I needed time to think about this before I weighed in on it. I’ve done research. I’ve watched the video, looked at reports, read statements from the White House, letters from organizations, articles by naysayers, and blogs from supporters. I’ve spoken with a few close friends and family members and had a little chat with God.
This isn’t the first I’ve heard of (one of) the situations in central Africa. But I have what is often referred to as an “overly emotional” reaction when I hear of such atrocities done to children. I am not a mother. I have no biological children of my own, but I do have a few that I love with all the fervency that I can muster. I also have my kiddos at the daycare where I work. It is the faces of these children that I see whenever I watch a news broadcast—which is probably why I watch so few. So after a good chat and a good cry, I feel that I am finally able to report where I stand on the current attempts to arrest Joseph Kony.
I support this movement. I support arresting Joseph Kony and having him tried for crimes against humanity.
While I will not be donating monetarily to the particular organization of “Invisible Children,” I do support their endeavor to arrest this war criminal. The main reason that I am not giving money to them is because I really don’t have any and even if I did, the causes I choose to support financially are between God and me. I have looked over IC’s financials and their ratings with certain groups and they are not the money hoarders that many claimed and that I was beginning to believe that they are. They spend much on travel expenses, but that ought not be taken immediately as negatively. They are raising awareness, so that the people with power to do something (I’m looking at you, politicians and law-makers) are knowledgeable enough to make the changes that need to be made. Having said that, I plead for everyone to research any organization that you are considering making a donation to. If donating money is what you can do to help, please make sure that it will actually be used in a helpful way.
My greatest wish, though, in all of this is that the reason behind the cause, this movement—whatever you wish to call it—will not be forgotten. The children. For decades children have been abducted and had unspeakable things done unto them. As an overly emotional childcare provider, I cannot help but see and think of every one of those children as someone’s baby. Someone’s son. Someone’s daughter. They are the reason Kony needs to be brought to justice. They are the reason that I expect every organization attempting to assist them to be as fiscally responsible as possible. Because they are not just victims. They aren’t just numbers. They are children. So let us pray to the Prince of Peace that His love and His mercy might prevail in their lives.
“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.
Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’
“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’
“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’
“Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’
“They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’ “He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’ “Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.”
Matthew 25:31-46
Bruce Springsteen released his new album this Tuesday, entitled "Wrecking Ball." It's amazing. Like so many of Springsteen's other albums, it is full of the cries of the downtrodden, everyday-folk. These are songs for the people, presented in a near gospel-like fashion.
I watched Bruce give an interview on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon on Friday and it got me thinking--as Springsteen so often does-about my dad. He was the biggest fan of The Boss that I've ever met. And he made sure his kids shared his enthusiasm. I always tell people that I've been listening to Springsteen since before I was born--and that isn't an exaggeration. Both my brother and I were introduced to this rock icon in the same way that so many babies hear Beethoven: through headphones laid against their mother's stomach.
My dad was nothing special to those who did not know him. He was from a blue-collar family and worked a factory job. He went to church and played catch with his kids. Knowing what I know about the man he was, I'm intrigued by what he chose as my first taste of music.
Not Yet Born to Run
Wrapped securely
in my mother's womb,
I wasn't aware
of the eye-rolling and
the gentle, indulgent smiling
breezing across her face.
I can close my eyes
--now, decades after the fact--
and almost see my father's surely goofy-
looking expression of delight.
He was pressing his headphones
up against Mom's stomach,
in which I was nestled.
He had heard that classical music would ensure
that the baby was smart.
Smart.
It would make a baby more adept
at science, math, and reading.
The experts never said anything about ensuring the child would be
passionate
or poetic.
There were no statistics that proved
Mozart in utero helped strengthen
your unborn child's sense of
justice
or compassion.
Bach emphasized algebra,
not empathy.
In those exuberant eyes of my father,
that wasn't good enough.
It was late 1987,
when I was still fetal, still becoming
whomever it is I was born to be,
when my father set his headphones
across my mother's stomach,
when the first music I would ever hear
came echoing around me.
It was late '87 so
it might have been "Tunnel of Love"
or "Nebraska." I can't remember
and he isn't around to remind me.
But it is good
--to me, at least--
to think of my father,
eschewing expert opinion
about how to develop a baby's brain
and instead concerning himself
with how to develop it's heart.
I was cleaning/reorganizing my bedroom today and I decided it might be a good idea to go through my shoes and set aside those I don't want or no longer wear. A couple times a year, I round up clothes and whatnot to donate. It's about time I did the same with my shoes.
I knew this particular pair of shoes was in my collection still, even though I haven't worn them in years. They are ugly and ripped and no longer comfortable. But I've been holding on to them for a while. These aren't just any pair of shoes. These are a pair of "Orange Popsicle" (the official name of the color), hi-top, Chuck Taylor, Converse All-Stars. I bought them in the summer of 2002.
I went through a lot with these shoes. They've been Sharpie-d, painted, and white-out-ed to death. A few months after I got them, I took an ultra fine-point sharpie and stared writing on them. Song lyrics, lines from poems, quotes from movies and books and the random catchphrase here and there. They were an everyday part of my 14 and 15 year-old uniform: orange Chucks, knee high gym socks, either a pair of guys shorts (that were baggy and came to me knees) or a pair of jeans with the bottoms rolled up a few inches, and a solid color t-shirt that I had taken a Sharpie to. I had a whole set of t-shirts that I had done myself. Memorable shirts included my "Crazy for Swayze" shirt and of course "Nettleton Dance Team Reject: Too Phat."
I see now, looking at these shoes, that I haven't just been holding on to a pair of old sneakers. I've been trying to hold on to who I was back then.
Who was 14 year old Sarah?
She was a Lord of the Rings fanatic, hip deep in her first research paper devoted to the topic. (Okay. So *that* bit still holds true.)
She wrote poetry all the time. It was almost all thematically the same: cool people are stupid, mindless sheep, nonconformity is awesome and being a teenager sucks.
She was trying so hard to be different than everyone else. Oh, the clothes she wore.
She lived with a mom who was battling breast cancer and a dad who was battling a disease she couldn't pronounce and her brother had started college and never seemed to be awake when she was.
She had panic attacks she didn't know where panic attacks.
She did some stupid stuff and said some stupid stuff, but 24 year old Sarah has made her peace with that. I know now that 14 year old me was doing the best she could with what she had.
Even though I bear her no ill will, it is time for 14 year old me to stop living in the bottom of a shoe bin. 24 year old me needs the space. Because life is here and the future is arriving a moment at a time. I think I'm finally ready.
There are many things I don't remember about the time right around when my father passed away in September of 2007. My memory gets a little fuzzy around the edges and the timeline of events gets screwed up. I've lost days and weeks from that year. But, mercifully, I do remember one thing with absolute clarity: I remember the last conversation I had with my dad.
It was Tuesday. I was walking around campus. I had been to the bookstore earlier that day and had bought him a present. I don't remember where I was going, but I decided to give him a call and tell him what I got for him. (His side of this phone call is in bold.)
>Hey Daddy! I bought you a present today!
> What'd ya get?
> A book. "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance."
> Oh, cool! I've always wanted to read that.
> Good! I'll give it to you when I get home, okay?
> You can read it when I'm done.
> Sounds good. I love you.
> I love you too.
> Bye.
Yeah. He had a terrible habit (one my brother tends to share) of hanging up the phone once I said goodbye! Eh, I didn't mind. And I still don't. I don't mind that we didn't get "to say goodbye." Because the last thing my father ever said to me was that he loved me.
I read the book I bought him. "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance." It's good. It's about a guy's theory that his practice of taking care of his motorcycle himself is what truly allows the motorcycle to be his and for him to enjoy it. How fitting, seeing as how I'm still learning from my father that we can't expect everyone to take care of everything for us.
He taught me how to shine my shoes, how to check the oil in my car, how to put a new seat on a bicycle, how to use a record player (and just generally have good taste in music).
That last one I think has stuck with me more than most. Dad's favorite musician was Bruce Springsteen, known as "The Boss." A year or so ago I wrote this poem about my dad and about Bruce Springsteen. (I'm fairly certain that as a young child that I thought they were one and the same, but that's beside the point.) Enjoy.
The Boss
a poem by Sarah Wofford
From inside the womb
was heard a rhythm,
a gentle thump
that sounded like
Nebraska.
She emerged from the darkness
into a familiar stranger's
waiting hands.
Callused palms that cradled her
as he swayed and sang
about a dead dog
who existence
would always bring a tear to her eye.
Together they would
sing the songs
of this six-string guitar god,
some lower deity
descended from Elvis's Mt. Olympus.
They sang of velvet rims,
yellow men,
and racin' in the street.
And no one could touch them.
Not illness nor death,
nor the thick Jersey air.
They were tramps.
Together.
Born to believe.
Religiosity
My religion is that of
Jesus Christ of latter-day Romantic poets.
Love is my religion.
Isn’t that right,
St. John Keats?
I have faith
in what I cannot see.
I am certain
of what I hope for.
The rhythm and meter
of my life
will end
in two perfectly rhymed couplets,
five iambs each.
My eulogy will flow
from the lips
of children and angels
and not a soul will weep
for me
for I will finally be
where I belong.
The Lord will meet me
in the halls of prophets
and etch my name
into His grand anthology
of poets and singers and
various and sundry
rambling raconteurs.
Until that day
I will follow a path
that is not marked,
a trail no map
could plot.
Loving all,
doing harm to none,
teaching generations
of my successors
that free verse
and blank verse
are not the same thing
but that Jesus loves them
anyway.
Reminding saints and sinners
that the grave
knows no denomination
but only asks
“Who do you love?”
Informing intellectuals
that it is the pen
and not the printing
that makes a poet
and that the hallelujah chorus
should not just be saved
for holy days.
My last recitation
shall by my requiem
and I will follow
the Great Bard of Bethlehem
home.
To the Deeping Wall
- a poem of battle and friendship -
Once more,
to the deeping wall we go.
To that stone wall
built
out of the dust
of our insecurities
and second thoughts.
Never will it be crossed
by our enemies.
Too much of our pain
has been mixed
with its mortar.
Too much of our anger
quarried
its stone.
Once more
we stand at our positions,
defending the keep
from an enemy
whose making would probably lead
back
to those of us who villainize it.
But never the matter,
a villain is villainy
when it threatens to burn the gates.
So onward we set
out from our homes
riding our
plastic particleboard horses
to acts of anti-heroism
and deep confusion.
But to the deeping wall we charge!
There our every breath
is the opening note
to our last stand
and stanza.
Our weapons,
merely props from Shakespeare’s
lesser plays,
but our battle cries
echo
all the greatest sonnets.
We will meet you
face to face
and this is our victory!
No matter if we win
or lose.
God Save the Intellectuals
by Sarah Wofford
God save the intellectuals.
Their hard-fought cynicism
certainly won't
do the trick.
Throw a rope
to those over-philosophizers
for they are drowning
and their hope
is too far ahead of them
to help.
They are not-
perhaps-
scoundrels,
but the plot
is slowly slipping
through their grasp.
They have forgotten
the usefulness
of cheerfulness
and refuse to keep their chins up
for fear
of losing their heads.
They are certainly not
the enemy,
but they
bear a resemblance,
do they not?
They have made
Thoughts
their master
and forgotten
they were children once.
Children with faith enough
to climb
the tallest tree
and laugh in the face
of the sunset.
They now confuse
an optimistic disposition
with the blind naïveté
of one
who has never seen the world.
They believe that
to have any modicum of
Faith
with any hint of
Understanding
one must be jaded,
with one's collar
turned up against the world.
Living
is but a struggle
to survive
to the finish line.
They would see the evil
in all but themselves,
ignoring the equality
of their nature.
God save the intellectuals,
before they try to save us all.
