What Go Go Go Go Go Joseph has to do with me

When Baby Girl was almost two years-old, she was playing with the manger set at my mom's house. The characters were stuffed representations of Mary, Joseph, Wee Baby Jesus and the other usual suspects. Baby Girl kept playacting out scenes in the manger (shepherds giving piggyback rides to camels, wise men playing touch football with the frankincense) and she kept referring to Mary and Jo-puff. We could not stop repeating this. It's super fun to say and there's no cuter couple than Mary and Jo-puff.

I still refer to Jo-puff like this in my  head, but he is emerging as a more significant Bible character for me.

Jo-puff (Joseph to the uninitiated) and even if you've never read the story of Joseph, chances are you've seen the musical or heard the tune about his amazing techni-color cloak.  Joseph was born a favorite son of his father and then was sold off as a slave by jealous brothers. He eventually became a key cabinet member to the pharoah, was jailed but then freed. All the while, it is clear that in spite of his trials, God has important plans for Joseph. Joseph just needs to have faith.

Broken record much?

I know. And so the broken record spins on. He just had to have faith. It's another adage from the bucket of Hard Things that require So Much More more than just determination, but which people reduce to brief imperatives. Just say no to drugs. Get an 'A'. Ask her out. Get yours today.

Joseph's story always seemed very base to me. He wasn't the interesting oft-conflicted David, fighting his inner demons while seeking after God's own heart. He wasn't Jonah, playing hide-and-seek in a whale. He wasn't Noah with the  cruise ship zoo. He was Joseph with the flamboyant coat, and he ended up living with the king and having to forgive the same people over and over and over.  So I guess we're supposed to forgive people even if they don't like what we're wearing. Point taken. The end.

Joseph, oh hai.

Recently, I am identifying with my man Joseph, however. Maybe it's because I have been a bit of an ass lately. Maybe it's because I was just telling Loverpants that I've been fighting negativity like woah and am getting in my own way. I've been struggling to prioritize my priorities list. I keep having to ask forgiveness over and over and over and I feel restless and want to know what is the next step from here, because I can't be stuck here. Not in this place. Contentment and I are strange bedfellows, you feel me?

I think about the story of Joseph and the difference between Joseph and me is that he was always looking up and I've been looking down, and that has made all the difference, transcendentalists. Joseph knew and I know that God has His hand over us. Joseph knew like I know there's work we're called to do. But Joseph had a sense of purpose which formed his identity, and I've been looking to my identity to discern my purpose. Joseph looked up and trusted and knew there was a way out of this ditch in the field.

Hey, Joseph. I see you. I see you seeing God and in so doing, I see you seeing your mission impossible.

I want to see what he's seeing right now.

***

I just started the Restless Project because I have done a Jennie Allen Bible study before and it involved a lot of drawing pictures that appeal to my adult ADD. Also, restlessness is my specialty. If being restlessness were a full-time job, I'd be known as a workaholic and pulling in a mint every month. I thought this study might help. So far, it's been a huge blessing. Let me know if you're going to do it, too, and maybe we can do it together (even remotely?).

What I unlearned about the word #interracial

I was doing some research last week and scanned Twitter to see what articles might appear under the hashtag "interracial." Oh my lands. I am not old enough to see what I cannot now unsee. A whole stream of fetish links and images came waterfalling, and it made me so so sad. I understand that interracial marriage was once outlawed in this country. I understand that some people would still like that to be the case. But is this why the word is now in the domain of the fetishists? Because it was once a taboo relationship, it's now relegated to X-rated content, exclusively? Or was I too quick to accept this as a single story?

***

If, at any point in the late 80s or early 90s, you came home after school and switched on the TV, chances are you became acquainted with this guy:

Remember Britannica Boy? His report dilemma? How he got a B+ on his eventual report because of too much information--"overkill"? Didn't we all just go racing to call that 1-800 number to own ourselves the greatest encyclopedia in the world? Imagine the comprehensive reports about plankton and Cherokee tribes and Papua New Guinea we could write!

I still remember a time when this was how we researched. We sought out texts, dusty old books and periodicals in archives. We skimmed microfiche, and by "we," I most certainly include myself because tedious, arcane forms of research were my jam, man.

I am not such a reactionary that I believe old school research was just inherently better than what Google nets us, but it certainly felt to me like it was more of an investment: of time, of brain power, of a desire to really be satisfied about The Whole Story.

***

I've lost some of that. I've lost the Britannica Boy in me, and I suspect I'm not alone. I'm too quick to accept the single story, despite the fact that every year, I invite Chimamanda Adichie into my advanced reporting class via Ted Talk and am cautioned once again against accepting the single story. It's the difference between knocking on someone's door versus searching for someone. It's the difference between accepting "Ah, nobody's home" and going to the next door to see if the neighbors know anything. I'm a lazy researcher and what does that say about me?

I thought about the single stories that could be written about me if no one was doing comprehensive research. If someone just observed me or knew me in a certain context, they could easily observe:

1. She is a mess--look at how all her library books are overdue. 2. She is so selfish--look at how she parked like she was the only car in the lot. 3. She has ADHD -- her ability to concentrate on one task is nil to none. 4. She is a health nut--look at her lunch, so healthy!

I am guilty of writing these kinds of character profiles of others in my head. I relegate people to the Minivan Mafia, to the ranks of the Holier than Thou, to the Den of Sinners. Who benefits from these single stories. Not the characters in them and least of all the author. So why do we write them and why do we accept them?

My desire is to keep knocking on doors and keep writing the story. It's what I would want for myself, for my family, and the child of the 80s in me knows it can earn me at least a B+ on the report, right?

The story that makes my students so embarrassed for me

I didn't have an e-mail address before college. Why would I have needed one? If I needed to invite a ton of people over to the beatnik party at my mom's basement, I could just call all those people. Which I did. Call all those people whose phone numbers I had memorized.  And then when my friend Dave recorded the beatnik sessions in my mom's basement, he just sent me the cassette tape of it in the mail. Not as an mp3 attachment. Also, we didn't have internet at my mom's house when I was in high school, so what was the point, anyway. It seemed to me that the kids who had internet at home, AOL, which was shortened from America Online (so cool), just frittered away all of their time in chat rooms with strangers who went by the name PeachFuzz234 or AussieBabe49. 1996. Life and times.

When I got to college, I got an e-mail address and would write the whole e-mail in the subject line. The vastness of the world wide web was skull-splitting for me. I watched as people could gamely conduct web searches and deduce what other movies certain stars had appeared in, rather just wondering for a few months if that was really Drew Barrymore as the little sister in E.T. and finally getting the movie out at the library and confirming, wow, yes, that really does appear to be a young Drew Barrymore.

That first semester of college, I bought a new desktop computer that occupied 75% of my desk. It took me roughly three weeks to assemble it and to get the internet hooked up and my friend Steve from the floor below visited my room daily just to make fun of my total grandma approach to technology. Hi Steve. Hugsies.

But by far, the moment that most crystallizes how I was a child who came of age just as the internet was emerging as our mainstream information source, it is this:

I walked down the hall to the bathroom and stopped short at the door of my hallmate Keira's room. The door was open and she and her roomie Kathy were cracking up about something, but what caught my attention was a piece of paper hanging from Kathy's bookshelf. On the paper was a picture of 3 marshmallow chicks peeps. It was clearly a print-out from your standard issue deskjet printer. But I just stood there, wondering how this got there, like they were harboring a bona fide unicorn in their dorm room. There was a picture of marshmallow peeps on a piece of paper. And Keira and Kathy had printed it out themselves.

My cognitions had ground to a halt.  I could not understand.

This was where the neurons started misfiring for me. Because, I understood how things got printed out of a printer from a computer, say, like from a word processing document. But how did the marshmallow peeps get into the computer and then get through the printer and onto paper? What did I get on my SATs? What? Why do you ask?

I asked Keira, How did you do that?

With a printer, she said.

I know, but how did you get the picture of the peeps? Did you take the picture?

No, I just found them on a website.

You found them on a ...

Then you printed them out and now there are marshmallows cut into bunny shapes dipped in sugar in a one-dimensional jpeg on a piece of recycled paper.

My world was never. Never. The same.