Tumultuous Joy

As some of you are aware, I have redressed my interest in graduate school and have intimated my interest to the local university of Eastern Washington U. Though my application process was arduous, I directed myself to that process with fervor and excitement. The program I am applying for (Creative Writing) holds particular interest to me since the writing sample--a collection of the student's previous work--is the key element in the application. Its quality (or lack of) determines the student's admission.
Just today, not more than a few hours prior, I received a letter of acceptance from EWU's graduate office. Some of you can appreciate my satisfaction at such news. This letter arrives at a critical juncture for myself--and my family. At present, I am working at Starbucks with an eye for more profitable employ. My prospects lessen as my intentions, for I am developing a stronger sense of what life I would prefer, what endeavors I deem worthy to apply myself. There is only one way to put the question. What then is my God-given endeavor?
It remains the same. To pursue the talents that my Lord has provided and to do the work He has there given me to do. Therefore, I pursue graduate school as it affords me the opportunity to exercise my fiction talents as well as my teaching talents. Though the acceptance letter, here photographed, mentions no word to the Teaching Assistantship I have applied for, I am confident such an appointment will be made. My application, after all, explicitly intertwined my interest in graduate school with the Teaching Assistantship they offer to students interested in teaching undergraduate students.
I must say I am pleased with these turns of events. My primary glee comes from the satisfaction of being chosen. Their election was based on the writing sample I provided--which I felt none too confident at the time putting together. The writing sample was a handful of my popular pieces (an elongated The Color Green and Vengeance) combined with some of my award-winning stories (A Hero's Life, as revised with Dan Peterson's help, and a fairly new story called An Expecting Couple, written long before Lynné and I were wed and expecting). The selection process was based entirely on two professors and their endorsement of my writing. Thus goes the compliment, that two professors of English Composition found my work worthy, not just to publish or post, to recommend its author to study under their prestigious university. The compliment does not go unnoticed, but is consequently deferred. Who but the Lord guides the reading eyes of those holding my writing? Who but the Lord chooses the life of His servant? And who but the Lord would deign His servant worthy of tending and growing this most mysterious gift? None, I tell you.
So please, this fifteenth of March or whenever you read this, share in my smiles. Stand upside-down.

Obliviate!

For those of you who aren't in the little club of Harry Potter fans, the title of this post is the magical (latin-derived) word for the spell of forgetting. More properly, "obliviate" is a spell of confusion, built up from memory loss. And, after work today, I feel as if I had that spell cast on me.
How many of us do things for other masters? How rarely are we working for ourselves, being our own taskmaster? It seems that we are very good at paying bills to other people. We quiver at the thought of being late for a credit card bill. Do we blink, though, when we forget to set aside our earnings or do our own dishes?
That is, we reason, because I can afford to be an easy master to myself. 'After all, I have to deal with Boss X all day long, and really, I prefer not having him follow me all day.'
I suppose the result of that lax attitude is the decline in self-discipline. What is self-discipline other than the habit of obeying yourself? To discipline others is to instruct and be obeyed--to do this to yourself should be simple. After all, your arms and legs follow your commands; why not your behavior?!
Because we tire. Our other masters--Boss X, the water company, medical insurance--drive us and drive us hard. After all, they say, it is for our own benefit. 'You want your paycheck, don't you? Your water? Your health to be paid for when you need it?'
So the picture of our un-self-disciplined lives is thus:
We work for others so that others work for us.

Yet... I wonder. I wonder if, like a poorly sealed set of pipes, this basic assemblage of society loses labor or forgets its excess or... for lack of a better word... leaks. Isn't there something extra going on when you charge off to work an 8 hour day? Driving is an issue of extra--no one pays you to drive to work, but you pay someone. This well-publicised issue can cover over other things. What about your daily habits to facilitate the ease of your life? Like coffee in the morning? Like a movie at home because you're tired and need your brain to unwind? Like pizza delivery since your arms and legs, so driven by Boss X, won't heed your instructions for dinner? We pay for these things so that we can continue working for others.

Farmers might have something great going on. After all, they live on top of their food. They sell the excess. If you can run a diverse enough field for a season, couldn't you feasibly get away without buying food? Your family might gripe, though. I can hear some of the complaints already. "But Dad! The Joneses get pizza every night! I'm tired of fresh bread and cheese." "But we're not keeping up with the Joneses," I would like to reply. Maybe I will one day.

So the struggle in our society is not for proper leadership. One can blame the government for the media, the media for the obesity, the obesity for the stupidity, and on and on. But the truth is that we do not accept our own responsibilities. Our stupidity is ours to change. Our media is ours to listen to (or ignore). I began this post with half-a-mind to say things tantamount to "each man truly IS an island and we should celebrate isolationism." That might be a bit extreme.

Instead, I would suggest that we look at the responsibilities we give away to others and try taking them up ourselves. Look for the small ones. Becoming entirely independent from society is difficult, but look at the things you can learn to do for yourselves. Can you make clothes? Can you figure out your own mechanic work? Can you develop a solution to one of your needs that was previously met by someone else? Do it.
Do it because you'll be doing them a favor--not just yourself. Decreasing their workload gives them a break, a pause, a chance to regain their sanity. This isn't an age where people can stop at work and reflect on life. If we pause at work, it's merely to breathe and gather our wits, not reflect. Maybe one day, when our work has changed to something more meaningful, we will be able to reflect as a society. Some real thinking will be done--maybe even some forethought.

That continues to be my hope.

Goin' Postal

I felt like this when we got the letter from the U.S. Postal Service. I'm not sure how Lynné felt, but it couldn't have involved smiles.

Try to follow these events carefully, and see if you can come to any other conclusion than the one we figured: the Sleimans in Washington getting screwed by the Post Office.

Lynné hand-knit a wedding shawl from her own hand-spun thread. I would post the picture, but I can't get a digital version of it. Trust me, it's beautiful. More than that, it represented over three months of work. Not just any three months, mind you. Lynné was pregnant(with morning sickness) during the move to 922 York Avenue, #2... and this shawl was her work in the spare and off-time (between bouts of sickness). It was intended for one of my best friends in Texas, Jessica Cleckley; specifically, for her wedding. Even more specifically, a wedding we wouldn't be able to go to since it was scheduled on a day too close to LilyAnne's due date. This shawl was a little bit of us, our hearts (and Lynné's own sweat) to be on our friend's special day.

In August '04, to make sure it arrives in time for Jessica's dress fitting, Lynné mails the wedding shawl. We don't figure there's much hurry, but we are very anxious that it arrives. We make sure it is sent by "delivery confirmation." I can remember Lynné wondering aloud (worrying aloud, that is), "What if it does get lost in the mail?" That's why we insured it for $300 dollars. After all, even if it does get lost... we'll get the claim money. Isn't that what everyone thinks when they purchase US Postal Insurance?

By late August of '04, the tracking number for the wedding shawl, via an Internet site, indicates that the package has arrived. Oddly enough, there's no signature box. Yet, when we talk to Jessica on the phone, she says no shawl has arrived. We have her investigate while we investigate our end. Our side turns up nothing, except a form for claiming a lost item. Jessica's side brings up the most fruitful (and condemning to the Postal Service) information. That is, her regular postal employee was out sick... that there is no signature for an item requiring a signature... that the shawl, package and all, is nowhere they can find.

One baby and one wedding later, Jessica Locklear sends the Sleimans a letter saying she didn't receive it. Here is an exerpt from her letter.

"I cannot describe the value my husband and I place on that gift [the wedding shawl]. Not only is the piece worth a great deal due to the fact that it was entirely handmade, but there is also the sentimental value. It was made specifically for my wedding gift, to wear on my wedding day. .... And more than any other item I wore or carried on my wedding day, the shawl was to me going to be the biggest heirloom of all to pass down to my daughters, and granddaughters for their wedding days. Now, not only has my wedding passed, but it also seems we will never see the shawl again."

Pretty scathing, isn't it?

Lynné and I put together the package to give to the Post Office Claims desk. We thought that since the shawl didn't arrive, we hoped to use the insurance money to buy her something that we know she would really like (such as a spinning wheel). Just so that you all know, you cannot turn in this form to just any post office. In each city, there is one claims office. We wait in line, hand over the picture of the shawl, the letter, and our hopes for the claim. No one in this office really wants to conduct the business we're doing. We, after all, would have much rather preferred to have the shawl arrive. They, we guess, never really want to pay up the insurance they sell. We ask the lady as we hand her the forms, "Do you think it'll work out?"

"I don't know," she replies. "It's kind of questionable."

Final event. Today. The arrival of a check from the United States' Postal Service. We did not get the Insurance Coverage of $300. We did not get the cost of insurance, $4.20. Instead, we received the cost of postage, $1.09. This face says it all.

We are pretty frustrated. Jessica Locklear, the newlywed, suggested I take the Postal Service to court. After all, what case can they make? They accepted the $300 risk of loss, they lost the shawl, they refused to pay.
But, here we delve into some paranoia of Youssef's mind, what are the chances of actually winning? And if we win, what will the government pay? Only $300 to me, and my lawyer's fees? Will there be a precedent set--that all postal services must make good on their insurance claims--or will a different precedent be set, that the government can do whatever it wants because its bigger, stronger. Think about that draconian picture... and think of the weaker man's reply, "There must be some other recourse. Let's use FedEx or UPS from now on." If the postal service can bully us around, pickpocketing anyone who is dupe enough to pay for insurance, why can't we bully them around? I feel like the little nerd who, after so many pushes, has finally thought of pushing back. So what if Bruno, the 8th grader who shaves, breaks my nose, humiliates me in front of the class? Despite my pain, I've unmasked his tyranny before the other students. So what if this government appendage escapes on a technicality, that they didn't say they would pay the 300... that 300 was only a limit to the value of the item... that 1.09 was all their underwriters could find in their frigid hearts to give to the honest request? Despite our pain, we've unmasked their tyranny before the other citizens.
Together, we can put the USPS out in the cold where it has left so many of us.


I have been able to digitize a picture of the shawl. Enjoy.

For those who didn't believe the U.S. Government would stoop to sending one-dollar checks, look here. This is the return we get for purchasing $300.00 of postal service insurance. Perhaps I can buy some stamps... nope, just three stamps.

This is the humble abode of yours truly. Recognize the car, everyone?