The Howdy Herald (Nuclear Family Radiation)

[The Howdy Herald is a family/friendly newsletter I send out somewhat annually. It is full of Howden/Cartwright doings and musings. It may not be of any interest to you whatever.]

The ImmediClan, minus one hunk of Will.

October 12. It’s a Friday afternoon in Dalian, Liaoning Province, People’s Republic of China, Asia, the World, Third Rock from a Modest Sun. I’m sitting in the 5th floor Reference Room of the School of International Business, a college at the university where Diana and I make our material living (and earn our visa privileges). The room has been mine for 90 minutes now, and there’s a pleasant breeze that seems to come straight from the scrub-forested hillside that fills the window to my left. It’s all I can see, and traffic sounds are fairly distant. Pleasant. I even hear the odd bird, and there aren’t too many in a city like Dalian, relatively clean though it is. This is a nice little zone. I should come here more often.

Yes, Sam and Diana and I are back in Dalian for our fourth China year.

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An End to Foreign-ness: This is London Calling

My last post bemoaned my neglect of this quiet little forum, and that was several months ago. If you happen to have been a regular reader when there was fresh fodder, sorry and thanks. If you’re new, thanks for showing up. (And “an end to foreign-ness”? It’s part of what ‘Abdu’l-Bahà, visionary and civilization-builder, called upon the world to create nearly a century ago. I love that phrase.) (I hope I don’t have to explain the “London Calling” reference, except maybe for my mother-in-law: Margery, it’s a great punk album by The Clash. You’re welcome.)

After a wobbly and jet-lagged first day in London, vacationing back to the Anglo-Saxon homeland with my wife and youngest son, I want to throw this into the ether before pitching myself into the loft of oblivion. Sleep, my friends. Sleep.

The next thing you’ll see is a little something I wrote to my Grade 10 English class — a group that should’ve been a delight, considering the material we studied and the brainpower of many of the kids, but was only occasionally so — as class ended in June. No coincidence that I’ve relaunched my writing / With gnashing and biting and / Blasts from a thousand kazoos after a week and more away from being a full-time educator. Teaching and writing is a balancing act I haven’t yet found the rhythm or the moderation to master…


What Difference Does It Make?

You may have noticed the scarcity of posts over the past couple of weeks, all because of a family trip to Guadeloupe. Computer access was scarce, and there was lots to see. So you can look, over the next week or so, for a flood of reflections on that fine adventure and other things I’ve been meaning to tell you.

The trip has me asking one positively nagging question of myself. It’s another round of a skullbound parlour game that I’ve played many times over the years. I’m getting to be good at it. I’m learning to take the most sneering or self-righteous dismissal, the verbal brutality of a nasty rhetorical question, turn it inside out and tame it. I make it do what I want. Wanna play?

Here’s a question covered in thorns. Who do you think you ARE? Alice Munro made it the title of a short story collection, and she showed the essence of that all too prevalent Canadian attitude: a prim, haughty disapproval of ambition or boldness or extraordinary achievement. I hear that voice in my head, still, almost every time I try to step out of my comfortable furrow. Now, though, I can often turn it around, asking the question sincerely rather than for the sake of making a harsh judgement. When I ask it in that tone of voice, I use it to gently challenge myself or someone else to consider first principles of identity, to get a little more self-aware. Okay, who or what IS a human being, and what does that all mean for me right now? How do you see yourself?

Another of my favourite turnarounds, in the same vein, begins with the incredulous What do you think you’re DOING? We generally use this when we catch someone doing something that we don’t approve of or understand. (My students and my children have heard this blurt more often than I’d like.) However, I like to play Socrates a little – or maybe just fumble about like rerun TV’s detective Columbo. I grind off the sharp critical edge and make the question into a sincere probe. How do you understand your behaviour and the attitude behind it? Do they show some sense of purpose, some higher commitment? Do they help you get where you’d like to go? The examined life is no picnic, but it’s worth living, as the real Socrates said.

Guadeloupe, warm and bright and new to us, suddenly seems distant on a minus-30 northern morning. My tan is already fading. Listen: if you take a trip but there are no lasting results, did it actually happen? I started to wonder, in our last days there and on Air Canada homeward, so what difference did this make? When I was a kid, this question had a bitter, defiant edge. Whatsa DIFF? we would say pugnaciously. It was meant to shut down an argument, and our antagonist, snottily “proving” that his actions and words weren’t worth a damn. (Sometimes, it had a more discouraged feel to it; nothing that I do is going to matter, so why bother?)

So, again, I found myself extracting the poison from a toxic question. What difference does it make became a personal challenge to nurture whatever seeds of usefulness and joy we had planted. There are new friendships to develop, fine memories and educative bits that we can treasure and build on, and the chance to reflect on our work and life back home. (There were times I hated to be away from my work table, but I’m so lucky and glad that I was. I like it here better today than I have for awhile.) My bride and I travelled with our six-year-old, and that furious learning and those wide-open eyes are a spur and an admonition. We’ll see what the difference is. I’ll try to make sure there IS one.