"Anguish"

So, I've gotten my whole family to read Salinger's "For Esme: with Love and Squalor," so: my work here is done. Mission: accomplished. Life: complete. Dad level: shining star.

What is the point of "For Esme: with Love and Squalor"? And why is it Salinger's Magnum Opus? (No, not "Catcher in the Rye," that unfortunately generation-defining work.)

World War II changed us. Read Wilfred Owen's "Dulce Decorum Est." But it changed us in a more profound way than that. Sartre wrote "Nausea" in answer to the question: "What if there is no God, really?" And he got sick of it, the idea that there's nothing, is nothing, and when we die, will be nothing. World War II caused an Existential Crisis that not only we have not recovered from, but, looking at this generation, we continue to go down the spiral to Oblivion, screaming: "XANAX AND DOLLARS! XANAX AND DOLLARS!"

Nausea. We are sick, but we don't even know we are sick, because we're pretending that 'everything's fine' and 'I know what I'm doing' because 'there's got to be a point to all this, ... doesn't there?'

Doesn't there?

Salinger addresses this question, head on, in "For Esme: with Love and Squalor." What is the point? And he addresses it with us: the most unreliable narrator.

Take X. What does he say? ever? in this story? He does speak, but note how he does: "I told her that..." "I relayed my ..." "I felt that I should ..."

He addresses the other Platonian Shadows in this story not as himself, but as a narrator through himself.

The Narrator has crossed himself out of this story, and is using his own person as a shadow-puppet to redirect our attention away from him to ...

... to, well, anything and anybody else other than him.

He doesn't want to be seen.

Esme sees him.

Esme, bored Esme, hiding her yawn in the choir loft, sees that he sees her, and seeing her, sees her for exactly who she is. She is above all this 'normalcy' this ... SQUALOR of the Every Day, so far above it that she does these common-place things -- singing, asking: "what are you doing here?" -- at a level beyond the normal: she exists in a higher plane than everybody else, because, unlike them, these walking shadows, she does exist, she is alive, and vibrantly so. She sees our narrator, sees him seeing her, and in seeing him, gives him life, and hope, and joy, and meaning, and purpose, ...

... for one microsecond of his lifeless life.

Then he, before and after, descends right back into the Squalor of the Every Day, pretending to be normal, pretending to be 'fine,' and utterly failing to fool anybody, even and most particularly, himself.

So.

Where is the hope in this hopeless story?

"Seymour: an Introduction" tells us the answer.

"The Artist screams [crying out in Anguish] and when we run to him and ask him: 'What's wrong,' he can't say. He cannot speak it. But it is his EYES! It is his EYES that see the pain and the lost and the emptiness of this life, and cannot unsee it. And that is what kills the Artist. His EYES."

The hope, in "For Esme: with Love and Squalor," is that Esme sees the Narrator, just for that one second, and, in a totally free act of kindness, reaches her heart out to his heart, and says to him: "I see you. I see your weaknesses. I see your strengths. You are alive. I love you. I see you."

And being seen, before, during, and after, living in the squalor of the Normal he creates for himself, yes, but in that Squalor, he now has that. He was seen. He was real to someone. He brought Joy to her: happiness, delight, recognition, hope.

And that is what he will have to his dying day.

And that is something no one can take away from him.

Ever.

Not even himself.

Baited then switched: what to do? Grin and Bear it?

So, okay, you've been baited into a meeting under a pretense, then, BAM! they switcheroo'd on you. Now you in this ... 'meeting'? do I call it a 'meeting,' when really it's an inquisition. So, you're in this thing, and your back is against the wall.

What do you do?

Here's what you don't do.

What I did: I played along, played nice, and survived the 'meeting' with this or that platitude, as required.

That's the default, right? "Let me just survive this and get the hell out of here."

No.

Why survive a meeting? Why lick the boots of the bossman (and, in my case: bosswoman), cower, and snivel?

For a job? Really? Because you really need this job? Really?

Let me tell you about this job.

It's a job. You do your work, it's part of your life.

You are investing your life into your job.

You only have this life, and then: you are going to die.

And, you're not doing yourself any favors, sniveling and scraping, and you're also not doing your boss any favors, right? You know that, right?

If your boss is being a little tyrant, then that's all they are: little, and a tyrant. So why, even, are you there, if all you are is a yes-man?

I am four years into my second chance. I had two heart attacks – the second one almost killed me – each day, now, is a gift from God Almighty. Am I going to waste this gift in servitude?

I'm an expert in my field. I have 25 years of experience working with some good managers and some bad ones, but they are all human beings, like me (maybe). I don't need to kowtow to my boss. I need to work for my boss to get the job done.

And the job won't get done if I check out as a yes-man. And the job won't get done when the boss is a little tyrant, demanding everybody be afraid of him or her. How can you get your job done if you check out? How can your team get the job done if you're spending time playing mind-games, trying to make people agree with everything that falls out of your mouth?

You can't. They can't. Nobody can.

Try this.

If you don't agree with something, say that. If you get gamed, say that.

"Look, I'm not ready to discuss this now at this meeting. Can we set up another meeting to discuss this?"

That's all you need to do. If they start to wander into mind-games, you call them on it, and say you won't play, because you're here to get work done.

Aren't they?

You do it the right way, they'll appreciate the correction. You do it the wrong way, or the wrong person is your boss, you've made an enemy, and you lost your job.

No big deal. Count yourself blessed to have an enemy who is a little tyrant. Count yourself blessed that you got fired from a job that going to is pure hell. You got out of hell. Get a different job that's better!

But if you don't speak up, it's your fault that your job sucks. And if you do speak up, and your job does get better, then:

Then: your job is better. Not just for you, but for everybody on your team. Because of you.

Think about that before you decide to grin and bear it again.

Think about that.

Bait-and-Switch Meetings

This is the second 'Bait-and-switch'-meeting I've gone to, and I don't appreciate it. If, at the beginning of the meeting, you say: "Oh, and besides X, I also want to talk about you, and your Y," then you've just committed a bait-and-switch. The meeting's agenda is the meeting's agenda, and if you have different things you want to talk about, you set up a different meeting. 

Now, you may say: "Well, I didn't tell you, because I wanted your honest opinion." Three things here: 

1. You're saying I'm dishonest otherwise? 
2. You came prepared, but you're not giving me the courtesy of coming prepared? 
3. and who has the power in this conversation. Are you caught off guard? 

Let me ask you: if your management team called you in for a meeting to talk about administrative stuff, and then they turned it around and asked: "I hear your team is having personality issues, why are you screwing up?" How would you feel? Imposed upon. Look at it as feedback. If you're given feedback, unprepared, and it's hard-hitting, you're reeling from the blow, and don't have the frame of mind to absorb that feedback, much less respond to it with a level head. 

Bait-and-switch meetings are bad, and they come from cowardice. What they do is this: they destroy trust. I now no longer trust going into a meeting that the published agenda is not the actual one, and now I don't want to say anything anymore. You may 'win' your bait-and-switch, by throwing the recipient off-guard and asserting your position of authority, but you lose, big-time: you have now lost the participation of me, up-to-now, a contributing member of the team.

Keep up the good work.

My Friend, Mike, Died

 My friend, Mike Malovic, far left in the picture, just died. Cancer.

Mike was a good man. I moved to the Washington, D.C. area in 1992 and met Mike soon after at the St. Michael's choir. We were both military, so we connected in that way, and he asked me if I kept my options open for business opportunities. I did. So we talked, and I joined his organization in Amway.

Now, I'm sorry if you had a bad Amway-experience, or, more likely: you heard that your mother's second cousin's friend-from-work-sister's girfriend "lost all her money in Amway and had to go live in Topeka, Kansas with her mom."

But my experience with Amway wasn't like that, and nor was Mike's, and here's why.

Mike cared. Mike cared for his family, and he knew he wasn't going to make it in the Washington DC-area off a sergeant's salary, and he knew he definitely wasn't going to make it off a sergeant's pension. So he looked at starting a business. He started a few, was successful in a few, but they still couldn't provide. He put the same amount of work into Amway that he put into his job and his other businesses, and Amway worked for him. So he shared that message of success with others, including me.

And here's the thing. Amway didn't work for me, because I didn't work Amway like Mike did. I played at it, tried it out, but I didn't work it like a full-time job, like Mike did, so I didn't become an Amway millionaire. But here's what I did get out of Amway: respect for people who worked at it, or at their businesses, respect for my Country, respect for my God, and my lovely wife. Pinky, Mike's wife, introduced me to Diane: "You know, Doug, Diane's really smart and sweet. You should talk to her. Like: now."

So, yeah: I'm not an Amway millionaire, like Mike may be, but here's the thing about Mike.

Mike cares.

Mike is a man who cares about you more than he cares about himself. He always has a word of encouragement, he always asks after you and your family, he always looks you in the eye when he shakes your hand, and he always treated me as a friend, whether I made him rich in Amway, or whether I didn't.

Because I didn't make him rich in Amway.

But.

I made him rich in life.

Mike is a very private, quiet person, and, for him, talking with people is hard, and tiring, and scary.

But here's something I learned from Mike, too.

You can live your life lonely, and alone, or you can talk with other people, and they can hurt you, yes, but they can change you in how you see the world as they see the world, and they can care, and they can hope, and they can dream, and they can enrich your life when they share that care, that hope, and those dreams with you.

That's what I learned from Mike. Introversion isn't an excuse. It wasn't for him, and, because of his example, it isn't for me. I learned my life is better when I make somebody's life better.

Today.

I learned that God put me on this Earth, today, to make somebody else's life better, and I ask myself, everyday: "Who did I make smile today?" and I better have an answer, today, by God, because I bet you anything, God will ask me the same question when I am called to task, like Mike was called to task.

Today.

My last visit with Mike breaks my heart, because I came prepared. I read up on him. I was going to ask him all about his life and adventures. "Sure," he said, "I was born in England, but I moved to the States when I was one year old. How is your dad? Is he okay?"

And from there, the conversation went, him asking about this or that, and commenting on how proud he was of me to work with the Air Force, to have my girls raised so polite and proper, to ...

It breaks my heart, that, to his dying breath, he didn't want to talk about himself, at all, he wanted to talk about me, and how I was faring in this world. Mike, he was done with this world, and ready for the next.

Mike, I know you're an Army man, but from this Coast Guardsman, I wish you, dear friend: fair winds and following seas.

God bless you, and keep you in His care.

The Joy of the LORD

meditations on Divine Mercy Chaplet.

"Why are you religionists so bound to this patriarchal imposition on you? Be happy! Be free! Get rid of your superstitions and join us Shiny, Happy People."

Let's talk, for one second, about you shiny, happy people: you atheists.

Where is your joy?

I've met several kinds of atheists, some are very ill-informed, spouting The Narrative that they've been fed from the feeds they've been spooned from the Gubmint, the Shool (the Gubmint, again), the parochial shool (sadly, but well-known for a century now), and The MEDIA.

"God is ded. We kilt'm. Long live mother Earth/Pachamama/Shiva/SCIENCE and stuff."

Wait. Didn't you just replace God with your gods that you just created in your own image and likeness?

Let's look at your own image and likeness.

You're fat. You're lazy. You're slothful. You're vicious. You're perverted.

And you're not happy.

Angry. Bitter. Sad.

But not happy.

This is the gods the atheists want us to worship: "THINK FOR YOURSELF! [but only if you think OUR way]. FREE YOURSELF FROM YOUR OPPRESSIVE GOD! [to be aborted, divorced, and used as a sex-object]. FIGHT DA MAN! [to drink his corporate coffee, litter the streets (forcing poor workers to clean up after your pollution), and make photocopies as he cheats on his wife with you... in the supply closet. Only to dump you and fire you when he's done with you. How romantic.]"

Is that what you want?

Because that's what you get when you go the way that the World offers you.

I've met some mellow individuals who are atheists, but they are the thoughtful, and truly independent ones. They don't spout anybody else's nonsense, except their own, and usually, they are self-aware enough to know that they don't know. These are the very, very few atheists I have met.

Maybe one person. Maybe two.

The rest ...?

The rest, I pray for you, but that's all I can do. I can't stop your one-way, determined, grim charge straight down to the pits of hell, not without me being caught up in that entangled mess of self-hate, self-loathing, and self-destruction. So: good luck to you, and buy an asbestos suit, because you're going to need it.

And, yeup, me, too. I'm not exempt because I'm pious or self-righteous. Jesus made that very clear, and I hear Him. I don't 'deserve' heaven. Nobody does. Heaven is a gift from God, freely given, and all we have to do is accept it by loving Him.

If ye love me, keep my commandments.

It's really that simple. His commandments are not oppressive. His commandments are posts in the ground: "There's a cliff beyond this mark. Stay on this side, My side, and be safe. Step out of the line, and you die."

That's comforting. Dad told you: "Son! Don't touch the stove!" But did you listen? No, and you got burned. Dad doesn't say: "Don't touch the stove!" because he's a meanie and he's so disempowering to you. Dad said "Don't touch the stove!" because he loves you and he doesn't want you to hurt yourself.

"Son, don't rape children. Daughter, don't sell your body for love, because you'll get sex, and not love, and no self-worth. Son, don't cut your dick off."

What do the atheists say? What does LBGTQBBQIDGAF say? The exact opposite.

And are they happy?

Fatherlessness is the cause of unhappiness. People who have sex-change operations regret it. Homosexuality is 1% of the population but over 25% of pedophilia. Black Live Matter seeks to destroy the nuclear family to destroy what is good for the children.

"We disrupt the Western-prescribed nuclear family structure..." ~ Black Lives Matter: What we believe.

This is the present that atheists, Black Lives Matter, and feminists ("Down with the Patriarchy! Women should be free to destroy their bodies with chemicals now [birth control] to be used as sex-objects and chemicals later [Xanax] when the depression hits and they ask themselves: 'why have we destroyed all the good men?'") want you to have.

What about God's Presence?

3 pm is the Divine Mercy Chaplet. Yeup, one of those long Catholic prayers that we're 'forced' to do.

Except, what are you doing this quarantine, this Sunday? ... besides reading my blog?

My daughters belong to a group of young men and women, who, every day for a certain part of the day, turn their eyes toward God as a community of Faith.

Boring, no? Onerous, no?

No.

They run to the laptop to join the zoom to pray the Divine Mercy Chaplet, and afterwards, for a good hour now, they meet with their friends and talk and laugh and laugh and laugh.

The Joy of the LORD will be my strength

They pray, they obey, they are homeschooled, and, instead of being 'not socialized' (to what norm? kids in their swim team are having sex at the age of 14, ... so they can be like everybody else and be liked), they are centered, they are respected, they are leaders among their peers.

Why?

The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom.

They fear the LORD, and they obey their parents. Honoring your parents is the first Commandment where God promises blessings. Honoring your parents brings honor to your family and honor to yourself. Honoring your parents gives you a touchstone that centers you for the rest of your life. Where this generation (and all generations) are cut adrift it the sea of 'my rights, my self, my stuff,' these kids, these few kids who honor their parents and honor the LORD are...

... are happy, and joyful, and free to give themselves because they are fed from the wellspring that never runs dry.

Jesus answered and said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will thirst again; but whoever drinks the water I shall give will never thirst; the water I shall give will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.”

Lord, give me this water.

My Mom

Hi. I'm back.

So.

I'm Doug Auclair, 'Paula's son, and it's so hard for me to say her name: 'Paula,' because, to me, she was always, "Mom." And I wonder, looking at you, who she was to you and what she meant to you, and, if you want to tell me, I'd really like to know that.

Because I'm going to tell you now who she was to me, and maybe you'll see something in her, from my words, that you didn't see in her before?

But I hope not.

But maybe you will. Because unlike my dad or me, mom wasn't a person who was the speechifying-type, she didn't make grandiose gestures. And, when my dad, or I, or anybody else, for that matter, got into the speechifying-mood, Mom would at best tolerate it for, eh, maybe two and a half minutes, but you could be sure there would be much eye-rolling from her during a ceremony like this which would appall Mom, who would wonder why all this fuss! ... over little old her?

No, she was a very private person, but, if you earned it, sometimes, some very few times, she would open her heart to you, just a little bit.

So.

I'm going to say three words to you:

Sudoku.

Boo-ray.

... and this last word is a fun one for me, d-mn yankee that I am: Pecans.

Those were some of Mom's favorite things in the world! Did you know that? Probably not. And if you did know that, God bless you, because you were that close to her that she shared these private joys of hers (especially WINNIN' at BOO-RAY!) with you.

Mom, ... God!

When Beki and I arrived at Mom's apartment, it was if we just got home from school, you know? The TV was on, if we could walk a straight line across the room, it was because you were driving a bulldozer. What a mess!

But Mom didn't care about that, because you know why? Because Mom was comfortable with who she was and where she was in life, ... and in death. My wife, Diane, asked me, "Do you think your mom has any regrets?" My answer was "No." Mom lived her life exactly the way she wanted to live her life, because she choose who she was, every single day, and she lived by her choices.

Beki and I discussed this. I said to Beki that Mom chose to be herself. Beki laughed because Sof said those same words to her when Sof was a little girl, and Beki hasn't heard that since until I mentioned that about Mom. But what does 'being yourself' mean? We hear that all the time.

Mom lived her life fearlessly. A lot of people when they're faced with the decision: "Do I tell this person what they're doing is wrong? or hurtful? or disrespectful? or unhealthy?" Most people will say: "Eh." which really translates not into: "Oh, I don't want to bother them" which is a little lie they tell themselves, but instead, they are really saying: "I'm scared."

If you saw my mom, you saw fearlessness. And you need look no further than my sister Beki to see that legacy live on.

Mom would have that conversation with you, and she would do whatever she had to do to break through your own fear, or prejudices, or ignorance, to get you to see things differently and better, even if you didn't like it, and even if you didn't wanna.

She held you to the highest possible standard.

Why?

Michael told Beki this last night. "I loved your mom. She treated me like a human being."

Mom demanded you be your best self, courageous and wise, because when you live in fear, you are no longer a human being, you are a slave, and Mom hated slavery, in any of its forms.

Mom demanded you be your very best, and she was uncompromising about that, but that was only fair, because what she demanded of you, she demanded of herself at least twice as much: she didn't demand she be her best self: she demanded she be better than her best self, as a true follower of Christ should.

In the end, maybe you're not going to remember me, and you're not going to remember my words, but I do ask that you honor the memory of my mom. How? Live your life fearlessly. Every time my mom faced something scary she had to do? Was she scared? Yes, she was. She was scared sometimes. I saw it. But did she do what she felt she had to do, even if she didn't feel like it?

Yes, she did, every single time. And, doing what she had to do, every single time, she lived her life as herself, as nobody else could, and, that's how she could live her life freely, and without regrets.

And that's how you can live your life freely, and without regrets, and when you do that scary thing that you thought you couldn't do, or have that scary conversation that you thought you couldn't have, say a silent prayer of thanks: "Paula Auclair, Mom, you fearless woman, you let me do this. Thank you. Amen."

---

Now I'm going to become my dad for one more minute and reintroduce my cousin, Leila, who is going to sing the Trisagion, which you may know as the "Holy, Holy"-prayer, but we, Mom and me, and probably some of you of Lebanese descent, know as the Qadishat Aloho, which is the most important prayer of the Mass after the Abba, Our Father-prayer. And my Momma, being here, to hear her niece sing the prayer that her granddaughters, Elena Marie and Isabel, sing in ancient Syriac or Aramaic from memory, my mom would be so pleased, and so proud, and so happy to have her niece sing to her aunt's memory a beautiful song of one of the central tenets of our Faith: "Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One." God is great, and Blessed be the Name of the Lord. Leila?

Dad's eulogy to Mom

Before I start, I'd like to preface my remarks with gratitude: for my family, of course, my sister, Lynda, Uncle Jeff, Aunt Gretchen, their children, ... and their children, Sissy, the Verandah staff and residents, Lonelle and the staff at the Johnson Funeral Home, but especially to Beki. If you know me, and you know Beki, as most of you do not, then you know what an honor, and what great trust Beki has placed in me in asking me to speak in these closing remarks. And, if you look at Beki, and I ask you do look at her, you will see her power, poise, grace, and dignity, and kindness.

Hello, I'm Doug Auclair, the shy and quiet son of Paula.

I'm going to ask those of you who are willing, to indulge me for three seconds. In a moment, I'm going to become my dad, so, when I ask you to close your eyes, I'd like you to see in your mind me step away from the podium, and a guy who looks and talks and acts almost exactly like me, because I am my dad, except he's 50-100 pounds lighter and he has this lady-killer baby-blues for eyes, so, now, please, close your eyes for three seconds, and let my dad read this letter to my mom.

Hello, I'm Rod Auclair, please open your eyes. I really appreciate you all coming to this gathering. I'd like to take a moment or two of your time and read this letter.

"Dearest Paula,

About 12 years ago I began a letter to you, but did not finish the first sentence. 

I had just come back from being with you in Lake Charles while you were going through chemotherapy. You came through those uncertain times, and I took for granted you would outlive me. Once again, and to my regret, you showed me how little I know. But what I do know, and do treasure, are those moments, those memories, you – funny, smart, beautiful you – gave me.

Your first postcard when I was stationed in Thule, Greenland: "Happy Fathers' Day, you no-good bum!" in large print for all the postal chain to read. Your croaky voice on our first telephone call over the complicated military communication network by way of the Presidio Army Base, high above San Francisco, as you were just recovering from a tonsillectomy. The way you would bump me sideways while we walked along, just to make sure I was listening. Introducing me to a grasshopper for dessert at our magical dinner at the top of the Mark.

You, in your glorious hand-made by your friend wedding gown, and me, so proud, in my white and black mess dress officer's uniform at our wedding.

You and me, blushing, when I asked Father as he witnessed and blessed our vows by saying, a little too evilly, "May I kiss her now?" and he smiled, shook his head and said: "Not just yet." 

You, so game, about our 3rd floor walk-up apartment on 77 Ann Street, in Newburgh, New York, directly across the street from the city police station where the chief, at the behest of the Mother Superior of Mount Saint Mary's College, where I stopped and asked if I could stay the night, had suggested that I ask the chief of police to stay in the pokey, that was five years earlier on a bicycle trip cross-country from Connecticut to Illinois and back. Talk about deja vu!

That look on our faces as nurse told us in the elevator to: "Say goodbye for now!" as you got on to go upstairs and give birth to our son, Douglas, in April, 1967, seven days before your birthday.

Those tears of joy, release, and amazement when we were together to bring a cranky, bawling, bloody, eyes-shut Rebecca into the world September, 1970, only ten days after my own birthday.

Our two children and your daughter, Lynda, so bright, so beautiful, so different. We are so blessed!

I am grateful for all you brought to all our lives. For the way you gave me insight and perspective into what is just, what is inclusive, boorish, redundant, wise or insensitive. 

Two thoughts, and then I'll let you go. One is from Thornton Wilder in his book "The Bridge of San Luis Rey": "There is a bridge between the living and the dead, and that bridge is love." And one from St. Thomas More: "Pray for me, and I for thee, that we may meet in heaven, pritheely." 

Much love from,

a no-good bum"