Immigration Reform

February 15, 2017.Reading time 4 minutes.

I am not meant or designed to take on weighty issues. I look at the problems of today and see that there are often no good answers and it makes me glad I’m not in charge. Immigration reform is one such conundrum. On the one hand, if we stop immigration, we cease to be the great melting pot our forefathers intended and refugees aren’t given the assistance they need to survive. On the other, we have to ensure the safety of our country by making sure we don’t let bad guys in. It’s a real problem.

I liken it to Italian food. At some point in my adult life, I realized I had developed an aversion to garlic. It took some trial and error, but we identified garlic as the culprit after dinner at a cheap Italian place one night. You know the kind – not quite good enough to have authentic flavor so they drown everything in garlic. My malady became quite evident when I yelled for the check and ran awkwardly out the door.

Garlic doesn’t make me break out in hives or give me breathing issues – it’s more of an internal combustion problem. Lovely, yeah. But that is precisely why it reminds me of immigration reform – a real $&*!-storm.

Over the years, the Italian assault on me seems to have greatly lessened. I might have a bad reaction to maybe 1 in every 5 meals or so and we never know when it will happen. It seems to be completely random – my vetting process doesn’t seem to prevent the occasional bad Italian from getting through. This situation with garlic has literally become a crapshoot. I pick up a piece of garlic bread and laugh maniacally as my family shudders in fear.

But here’s the rub – I love Italian food. My life would be poorer if I completely cut pastas and rich sauces out of it. I, however, am the gatekeeper and this is an awesome responsibility. I am the one making policy decisions in regards to my Italian intake. I am the government and the people, my family, sometimes pays for my granting asylum to the bad Italian who somehow bypasses the systematic checks and balances. They would advocate building a wall.

So you see, there is no good answer.

In the end, as a country with great resource, I think we have to err on the side of compassion – whether we help people get here or help them survive where they are, I believe we must help. This stamp of complete geographical exclusion seems wrong to me.

But who am I? I’m just another guy airing out factless opinion on the internet. I am fake news. I’m one fart joke away from being Bevis and Butthead.

I do like Italian food, though. And if it means an uncomfortable night on the couch, so be it.

Deja Shoe

February 13, 2017.Reading time 5 minutes.

I had one of those déjà vu moments – déjà shoe actually – because I looked down at my shoes and had a fleeting thought that they had been exactly there before. Have you ever had one of those? They can feel so real and some would say that they are; there are spiritual and esoteric theories about the phenomena. Déjà vu has hit me over the years and I refuse to waste a lot of mental energy on the theory of it. After all, I only have so many synapses firing. If I try to analyze every thought of a previous thought that might or might not have been an actual thought, I would get stuck inside an internal Inception vortex from which I would never recover. I think of those moments as brain farts and move on.

Only at this particular moment, I knew for certain that I had been exactly in that spot. And I knew precisely when.

Science has various explanations for déjà vu. Besides my vaunted brain fart theory, this is the one to which I subscribe:

I would dumb that down for you, but when a statement uses the word parahippocampal, there is no dumbing down.

I love my new job. I love feeling like I am daily making a difference in the fight against childhood cancer – the mission I was given by Kylie. I work with an incredibly dedicated team who are great at what they do and all passionately devoted to the cause. They made me feel perfectly welcome from the day I started and not just because they needed me to lift heavy things and reach the high places. I have been there only four months, but in some ways, it’s like I’ve been there much longer.

And sometimes, I get to meet the kids and families who are in the middle of the fight. I see hope, fear, and angst in their faces as if it is written in indelible ink. I read them as only one who has lived their story can. Whenever I have the opportunity, I love being able to serve as I was served. I am always careful to not reveal my story because all I want to serve up is hope and encouragement.

This was what I was doing when I experienced my déjà shoe. I was serving when I realized I was standing in the very place where exactly two years prior, a huddle of doctors told me that Kylie’s cancer had spread beyond hope of treatment. I couldn’t look up at them anymore, I could only look down at my shoes. I will never forget that place. Four days later, she would be dead.

One might ask why… why would I put myself in a position to relive my pain and loss every day? I have gotten that question a few times and my answer is simple. I am a simple man, after all (ergo the brain fart theory). I reply that being at home is no easier – I drown in loss there, too. In fact, I have found no place to take my shoes where I am free. I can run but I cannot hide.

So, there I stood, looking at my shoes – wondering about the fact that two years ago I hated this view and now I love it. And I hate that I love it.

I awoke from my shoe reverie because a mother with deep creases of story written on her face needed me. We talked briefly. She smiled through a battle-weary fog. I returned her smile as I was taught by my girl and hope the encounter recharged her.

And somewhere in heaven, a little girl smiled down because she had led my shoes to exactly where they were supposed to be.