Love & Medication

When I was a stay-at-home parent, I took great pride in keeping a tidy house. I simply couldn’t stand the clutter associated with having kids. In the event that we would entertain guests in our home, my goal was to keep the common areas so completely devoid of toys and other toddler-related paraphernalia that our visitors would never suspect that we had children.

For years, my wife surmised that I was affected by Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Photos on our walls had to be hung symmetrically and perfectly level. Furniture was arranged and rearranged incessantly. While they rested on an end table or coffee table, the remote controls for our TV, satellite, and surround sound system had to all be laid out parallel to one another and pointed at the entertainment center. Always.

Of all my compulsions, the urge to straighten up after my children (and house guests) was the most exhausting. The anxiety I felt while watching my orderly home fall into disarray was almost too much to bear at times. Fast forward to 2021 and take a look at my house now, the one with seven people living in it—including a baby—and ask me what changed. How am I able to live (happily) among so much chaos and clutter?

The answer: Love and medication. 

Although I’m probably not afflicted with OCD, it has been exactly one year since I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. The medication I take has reduced the severity and frequency of my manic episodes which often manifest themselves in periods of intense anxiety. Looking back, the anxiety I felt when my house was not in order may have been caused by or made worse by Bipolar Disorder.

But medicine alone is not enough to compensate for the messes created by seven people living under the same roof. I am able to overlook the disarray because our house is filled with more love than clutter.

When our oldest son Alex moved out in the fall of 2019 and moved into Hatch Hall at Mizzou, there were four of us who remained in our house: Truman, Tiana, Bethany, and me. As most teenagers do, Truman and Tiana spent most of their free time in their own rooms, leaving the rest of the house relatively free of clutter. But after the pandemic forced colleges to switch to virtual instruction and close down their dorms, Alex moved back home, followed a few months later by his new little family—and a whole lot of stuff.

While our house is packed full of stuff, it is positively overflowing with love.

Be it the medication or the abundance of love, the clutter strewn about our home does not stress me out. Tonight, as I was contemplating what I should write about, I strolled through the house in search of inspiration. One quick lap around the living room revealed an infant car seat sitting in a corner, a baby walker parked beside my antique hi-fi, a doorway jumper hanging from the doorframe to the kitchen, a highchair perched behind an overstuffed armchair, a diaper changing station spread over an ottoman, a kid’s M&Ms blanket lying on the floor, and a dozen or so baby toys scattered across the room. Clutter everywhere. 

 

I wouldn’t trade that clutter for anything in the world. 

Every single baby-related item in my house is there because a precious little girl named Freya—who I love more than I can possibly express—lives in my house. And Freya lives in my house because her parents Alex and Sarah—who I love more than they can imagine—live in my house. Freya’s Aunt Tiana and Uncle Truman—who I love more than they could ever believe—also live in my house because their mother Bethany—who I love more than anything or anyone in the entire world—chose to go on this crazy, chaotic adventure with me a quarter-century ago.

Show me a home without clutter and I’ll show you a house without any loved-ones around to create it.

Names Worth Remembering

The Instagram profile of the 21-year-old punk who used his legally-purchased 9mm pistol to execute 8 innocent people last week in Georgia reads, “Pizza, guns, drums, music, family, and God. This pretty much sums up my life. It's a pretty good life.”

A pretty good life indeed.

The Cherokee County Sheriff’s Department seems to accept the shooter’s claim that the murders were not racially motivated, despite the Asian heritage of six of the victims gunned-down at three Asian-owned spas. The shooter, (who does not deserve to have his name immortalized in print), allegedly told law enforcement officials that he is a sex addict who viewed the spas as a temptation. He also stated that he thought about suicide but opted instead to “help” others with sexual addictions by targeting the women working at the spas.

The sheriff’s spokesman, (who also doesn’t deserve to have his name immortalized in print), seemed sympathetic to the murderer’s plight, saying the shooter was “fed up” and was having “a really bad day”. Soon after, it was revealed that the spokesman had been promoting t-shirts online that read, “Covid-19 Imported Virus From Chy-na,” a reference to a Corona Beer label and the way the former president (who doesn’t deserve to have his name immortalized in print either) pronounces China.

The shooter killed six Asian women at three Asian-owned businesses. Five of those women were old enough to be the shooter’s grandmother. His oldest victim was 74 years old. Although an elderly person can certainly be the object of someone’s affection, it is quite unbelievable that a 21-year-old man in the prime of his life would find a 74-year-old grandmother so sexually tempting that the only thing he could possibly do to stop himself from seeking a physical encounter with her would be to murder her. The shooter drove past countless white-owned businesses in order to target places he knew would be staffed by Asian people. If that isn’t a hate crime, I don’t know what one is.

Make no mistake, the sheriff’s spokesperson is a racist, too. He sympathized with the white male shooter while selling a t-shirt that refers to the coronavirus as the “Chyna virus”, a blatantly xenophobic and racist tactic employed by the former president to vilify all things Chinese. The police captain wrote on his now-deleted Facebook post, “Love my shirt! Get yours while they last.”

The former president, by repeatedly calling the coronavirus “the China virus” and “the Wuhan virus”, has done his best to make his followers think of China whenever the Covid-19 pandemic is mentioned. As a result, anti-Asian hate crimes in major U.S. cities have risen 150% in the past year, while overall hate crimes are down 7%, according to a recent report by California State University-San Bernardino. 

Besides being a racist murderer, the shooter is also clearly a misogynist. Seven out of his eight victims were women. They were daughters, sisters, wives, mothers, and grandmothers. Sexual addiction had nothing to do with the unspeakable horror that took place last week. Instead, yet another male who considers women to be nothing more than sex objects decided to remind those women, and women everywhere, that men are superior to them and can treat them in whatever way they see fit. He was, as the sheriff’s spokesman said, just a guy who was having a bad day. Apparently in our society, it is somehow understandable that men can have bad days and gun down women when they get fed up with them.

Why am I, a white male in Missouri, writing about the murders of Asian women in Atlanta, Georgia? First, as Atlanta native Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” And second, I am the proud parent of two Chinese children. The surge in anti-Asian hate crimes has me very concerned for their wellbeing.

To call the monstrous actions of the shooter in Atlanta anything other than a hate crime is a slap in the face of minorities, particularly people of Asian descent, everywhere. Anti-Asian crimes are being tacitly encouraged by racist sheriff’s spokespeople, former presidents, and right-wing television personalities who employ anti-China verbiage and propaganda. This anti-Asian rhetoric is causing an increase in hate crimes against people who look like my children. 

As I have written many times before, I love our Southern Boone County community. The people who live here are good human beings. I would be shocked and appalled if either of my Chinese children came home from school and reported that they were the victims of racism. So far, they have endured only minor teasing over the years and nothing that would cause me to worry about their safety. 

I do know of one instance, however, when kids were overheard saying that an Asian child in our school district was to blame for the coronavirus. When this was reported to me, I shook with rage while tears streamed from my eyes. That child’s parents handled the situation far better than I probably would have had those words been directed at my children. 

I don’t care who you voted for in the recent presidential election, but I do care if you’re raising your children to hate my children and other people who look like them.

On a final note, while the murderer does not deserve to have his name immortalized, his victims certainly do. Soon Chung Park, 74. Suncha Kim, 69. Yong Ae Yue, 63. Hyun Jung Grant, 51. Xiaojie Tan, 49. Delaina Yaun, 33. Daoyou Feng, 44. Paul Andre Michels, 54. May they all rest in peace. 

 

A Special Thanks to Some Special Ladies

 This Friday will be the final day of my final long-term subbing assignment of the 2020-2021 school year. What a year it has been. I would have never survived it had it not been for the support of several dedicated educators at Southern Boone Primary School who have been there to lend a helping hand whenever I needed one. I would like to take this opportunity right now to publicly acknowledge these amazing coworkers and friends.

Between covering for a teacher in Covid quarantine and another on maternity leave, I spent most of the first semester teaching kindergarten. Although every single kindergarten teacher and instructional aide helped me in one way or another—by providing me with photocopies, chocolate, or much-appreciated encouragement—two people stood out in particular: Ashten Meyer and Linda Newman.

As an instructional aide, Linda divides her time between working one-on-one with students who need extra academic support and making sure that classroom teachers have everything they need to do their jobs. Linda always made sure that important notices, calendars, and permission forms were placed in my students’ Friday folders each week, she made copies whenever I needed them, and she helped me keep track of what specials (Art, Music, P.E., Library, Guidance, Learning Garden) my class needed to go to each day. She also watched my class for me whenever I needed a restroom break, and as any schoolteacher will tell you, that is the greatest gift anyone can give a teacher.

Thank you for all your help Mrs. Newman.

The other person most responsible for my successful navigation of the stormy seas of kindergarten was Ashten Meyer. I have had the pleasure of watching Ashten grow from a quiet student teacher into a confident and dynamic veteran educator over the years, and as luck would have it, she was my next-door neighbor in the kindergarten hallway from the first week of October through Christmas break. I simply could not have managed it without her.

Ashten was really good at walking the fine line between offering her help and trusting my ability to handle my own business. She made sure I had everything I needed to execute my lesson plans, and she made me feel confident in my ability to do my job. Never once did she make me feel like a clueless substitute; instead, she treated me like a competent colleague. She was also a lot of fun to talk to in those precious few moments of free time we occasionally found, and I have missed having the opportunity to visit with her ever since my kindergarten assignment ended.

Thank you so much, Ashten, for everything.

In late January, I began an eight-week assignment in a second grade classroom, covering another maternity leave. While everyone on the second floor of the school’s new addition has been quick to offer their help and/or moral support, one person has stood out in particular. Emily Gentry, a veteran teacher and one of my closest friends at school, has been and always will be there for me whenever I need her. 

Emily and I have quite a history together, starting eight years ago when I was a sub in the classroom in which she did her student teaching. The next year, her first year as a certified teacher, my son Truman was in her class. I like to think that surviving a year with a Naughton as a student is what made Emily the pro that she is today. 

Over the next few years, I would go on to officiate Emily’s wedding and work as her long-term sub for both of her maternity leaves. This year, I have had the pleasure of working directly across the hall from her. Her growth as an educator has been a privilege to witness, and her help as a co-worker has been deeply appreciated. I am truly grateful to have her in my life as a colleague and as a friend.

For you, Emily Gentry, a “thank you” is not enough. The only way I can convey how much you mean to me is to say: I love you. Somehow, even that doesn’t seem adequate. 

I would be remiss if I failed to acknowledge Jasmine Rustemeyer and Stacie Siliva, the two teachers/new mothers for whom I have had the honor of subbing while they stayed home with their beautiful babies. Both of these amazing women left me with months’ worth of excellent sub plans and well-organized classroom routines to follow. I am humbled that they trusted me to teach and care for their students in their absence. It’s an honor I do not take lightly. 

Thank you Jasmine and Stacie for your trust and for offering me such rewarding opportunities. And congratulations again on the births of your little bundles of joy. Now it’s my turn to spend some quality time with my own bundle of joy, my grandbaby Freya.

Allen Beckett, Above and Beyond

 

Does your auto mechanic make house calls? I’m not talking about a repair shop or dealership sending a tow truck to your house and bringing your vehicle back to their place of business. I mean, does your mechanic come to your house to work on your car or truck in order to make life a little less inconvenient for you?

Mine does. 

Allen Beckett, a well-respected mechanic and Ashland native, has been working on my vehicles since my wife and I moved to Southern Boone County in 1999. (A tip of the cap to Randy and Terry, who have also taken care of my automotive needs in the past.) Most of the time, I drive my cars to Allen’s shop—an insulated, heated, and air-conditioned Quonset hut featuring two hydraulic lifts and a better sound system than many concert venues I’ve been to—where he and his business partner Matt Old work their magic. 

Allen has always gone “above and beyond” to make sure my vehicles are safe and reliable, but he recently managed to go above and beyond what I would have ever expected him or any other mechanic to do in order to get my newest hot rod, a 1965 Oldsmobile 442, running right.

After I described how my car sputtered whenever I stepped onthe throttle, Allen guessed that the 56-year-old carburetor probably needed to be rebuilt. When I agreed with his assessment, he offered me a choice: I could remove the carb myself and bring it to his shop (so I could keep my car tucked away safe and sound in my own shop), or he could come over to my place and remove it for me. After rebuilding it, he would then come back to my shop, re-install the carb, and adjust it as needed. Naturally, I invited him to come to my place at his earliest convenience. 

Removing the antique Quadrajet carburetor took Allen only a few minutes, and I almost wished it would have taken longer so we could have had more time for conversation. But he was busy, as all good mechanics are, and I knew we would have more time to chat whenever he came back to re-install the rebuilt carb. 

Allen stopped by last Thursday afternoon to bolt the 442’s original four-barrel back onto the intake manifold. Hearing that numbers-matching, 400 cubic-inch, big block motor come to life was music to my ears. Then Allen said something that sounded even better; “Wanna take it for a test drive?”

My first impression, while inching the car out of my shop, was that it didn’t sputter when I pressed on the accelerator. When we reached the blacktop, I gave it a little more gas and could tell the car was running well. After letting the engine fully warm-up, I put my foot to the floor and felt all 345 horses run wild—as they were meant to. The car’s 440 lb/ft of torque would have caused our heads to smack into the headrests had the car been equipped with any.

No matter how many grey hairs you have, the feeling you get when all four barrels of a carburetor kick in will never get old.

There Allen and I were, rolling down Route M and having the time of our lives, when the car suddenly died just before I turned onto my gravel road. A quick peek under the hood revealed a flooded carb, which perplexed both of us until we dragged it back to my shop a few minutes later. Allen removed the carb, took it apart on my workbench, and discovered a great deal of rust and debris swirling around in the gas. The fuel line had apparently corroded while the car sat idle for the last three decades, which in turn caused the carb to get gunked-up on our test drive.

Allen cleaned out the carb, reinstalled it, and tuned on it some more before calling it a night. He apologized unnecessarily for taking up too much of my time, and I assured him that I had enjoyed every minute that we had spent together. While I watched him work, we talked about our jobs, our families, grandbabies, classic rock, and of course hot rods. It was a great evening—and a welcome change of pace from the conversations I have at school with my eight-year-old students.

At Allen’s insistence, I drove the 442 to his shop the next day for an oil change and to button up a few odds and ends. As he suspected, the extra fuel from the flooded carb had seeped into the engine and fouled the oil. He changed the oil and filter, tightened the alternator belt, lubed the front end, topped off the brake fluid, and gave me some tips and advice for future maintenance including installing a new fuel filter (a task that I can actually do myself!). We also made a plan to upgrade the car’s brakes, replace some worn interior parts, and have Matt install a custom exhaust system that will make that old big block roar like it should.

We won’t get all of those projects done at once. And that’s fine with me. The more we spread the work out, the more I get to visit with my friends Allen and Matt. They’re two genuinely good human beings who care about the quality of their work and making their customers happy. They are two examples of why I love this community.  

Born to be...

Most of the 49 years that I’ve lived on this cosmic rock have been spent searching for what I was born to do. My raison d'être. Lately, I have come to realize that it is preposterous to believe that there is a single thing, above all others, that I was put on this earth to do. Indeed, the world of possibilities is far too great to resign myself to having only one calling.

For example, I’ve been tempted to proclaim at times that I was born to be a stay-at-home dad, a primary school teacher, and a professional writer. In the last few months, I’ve felt strongly that my purpose in life is to be a grandparent. What if I was born to be all of those things? What if I was born to be none of them?

What if I was born to be much more?

Why do we human beings obsess over discovering our one true calling? We say to one another, “This is what I was born to do,” but can it possibly be true that each of us was born to fulfill just one predestined purpose?

 

Ever since my granddaughter Freya was born, I have spent as much time with her as possible. In that time, I have discovered that I want to be Freya’s “Pop” more than anything else in the world. Does that mean I was born to be a grandparent? Is that the elusive purpose I have been searching for all these years?

Last school year, before Freya was born, I was pretty convinced that I was born to be a music teacher. After accepting a temporary music teaching position, researching ways to obtain a permanent teaching certificate, creating my own curriculum from scratch, staging six musical performances, and teaching 475 primary school students everything I know about music, the best professional experience of my life was suddenly terminated by the Coronavirus pandemic. After a great deal of soul searching during the ensuing shutdown, I realized that as much as I loved the job, I was not mentally strong enough to do it for the rest of my working life. I was not born to be a full-time teacher.

Before I accepted the music teacher position, I was a substitute teacher. This is my ninth year of subbing at Southern Boone, and I have no problem telling you that I am pretty good at my job. And I have had so much fun doing it over the years. At times I have felt like substitute teaching was my calling. However, after the exhilaration of teaching music full-time last year and the realities of subbing during a pandemic this year, I realize that I do not love subbing as much as I used to. I was not born to be a substitute teacher.

Before I started subbing, I was beginning to find my voice as a writer. Back in 2003, I had a couple of pieces published in the Columbia Business Times as a freelance reporter, but I didn’t like being assigned stories by an editor, so decided to start a blog with the hope that it would lead to landing my own newspaper column someday. In 2011, that dream came true. 

That same year, I self-published my first book, Naked Snow Angels. Between my column in the Boone County Journal and a novel that sold a few hundred copies, I felt like I was on my way to becoming a full-time, professional writer. I felt like it was what I was born to do.

A funny thing happened on the way to becoming a best-selling author: I became a very busy substitute teacher. I started subbing in 2012 when all of my kids were finally old enough to be in school and I suddenly had extra free time on my hands. That time was supposed to be for writing, but after being a stay-at-home dad for several years, I wanted to have a job outside of the house. Subbing gradually took over my life. Ten years after Naked Snow Angels was published, I have yet to write a second novel, although I have compiled my weekly newspaper columns into three self-published volumes. 

Being a stay-at-home parent was a rewarding, exhausting, full-time job. I enjoyed it very much, and I was convinced that it was what I was born to do. I feel the same way about being a stay-at-home grandparent. While Freya and her parents have been living at our house, I have been lucky enough to watch Freya while Alex and Sarah do homework, write papers, take tests, and attend classes—when I’m not busy teaching school, that is. 

In order to be available to babysit whenever they have school or work obligations in the future, I have decided to stop accepting substitute teaching assignments after Spring Break.

I feel like I was born to be a parent, a grandparent, and a writer. It’s time to devote myself fully to my true callings.