I like to live my life out loud.
There is a lot of freedom in sharing yourself and your experiences with other people. In fact, it’s highly recommended as a type of therapy.
Sometimes, though, we go through these particular cycles in life where you have to draw back into yourself because of social mores, laws, the balance of risks and rewards for a particular action. Continue reading A failure of words
On Thursday, around our dinner table, I couldn’t help but think that my kids are becoming really great liberals.
If liberals means they espouse a political ideology founded upon ideas of liberty and equality.
We discussed the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday, the State of the Union address, the economic impact of falling oil prices and, of course, school testing, a topic they are all too familiar with and opinionated about.
As I listened to each of them make a case for or an argument against some aspect of our discussion, it dawned on me that they have become what I had hoped they would.
Thoughtful question askers.
I was fast becoming a Young Republican at their age, bent on making my worldview, the one I had fashioned as a second generation immigrant, work for me.
Once we settle into our food and conversation, we usually meander casually around everyone’s daily experiences or football, to which my wife and daughter roll their eyes and try desperately to change the subject.
Last night Carson opened the evening with this one –
“I want to open a Scotch and cigar bar in Brooklyn.”
It’s not the most surprising thing he’s ever said.
But it made me smile, because he had no fear of putting himself out there on the line for judgement and ridicule, which families are exceedingly good at doling out.
I can’t quite conjure up my earliest memory any more. I can go back to my sister’s birth in Austria in 79, which would put me at about five years old.
I remember the castle we lived in at the foot of the Rax mountains, and I remember the school that I went to before it burned to the ground after someone left a candle burning all night.
When our family left Austria in the early 80s, it was during my awakening, or so I call it. A time I can remember and which was formative for me.
Growing up as the son of missionaries working in Eastern Europe certainly left an impression deep in my heart, but moving to an Armenian neighborhood in Pasadena, California was a very different life than the one I was used to.
Call it recovery from our first big house party in a few years, where we dipped into the cellar and made like Jesus, serving the best last late into Saturday night and early Sunday morning.
I got up and made breakfast for the friends who stayed until the bitter end and then stayed the night.
We ate omelettes with leftover pulled pork and sharp cheddar cheese with salsa and avocado. I made them strong coffee, and we watched some television together before they left for their Sunday activities.