Raising My Neighbors' Kids

I love kids.

I like to make faces at them in restaurants, I like to hear them laughing, and I like to, whenever I can, make them smile. To make them smile, I have only one strategy: When I catch a child staring at me, I open my big eyes as wide as I can. Usually this makes them smile (Although, sometimes they cry). But I don't like to play peek-a-boo, or bulge my eyes, when the kid's parents are looking.

Why?

It's because even though I love kids, I know pedophiles do, too. And, as Hamlet would say, therein lies the rub.

My neighbors have two twin girls, towheaded blondes who are always grinning, probably either six or seven years old. Occasionally I stop by my apartment during my lunch break, and during these times I sometimes see these girls leaving with their school bags, presumably for a half-day of Kindergarten.

One day when they were waiting in an SUV, they banged on the window to get my attention as I walked past them. I turned to see them both waving enthusiastically, and I smiled and waved back. This is just one example; these two outgoing, little girls have never failed to greet me cheerfully in passing.

Today I was walking to the front door of my apartment complex (a clear glass door which provides a view of the stairs within). My hands were full and I was trying to wrestle my keys from my suddenly stubborn coat pocket. I wasn't succeeding.

Then, I heard one of the girls crying "I"ll get it" as they both bounded down the stairs to open the door for me. (Opening the front door to an apartment complex for a man who is essentially a stranger.) Their father, or the man who seems to take them to school, or wherever it is they go with their backpacks, was walking up the sidewalk behind me (I wonder if he would have bothered to come up the walk if I hadn't been there; or would he have allowed the girls to walk unaided to his waiting SUV?).

As the girls opened the door for me, I said thank you, and I think I smiled. But I tried not to meet their eyes. I felt like doing so would make me look suspicious, like maybe the father would think I'm a threat just because I smiled at his girls.

I could never harm a child, and I have no unhealthy interest in them whatsoever. I know this. But I'm not delusional enough to expect fathers I don't know to know this about me. And honestly, I'm not sure I want them to think the best of me, or any stranger.

It's sad that I shouldn't be friendly to kids I don't know (especially free-spirited, friendly girls who seem happy to see me). But yet, what kind of message would I send if I'm friendly? Would I be teaching the girls that strangers can be trusted, that strangers are safe?

I don't know.

Of course, I don't think I looked threatening today. Not in the daylight, wearing work clothes, with my arms bearing two bags of groceries.

But there are unfriendly strangers who can wear dress clothes, walk about in daylight, and, heck, even carry groceries. I think I would prefer that parents choose to distrust me. Because if people choose to trust everyone, it only takes one psycho to change their daughter's (or daughters') life/lives, and it only takes one psycho to end a life. So by trusting no strangers, as sad as that might be, wouldn't parents be more likely to protect their daughters?

I know this sounds cynical, this whole "trust no one" mentality. But if it were your child, or your twin little girls, would you risk it?

I know I would prefer to be able to smile at those girls (any kid, really--boy or girl), but I wonder, in the long run, if it's wise:

If I were especially evil, I could have scooped up some snow, packed it into airtight balls, and blasted both those girls in the face. And then I could have run away laughing, leaving those girls with a lasting impression that strangers are dangerous (or at least that this stranger is, this stranger whom they have been so friendly to in the past). And I think that memory, that impression, would last longer than the snow stinging their face.

But, maybe, just maybe, a smile could leave an impression that would last just as long.

And if so, which is better? A scowl that scares the children closer to those they know they can trust, or a smile that warms them to further interaction with strange men?

I don't have the answer. I do know I don't want to scowl. I do know there is something special, something almost sacred, about a friendly encounter with a total stranger. I do know I feel moved everytime I experience unexpected goodness while interacting with those I don't know.

But I don't know what's best for those girls. And I don't envy parents their task: teaching children to be wary of strangers without molding them in a cast of continual cynicism.

And children aren't influenced by family alone. They have teachers, bus drivers, and Sunday School teachers. And, well, neighbors.

And to best assist as my neighbors attempt to raise those little girls, should I smile or simply look away?

I don't know. But I'll probably take my chances and keep smiling.

-Thanks for reading.

Being Untouchable

"One cannot be betrayed if one has no people."
--Kobayashi in The Usual Suspects


I used to pride myself on my ability to seclude myself, to moderate emotion. I was proud of my control, my ability to withhold.

I was not a loner. I just made sure no one had easy access to me, to the emotions I kept so carefully incarcerated.

I wanted people to see me as hardened, calloused--manly. I wanted to be given a wide berth. I wanted strangers to look away from my stare. I especially didn't want to need anybody.

I wanted to be untouchable.


"No matter how alone you are, and how tricky and determined, don't you need one person to know?"
--Alice Munro, from "Pictures of the Ice"


Even as I sneered at people who were too quick to disclose, those who wanted to share everything with anyone who had two ears (or any other means of listening), I felt a faint longing for intimacy. Geuine intimacy. (Even now, I cringe as I write this because I still cling to the hologram I once maintained, that of the untouchable.) But I couldn't maintain it because I wasn't created to be isolated. No one is meant for isolation.

I began to discover this faint longing during my time at Indiana Wesleyan University, probably about the time I rededicated my life to Christ (and I don't think this is a coincidence). I had accepted Christ when I was young, but in January of 2004 I committed to do more than just be a "Christian." This time I wanted to actually live my life for Christ (which should be the foundation of the commitment in the first place).

And in order to live my life for Christ, I couldn't be detached, isolated...untouchable.

Interestingly, the more I sought God, and the more I sought Christian community, the less I wanted to be untouchable.
And now I want to touch lives; I want to encourage people, support them, listen when they need someone. And anyone who knows me knows I'm passionate about honesty--genuine, frank, confessional, vulnerable openness with those we love and trust. Obviously, these ideals cannot exist in seclusion.



"The person who tries to be alone will not succeed as a human being. His heart withers if it does not answer another heart. His mind shrinks away if he hears only the echoes of his own thoughts and finds no other inspiration."
--Pearl S. Buck


If Pearl S. Buck is right, if a "person who tries to be alone will not succeed as a human being," then I was failing at life. It can't get much worse than that, can it? Failing as a human being?

Maybe other avenues could have led me away from my emotional isolation. Maybe there are many viable processes that could have altered my mindset, but for me it was Jesus Christ who prompted me to lower my shield. And it was for this purpose: God wants to use me (He wants to use anyone who is willing to serve Him), but how could He use me to touch others when I kept everyone out of reach?

The result for me has been three things, in this order: I attained a sense of peace, became passionate, and discovered a purpose for my life.

And whether or not other routes could have prompted me to embrace openness, I know only Jesus Christ can provide the sort of freedom I've experienced. And He offers it to everyone (Sorry if I sound like a preacher, but it's too important not to mention).

Of course, Kobayashi (The Usual Suspects) is still right, "One cannot be betrayed if one has no people."

But without people, no matter how tricky and determined one might be, he will fail as a human being. And there is nothing manly about that.

-Thanks for reading.

Who's Responsible for Me?

On the morning of December 22nd, three days before Christmas, raindrops broke on my stooping head as I trudged briskly for my car. Once inside, just before I started the engine and shuttled myself to work, I saw something pinned underneath my windshield wiper. For once, it wasn't an advertisement. But I wish it had been. Showing through the plastic bag were the words, "I hit your car."
Further inspection of the note and my car revealed that a man named Scott had backed into me, busting my right rear taillight. I drove to work before calling the number Scott left on the paper sealed inside the plastic bag.
Scott, to his credit, was apologetic and eager to help. He wanted, however, to just buy me the necessary parts without going through insurance. I told him I wanted to turn it in. I had never been in an accident, but I thought this was the best policy.
To shorten the narrative, a detailed estimate revealed damages totalling $681. Slightly more than the cost of a taillight. I thought Scott would be angered, or at least frustrated, when I called to tell him the total. Scott never complained. I offered to get a second opinion, and he said, "No, if they say the rear panel's messed up, then I'm sure it is."
Scott filed the claim and I got everything taken care of without any problems.
I thanked him for being so helpful (Apparently, before he put the plastic bag-protected note on my car, he went door to door in my apartment complex to try and find the owner of the blue Eclipse with the Ohio State magnet on the back). And Scott said, "Hey, I would want somebody to do the same for me." And when I thanked him one last time, he said, "No problem. It's my pleasure."
"My pleasure"? Really? How exceptional...and absurd.

Some time after that minor incident in December, my roommate was involved in a much more serious traffic accident. While waiting to turn left, Chris (the roommate) was rear-ended by a woman who had been fishing her cell phone off the floor of her car. She was traveling roughly 45 miles per hour. Chris saw her at the last second and he hit his gas to decrease the impact for him and his passenger. The rear-ending car also tried to swerve, which only drove him into oncoming traffic--right into the path of an SUV. An SUV which was driven by a woman with no license and no insurance, mind you.
Chris's car was totaled and he had to go to the Emergency Room for sprained wrists and some significant contusions. Weeks later, the effects of the accident have not completely disappeared.
Unfortunately for Chris, Scott wasn't driving either of these vehicles. Instead, both women have tried to blame Chris for the accident. The rear-ender claimed Chris's headlights weren't on (nevermind the fact that pictures taken immediately afterward show them being on, and nevermind that she was coming from behind him and, had she been driving responsibly, his brake lights should have told her to slow the crap down), and the uninsured, unlicensed SUV driver claimed he turned in front of her.
So Chris has had to fight with the local police, who initially took the rear-ender's statement without taking his, and then cited him. He has had to negotiate with his insurance company. He sought legal consultation, and he will be expected to resolve this in court.
And all he did was try to turn left.
I'm sure Chris would love to have only gotten a smashed taillight, and I know he'd love it if either of the other drivers were willing to take responsibility for their mistakes. Then, instead of blaming him, they would apologize. And they'd offer to take care of the damage they caused. In fact, it would be "their pleasure" to do so.
But in our society, that doesn't happen. Unless you're lucky, like me, and you bump into (or get bumped into by) one of those rare Scott's out there. Those who know what it means to take responsibility for their actions, those who understand consequences and are even willing to seek them out when they know it's the right thing to do.
But all this left me wondering "What would I have done?" I wouldn't have claimed Chris's headlights weren't on, and I wouldn't have lied to the police (at least not in this stage of my life). But if I were Scott, would I have gone door to door in the rain looking for the owner of the damaged car? Would I have requested a plastic baggie from someone living in those apartments so I could scrawl my confession and cell phone number on a piece of paper that would be protected from the elements?
Or would I have written something sloppily, hoping and praying the rain would wash my number away? Would I have written anything at all, or just looked around to see if anyone noticed?
To answer all these questions, all I can say is "I don't know." I guess I don't know the depth of my integrity. I know it's easy to adopt the "well, if no one saw me do it..." mentality. It would also be easy to knock on a door, maybe two, and say, "Well, hey, I tried."
My insurance company told me I was lucky Scott left a note. Most people don't, they said.
Most people don't. But would I?
I think so. Now.

And maybe if the roles are ever reversed (God forbid), and someone thanks me for accepting my consequences, I can say, "Don't thank me. Thank Scott."
But I'm pretty certain I'll never say it's my pleasure. I still think that's absurd.

-Thanks for Reading