Helpless and Holding My Breath

I didn’t know what it was like to hold my breath for four months, until I was finally able to exhale. I didn’t know what it was like to have one of my children away – really far away, 7000 miles away – and how difficult that would be. And I didn’t know the relief and the incredible release that her return would bring.

My elder child’s study abroad semester in Kenya was a learning experience for all of us. It felt like a long time. It felt like that old joke: I spent a month with my in-laws one weekend.

While the departure was difficult, it now feels like the easiest part of the journey. The random panic attacks, sudden teary eyes, and overwhelming anticipation of a video chat became rituals to which I never fully adjusted.

And then the early morning phone call:  At 6am on Saturday, September 20, it rang. I was half asleep when I answered it; my daughter said, “Daddy, I’m fine.” Great, I thought, “Why are you calling? What is going on?” There had been a terrorist attack at a shopping mall about two kilometers from her apartment. The siege on that mall would last several days. Only later would my daughter tell me that, at the time of the attack, she and her roommate were on their way there.

My brother called and said we should bring her home. Now. And having her home would certainly have been good for my blood pressure and racing heartbeat. Yet, I knew that wasn’t going to happen. The university told us she was safe. My wife pointed out that there are dangers everywhere. Most of all, my daughter did not think it was necessary to leave. I had to rely her judgment. Her judgment is excellent, and I have come to trust it. My emotional and protective side wanted her under my care. But I knew that I could no more protect her here, than I could there. She was going to have to navigate these situations on her own. And although I knew she could, I wanted to be by her side. I wanted to continue coaching and parenting. I couldn’t and I shouldn’t and it was one of the most difficult things NOT to do.

Things did calm down. Life returned to the new normal in both Africa and our home. We scheduled a weekly video chat. We exchanged occasional text messages and emails. I can’t say I got used to it. I would race home from Sunday school and set up for our weekly sighting. And when she didn’t want to say goodbye, I wanted to reach through the screen and hug her.

There were the little illnesses, difficulties with classes, and the usual bumps that any college student or world traveler experiences. I watched her handle them beautifully.   I worried when she wasn’t feeling well and wondered about where she could get good medical care if she needed it. Being thousands of miles from campus, I marveled as she registered for next semester, applied for a job, and arranged for housing from afar.

For one week, she was staying in a home in a distant part of Kenya. Rural week, it was called. She didn’t know if her hosts would have electricity, running water, or would even speak English. We talked the day before she left and then we crossed our fingers.

Midweek, my phone rang! She was checking in! Fortunately, she was staying in the home of a government official and college professor! Other students had much more primitive lodgings. She could use her cell phone to call us and I was relieved. It worked out fine.

That, I guess, is the theme of this entire experience: It worked out fine. I knew that she could take care of difficult challenges without me. I learned that I could not only let her do that, but I would survive standing on the sidelines and being so far out of the action.

And now, she is back in the arms of the family. After a grueling two-day journey, we are back together, and I can breathe again. I wanted to fly to Africa and accompany her home. I exercised all my bad helicopter parent tendencies on the last leg of the journey. I tracked her flight and touched base at each of her five cities. I raced to the airport to meet her. I got there too soon and paced and fretted.

And I know the big lesson: we are going to do this again – and again and again. I better get used to it. I don’t know if I will. I was jealous of parents whose kids came home for Thanksgiving. I was jealous of parents of students studying in London, Rome, Madrid, and even Perth. But that isn’t my child. My child will be going to learn in much more remote and unusual locations. And I am going to practice breathing.

Finding Poetry and the Man in the Chair

In the winter of 1996, I was struggling to help my Freshman English students understand and appreciate poetry. We were reading Romeo and Juliet, and Shakespeare felt concrete and foreign. Through an article in a professional journal, I stumbled on to the concept of “found poetry.”

Found poetry is verse created out ordinary everyday sources: product labels, cereal boxes, instruction manuals, and newspaper articles. The journal had an example of a poem by Julius Lester called “Parents” based an article from a paper in Arizona.

I presented the Lester poem to my students. Then I showed them two examples of my own: a piece written from a computer program manual and another based on a recent newspaper article.

The article was entitled “Hope grows on vines of love: Faith nourishes paralyzed teen, family.” It was about a high school hockey player who was paralyzed during a game and struggling to recover. I don’t remember my thoughts when selecting this article. I might have wanted a piece about teenager. It was in the “PrepsPlus” part of the Sunday paper, which I rarely read. In addition, the article has strong traditional religious overtones, which is hardly my style. It seems an unlikely selection.

Modeling the process for my students, I wrote a brief piece using the article as my found source:

Hope is where you find it.

O'Connor's eyes

are half open.

"I think I'm in a pretty good mood

for a kid with a broken neck."

hope has become

a finger twitch

"It's very slight,"

a flicker of movement

Doctors may know about

probability

but they don't know about building

hope

"it was just an accident"

"My arms looked

real far away. And my neck

hurt."

Ehhhhh, you're doomed

"It's hard sometimes"

He still has body spasms that frighten him.

"It's never going to get easy,"

it just tears your heart out

But not yet.

It could have been worse.

It isn’t much compared to Lester’s disturbing and professional poem. I figured I needed to show my students some sample found poems. Kids brought in things from menus to maps to magazines. We created all sorts of fun, interesting, and powerful poetry together.

And that was that. For seventeen years, I used this example and wrote a few others.

Then, I went to today’s annual charity drive assembly. Our school holds a big fund raising campaign between Thanksgiving and Winter Break. We have contributed to causes ranging from children with cancer to congenital heart defects to helping soldiers in Africa. This year’s charity helps disabled people engage in athletic activities.

The assembly began with our student council leaders. They talked about why they picked this group: the Great Lakes Adaptive Sports Association. They introduced the director and she spoke. Then a local mother of a child told her story.

Then they introduced the man in the wheelchair who had been sitting up front beside the podium: J.J. O’Connor. I recognized the name right away, but I wasn’t sure. I whispered to the teacher sitting next to me, “I wonder if he was paralyzed playing hockey.” Sure enough.

It was him: the boy in the article, seventeen years later. He found me. How unlikely! I was amazed.

I ran to my office and retrieved the poem. I couldn’t find the actual article until the end of the day. I got a copy of the poem and rushed back to the assembly, but it was almost time for my next class, so I left the auditorium as the assembly ended. I told my students about it, and they asked, “Why didn’t you go tell him?” My answer was simple, “Because I needed to come to class with you!”

I saw one of the student leaders after school, and he told me that J.J. O’Connor will be at the big charity benefit this Sunday. I’ll be there. I’ll bring the article, and the poem – and my thanks and admiration. I’ll find him again. How poetic!