Intro

  

There are things I do that surprise people. Their surprise is often a surprise to me. I do most if not all of the cooking in my house.  I don’t mean that I microwave some frozen garbage because (oh, poor us) we just don’t have enough time to cook. I make real, actual food that involves cooking. Vegetables even. Because I’m the cook, I do the grocery shopping. It just makes sense.

                When I mention these facts in casual conversation to people who have known me for years, there’s a generally googley-eyed, semi-insulting response as though I’ve casually mentioned that I feed my pet octopus kitten hearts. It makes me wonder who I am. Who am I that it’s impossible to believe that I sit down every night of the week with my wife of 13 years and 5 year old daughter to a healthy , wholesome meal that I prepared for them while they played mermaids?  Why is that so hard to believe? I was a frat boy. I am…ahem…husky. I have facial hair. I wear glasses. I’ve never understood what it is about what I am or was that makes me so confusing.

                I’m a truth addict. My dad and I still can’t find anything to talk about that isn’t a debate. I know this makes me unpleasant to be around sometimes. My wife and my mother leave the room when my dad and I get going. I’m unafraid of asking questions and challenging assumptions. In  a college class or a professional discussion, that may be valuable, but when we’re discussing whether or not you should like Game of Thrones, I can’t turn off the part of my brain that controls vociferous debate. I can’t resist trying to figure out why and how we build our values – even how we value different Asian cuisines.

                This brings me to my favorite chore. I love to iron. Obviously, I’m not going to debate which chores should be your favorite. I know what I want. I think it’s what I always want. I want the truth. The iron helps me find the truth of that shirt. The heat, the pressure eliminate the confusion. The steam carries away the veneer and reveals the truth. It’s not pleasant for the shirt, but in the end, it is what it’s always been.  Maybe I’m always ironing the people around me, trying to uncover their truth. Or maybe I’m trying to make them into what I think they ought to be. Not sure.

                I like to think that that’s what teaching is. I’m steaming and pressing the wrinkles doubt, assumption, and inconsistency to reveal the humanity beneath.