a bike ride, and despite the frigid temps, of course I was in. Looping FishTrap Loop shoulder to shoulder, I initiated, “So, what’s up?” “It’s a long story,” he started, but really it wasn’t. It was a very good talk/ride and I’d like to think he felt better afterwards.
What’s imperfect about that? With occasional exceptions like the one just described, my closest friends, being of the male persuasion, aren’t as adept as women at talking about their feelings. As a result, it’s rare for a male friend to genuinely ask, “So, what’s up?” Could I take more initiative with my friends in digging deeper into “real” life? Fo sho.
In theory, writing could be a helpful outlet too. That is, if I could figure out the endlessly convoluted privacy concerns of those nearest and dearest to me. Which I can’t. And before you suggest it, journaling ain’t the answer, because that’s just a more visible form of the inner dialogue.
So, given those limitations, why not just “do” therapy? Asked differently, what the hell is wrong with me, that I’m so resistant to “professional” help?
I’ve been mulling that around and around.
What I’ve concluded is that the Good Wife doesn’t fully appreciate just how much I am a product of my parents’ “too extreme for their own good” intense independence. Both my mom and my dad grew up without much, during the Depression, in eastern Montana. When my dad died, his obituary was in the New York Times. Individually and together, they developed resilient, “grin and bare it” approaches to life that worked for them.
Mostly. Better for my dad than my mom who would have benefitted greatly from therapy after my dad’s death, from which she never really recovered.
Again though, that knowledge of how helpful therapy can be is overridden by my parents’ modeling which was rooted in the brutal conditions of eastern Montana in the 1930’s. Suffering was synonymous with living. You just endure it, in whatever form it takes.
Asking me to just dial up a therapist feels like asking me to break from my past and my people, to defy my DNA. Despite all the decades, I am still of eastern Montana, still of Don Byrnes, still of Carol Byrnes, still of believing that I must grin and bare it mostly alone.
The final paper. A self-assessment of one’s writing progress. Which admittedly, is a bit presumptuous.
A fave excerpt from one student’s paper.
“But this prewriting is different than what I thought it would be; my prewriting involves putting my professor into a (metaphorical) box, and I put that box into another box. Then, I put that box in the garage and forget about it. Only at this point do I return to my brainstorming and drafts. I have learned that if I do not do this I expend too much energy trying to inject the professor into my creation. Once I realized that my writing is for myself, not the professor, I found that writing is an engaging process of self discovery and growth. This is most evident in my penultimate paper on the concept of soulmates.”
Typically, academic writing is an impersonal jumping through hoops, with students preoccupied by grades. Students inevitably develop a teacher-centric orientation when writing in school, asking themselves, “To get the best grade possible, what and how am I expected to think and write?”
If I could only get all of my students to put me in a box, inside a box, in a garage. Yes, I would prob suffocate to death, but I would die happy.
Sometimes you get an amazing student from Ethiopia by way of Turkey. Who says he’s never been asked to be introspective or write personal essays about existential questions. A student who explains that where he comes from people are preoccupied with food, shelter, and clothing. That there’s no context or momentum for what I’m asking.
Maslow and all.
He’s quiet in class. As in silent.
But, as it turns out, he’s listening closely and reading with an open mind. And oh, what a mind. As a result, he takes to being introspective like a duck to water.
And so he writes personally and beautifully about his family’s struggles and his own in a way that belies his youth. And starts to think that maybe he can help Ethiopians, and others in developing countries, start thinking about existential questions in ways that will benefit them.
A computer science major with serious math chops, he asks to talk after class.
“How can I improve?” I tell him, “Keep doing exactly what you’re doing—reading our texts closely, being introspective, and writing honestly about what you’ve overcome.” And “don’t deprive us of your insights during class discussions.”
He doesn’t think other students will relate to or understand his experiences since they’re so different. I suggest he might be surprised by the exact opposite, that they’ll be especially interested in his life experience because it’s so different.
He smiles at the thought and commits to contributing more. Meaning some.
I tell him he’s talented, that he could be a writer, that he has unique and compelling stories to tell.
And then, he says it. “I want to be a writer.”
My guess, he’ll travel the world; knock the technology ball out of the park; and become a popular, widely read writer.
To have played a small part in his journey is pretty damn cool.
Alternating this afternoon between reading student papers and watching college football.
And reading this email from a Somali-American student of mine. “I just saw my grade and your feedback on it. I appreciate the well thought out and thorough feedback! I’ll be sure to apply it to my next paper! It feels nice to have educators in higher Ed that actually read my work with thoughts opposed to my high school.”
The most important roles I play are all related—listener, reader, assessor. “Professing” is overrated.
I have 53 students this semester. A lot of high school teachers have 153. I teach 12 hours a week. Most high school teachers teach 25. High school students aren’t truly listened to or read closely because there’s too many of them and too little time.
The distinguishing feature of the factory model of education, where secondary students come at you in waves of thirty every hour, is that it’s impersonal.
Pressing Pause 