Paul Winslow Sawyer 1934-2010

Over this past weekend I attended a moving memorial tribute to my friend and neighbor, Reverend Paul Sawyer.  I had only known him for a half-dozen years, but his life was literally larger-than-life.  At his memorial service, someone referred to him as "our brother from another planet", an attempt to describe his super-powers of compassion and tireless devotion to the causes he championed. I have never met anyone with such a singular focus on helping other people - especially people without a voice, people without hope. 

I wasn't a member of his congregation, but I was lucky enough to have many conversations with him. He'd rap on my door, sometimes at surprising hours, to let me know about an event or a protest of some sort.  Our conversations touched upon community organizing, community-based police with a real citizens oversight board, ending war, the media, freedom, justice, ending the death penalty, education and history.  It seemed as if whenever and wherever I attended a meeting, or a rally, or a fundraiser relating to peace and social justice, Reverend Sawyer was there.  Sometimes he'd come up to me and say "Great to see you - any chance you can give me a ride home?"   It was as if earthly matters, like getting from place to place, was not a worry of his.  He was absorbed in life. 

I remember the first time I tried to enlist him in a cause of mine. His wife Susan escorted me to their back yard, where Paul was engaged in Tai-Chi. I noticed he was wearing an arrest bracelet.  Getting arrested for standing up for justice was a badge of honor for Paul.  I heard that he was arrested over 60 times during his lifetime.  And if there are "Pearly Gates" in Heaven, I wouldn't be surprised if he has chained himself to them. 

His memorial was held at his church, affectionately called "The Onion". The Los Angeles Times, in their story about Reverend Sawyer wrote: 

In his 1968 book, "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test," Tom Wolfe described Sawyer's church as a "marvelous modern building shaped like a huge Bermuda onion" and forming a towering dome with "fantastic acoustics."  

http://articles.latimes.com/2010/jul/12/local/la-me-paul-sawyer-20100711

After I parked my car on this hot day, I took a deep breath before I walked inside.  My father passed away in May, just a few weeks before Reverend Sawyer's passing in June, and now every memorial gives me time to also reflect on my dad, who I miss dearly, and remember him in so many ways. 

Inside the Onion for the first time, I was delighted and surprised to see the jazz musician Billy Mitchell and his trio in the program - and I later learned that Billy Mitchell was friends with Reverend Sawyer.  My dad also loved jazz and the Billy Mitchell Trio was among his favorites. And then I broke down in tears when they played Horace Silver's "Song for My Father" to begin the service.  It was good for me to be here, remembering my friend, who was also a father. 

Ministers from many faiths were present and spoke so eloquently, for Paul Sawyer inspired so deeply.  Paul's children added poetry and song and an unbelievably touching video montage, which gave me insight into the earlier years of this wonderful life. And the Billy Mitchell Trio brought us all to our feet as we joined in singing "Compared To What", a protest song written by Eugene McDaniels and made famous by Les McCann and Eddie Harris, and another favorite song of mine. 

The entire memorial was moving, and warm and reflected Reverend Sawyer's booming personality, now beautifully carried on by his children, who each played a part in the remembrance of their father.  Paul's wife Susan and I agreed it was a wonderful tribute.   I feel very fortunate to have known Paul Sawyer.  I have never known someone to be so passionate about helping other people, and with so much energy.  I think his daughter summed it up best, when she said what I think is one of the great memorial quotes of all time:  "My dad really wished he could have been here today."

The Dream is Alive!

As a stay-at-home parent, few things match the unbridled joy of the beginning of the new school year.  I am now in a particularly sweet spot because my little one just started kindergarten, and so I have two children at the same school.  There is nothing like dumping the kids off at school and letting yourself simmer in the juices of freedom.  Let me tell you, suffering stay-at-home mommies and daddies, this promiseland is real.  Right now, I have the luxury of sitting down and enjoying a full mug of coffee – no questions to answer, no fights to interrupt, no snotty noses to wipe!  School is awesome!

But it’s not only about me and my freedom.  While I stitch together the scraps of my skills-based resume, my kids are (presumably) learning and their futures are being fed. They can still be whatever they want to be when they grow up.  The Dream is Alive!  (for them!)

As for me? I’m not so sure.  Lately I’ve been dwelling upon my own dreams  And as a practicing Virgo, I recognize this soul-searching as my old friend, my Annual Mid-Life Crisis ^TM, now in its eleventh consecutive year. This is not depression but simply planned annual self-improvement.  I am a very positive person.  (My blood type is my motto: B Positive.)  

But seriously folks, who shut down my dream machine?

I was a pretty darn good runner in high school. Westfield State even considered me for a Track scholarship.  I dreamed of competing in the Olympics, and I even ran imaginary races against the best runners in the world.  I never did get to the Olympics.  Not even close.  At this point, my only real hope is Olympic Curling.  And that is just sad.

I didn’t think I could feel bad about failing to reach goals that I didn’t even have.  But I learned that you can.  A good friend of mine recently won an Emmy. He deserves every bit of his success.  I jumped up and down and cried with happiness when he won.  The next day, my mother mentioned that she too would cry if I won an Emmy (like my friend’s mom actually did).  I took it personally. I had to tell her that it is highly unlikely that I will win an Emmy.  She understood, but now I have dashed my mom’s dream of being a parent of an Emmy winner. 

My dream of being a doctor went splat in the 10^th grade.  We were testing our blood types in Miss Brown’s biology class.  I fainted at the sight of my own blood and woke up in the nurses office.  (The takeaway? Miss Brown later told me “B positive.”)

For a brief time as a child, I wanted to be an architect, mostly because I like using rulers and protractors, and wearing plaid.  I even had a plaid lunch box.  That was as close as I got to being an architect.

I also wanted to be President of the United States.  The Presidency has always fascinated me.  As a kid, I would spend hours reading their biographies and memorizing facts.  I do want to make this world a better place, and I’m a huge fan of both fireside chats and cardigan sweaters.  But who am I kidding? This is an absolutely unreachable goal.  And I know I couldn’t survive the criticism.  My wife made an off-hand remark about my watermelon cutting technique and it put me in a funk for the rest of the evening. 

I haven’t been entirely a failure (I think I’ve been a good dad), and thank goodness for the wonderful and rewarding years I had at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Lab.  Strangely, as much as I like space, and math and science,  I never actually dreamed of working in space exploration, it just happened as I followed my interests.  Similarly, I never thought about being an astronaut, because I know too well the dangers of rocket propulsion and the inherent risks of space flight.  Sure, there was always the fantasy of zero-gravity sex, but the lure was not enough to overcome my fear of being strapped to a launch vehicle.  Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I still prefer to control when and how I explode.

I guess that’s the beauty of childhood: it is a time for dreaming.  Growing up sucks. Letting go of dreams, as crazy as they may be, sucks.  The good news is, now with the  kids back in school, I have time to dream again.  And I even have room for some crazy dreams.  After all, I think I should be positive – it’s in my blood. 

Jounce.

Now that everyone is back to school (or almost back to school),  I wanted to share an old monologue of mine which was inspired by a favorite teacher.   This was level 3 of the Groundlings, focusing on character development and writing, performed October '95.  

Oh, certainly not as perfect as I wanted it to be... but I always liked this monologue. 

The Bird

The act of extending the Bird (aka “the finger”) is a rude and disrespectful act, which is often done in response to a rude or disrespectful act.  It is a mythical bird – at least one, but perhaps an entire flock – that flies around visiting people. And sometimes, people have a very good reason for extending the Bird, even at the happiest place on Earth.


The Bird recently surprised me with a memorable visit on the Foothill Freeway in Los Angeles, as our family headed out of town for a 4th of July weekend getaway to Disneyland.

I was dwelling, no doubt, on the fact that we had driven this very patch of road just three days prior.  On that wonderful occasion we were heading to our health-plan’s nearest approved emergency room.  Normally I do most of the family driving, but that day I was crumpled in the passenger seat, writhing in excruciating pain as a kidney stone meandered through the various pinch-points in my urinary tract.  They say the only thing more painful than a kidney stone is giving birth.  At least when you give birth, you get something for your troubles (Tadaaa! A baby!)  Me?  I’m looking at two or three days of straining my pee with a makeshift coffee filter in the hopes of catching a rock shooting out of my penis.  No baby, just intense pain, yielding a worthless, non-cuddly lump of calcium oxalate.

So I try to endure the pain, while my wife heroically navigates the bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic to get me to the ER.  She suggests I try some Lamaze breathing (hee-hee-hoo, hee-hee-hoo), which I embrace because it’s the only thing I’ve got until I can get some real intravenous pain relief.  And that is when our minivan is rammed by a truck.   This is when I started to cry.  Although this turned out to be a relatively minor three-vehicle freeway collision, it was nevertheless unpleasant.  Thankfully, no one was hurt.  Eventually we get to the ER, and the staff administers a heavenly cocktail of IV medicine, followed by a CT Scan (which confirms the stone), and sends me home with the heretofore-mentioned pee strainers.   After three days of pee prospecting, my little rock arrives. Eureka! She was 3.7 millimeters long and weighed a fraction of a gram.  So cute.  I thanked my doula (which was my left hand).

Gregory Harrison – you just passed a kidney stone!  What are you going to do now? I’M GOING TO DISNEYLAND! Which brings me back to the Foothill freeway and the Bird.

As I mentioned, we were on our way to Disneyland. Suddenly a little teen punk cuts directly in front of our minivan, and then cuts off someone else in the adjoining lane.  Apparently he needed to exit.  Whew. Our recent accident left me uninterested in repeating the tête-à-tête.  Shortly after that,  I found myself driving next to the little teen punk, and I did what any responsible adult would do in my position:  I gave him my oh really? look.  I have perfected this look.  It involves a sidewise glance, coupled with furrowing of eyebrows in concert with a half Elvis lip-snarl.  Apparently,  I must have knocked my oh really? look out of the park.  Upon receiving my said look, the little teen punk was so enraged that he missed his exit, cut back into my lane right behind me and flipped me the Bird.  With verve.  I savored the moment via my rear-view mirror, proud that I was able to cause so much rage with my glance.

Cut to Disneyland.  

I am sitting in a passenger seat, next to my seven year old son, who is driving. We are stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic in Tomorrowland on the ride known as “Autopia” (an ironic combination of the words “automobile” and “utopia”).  Ten cars are stacked in front of us on the track, motionless, with more piling up behind us.  The reason for the pile-up is that an asshole (from the future, I’m guessing) has decided to take the perfect photograph of his child sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Autopia.  I try to relax.  I have no problem with people holding up everybody else’s fun to take a photo.  But when twenty cars are stacked up, that’s just rude.  And suddenly I reacted to that rudeness.  And that perfect photograph now includes a man, ten cars back, extending his middle finger.  And now you know why I flipped someone the Bird at Disneyland, the happiest place on Earth… oh really?

「パパ」との思い出

「パパ」との思い出

グレッグ・ハリソン

春という季節は常に変化を伴うが、私のこの春はとりわけ目まぐるしかった。

五月初め、父がこの世を去った。自宅で安らかに眠りについた父は、カズオやエイジからは「パパ」と呼ばれていた。最愛の父を失い悲しむ私に、多くの友人が暖かい言葉で慰めてくれたが、中でも一番心に残ったのが、「お父さんとの楽しかった思い出すべてをどうか大切に。。。」というものだった。

一方、子供の家では、この春園庭が大きく様変わりした。皆さん新しくなった櫓の下のマットや、外観全体を気に入っているようで、私も同感である。ただ、保護者の多くが砂場がなくなってしまったことを残念に思っていることも確かだ。私も子供の家父兄として通ってきた六年間を振り返ると、恐らく他のどんな遊具よりも、土を掘って遊べる砂場が大好きだったように思う。

土の重要性を過小評価してはならない。土で遊ぶこと、つまり、遊びに決まり事がなく、土の中に手を突っ込んで何かを形作ったり、水を加えたり、トンネルを作ったり、泥団子を作ったりという砂場での遊びは、全ての学びの原点である。繰り返して言うが、砂場での遊びは全ての教育の原点だと私は信じている。子供たちが砂場で遊ぶことによって作り上げた世界の数々は、言葉を学んだり、友達との遊び方を学んだり、お話を作ったりするのに最適なのだ。こういった世界は、どんな本よりも価値や意味があるし、子供たちの人生に後々まで大きな影響を与える。子供たちと砂遊びの関係を超えるのは、母親と赤ん坊の身体的な結びつき以外にはないのではないだろうか。何と言っても砂遊びは、我々と母なる大地とを結びつける絆なのだから。

子供たちが砂遊びに熱中するのは、ほとんど本能的でさえある。私も子供時代はそうだった。私の父も砂場で遊ぶことを喜んで見てくれたし、そういった父の方針に感謝している。音楽と科学を愛した父は地に足の着いた、謙虚な人だった。幼い頃は、兄弟と一緒に何時間も砂遊びをして過ごした。想像の中で様々な場所へ旅をし、登場人物や状況を設定した。トンネルを作ったり、火山を作ったり、他にも今となっては記憶のどこかに埋もれてしまっている色々なものを造った。成長するにつれ、砂遊びはガーデニングへと進化していった。我が家にはかなり大きな庭があり、たくさんの果物や野菜を育てた。たくさんの楽しい思い出もそこで生まれた。ガーデニングを通して、我が家と土との関係は深まり、土への愛情も育っていった。季節の移り変わりをみんなで楽しんだ。土の手入れをすることは、我が家では自然な事となり、ミミズを見つけては喜んだ。土の感触や、色、においに安堵した。種を植え、水をやり、土から生命の吹き出る喜びを知った。最後には食べ物となって、私たちに栄養を与えてくれた。父はいつも側にいて、土に関する全てを教えてくれた。そして、同時に命についても教えてくれたのである。

そして今、父からの教えに想いを馳せると、またもや土、生き物、生命のサイクルへと引き込まれていく。そして、今一度、土に癒しを見い出している自分がいる。

Digging in the dirt, lessons from my dad.

Spring has always been a time for change, although for me, this particular spring has been tumultuous.   My heart mourns the passing of my dear father, or as Kazuo and Eiji refer to him, “Papa”, who passed away in early May, at his home, peacefully.  I do miss him dearly. As many have comforted me with their kind thoughts and sympathy, one piece of advice that seems to stand out is this:  “Remember all the wonderful memories with your father.”

Meanwhile, here at Kodomo No Ie preschool, this spring has brought a magnificent change in the appearance of the playground.  Everyone seems to love the new play surfaces and overall appearance, myself included.  However,  many of us deeply miss the dirt.  As I think back over the six years of being a parent at Kodomo No Ie, perhaps more than any other physical feature, this was a wonderful place to dig in the dirt.   I do miss the dirt too.

Do not underestimate the importance of dirt.  Digging in the dirt – unstructured play, reaching hands into the earth and shaping it, adding water, building tunnels or making mudpies, this is the foundation of all learning.  That’s right: I believe that digging in the dirt is the foundation of all learning.  The worlds that have been created by children digging and playing in the dirt are the starships of language, social interaction and story-telling. These worlds have more meaning and have more lasting impact, than any book lesson.  In fact, these connections are second only to the physical bond between mother and child, and I think that makes sense, for these are the bonds to our Mother Earth.

Children instinctively are drawn to playing in the dirt, and I was no different as a child.  My dad certainly encouraged it, and for that I am thankful. He was a modest man who was grounded in the earth, and loved music and science.  And growing up, I spent hours playing in the dirt with my siblings. We travelled to imaginary places and invented characters and situations, while making tunnels, volcanoes, and other creations that now inhabit the forgotten recesses of my mind.  As I got older, playing in the dirt evolved into gardening.  Our family had an enormous garden and we raised a cornucopia of fruits and vegetables, as well as many fond memories. Through gardening, our relationship with the dirt deepened, and our love for the earth grew. We became connected with the seasons.  It became our nature to care for the soil, delight in the earthworms, feel the texture, absorb the colors, and embrace the smells.  Plant seeds, and add water, and experience the joy of life sprouting from the earth, culminating eventually in food that we used to nourish ourselves. My dad was there, every step of the way, teaching us about the earth, but also teaching us about life itself.

And now as I dwell on the lessons of my father, I am drawn back to the earth, and living things and the cycles of life. And I am finding solace once again, in dirt.  

(Originally contributed to June 2010 Mamas and Papas for Kodomo No Ie Preschool)

An Azalea in the Garden

My neighborhood gave me a beautiful azalea plant in sympathy after my dad passed away.  I planted it in a nice shady spot in the garden, and then nestled myself in for a photo.   It's not obvious in this picture, but this azalea has very unusual flowers that are half white and half purple/lavender.  (It's not the azalea directly in front of me, but rather the one to my left, more in the front center of the image).

  

It's no surprise that I've been thinking about my dad a great deal. I've been reticent about writing about him, since his passing.  I admit, I feel as though I need to write something perfect, because my love for him demands I use my skills as best as I can (and as if I have this one and only one opportunity to remember him.)   Of course, nothing makes writing more difficult than layering expectations before you even get started.

But I would like to share one small piece I wrote.  For several years now, I have been a regular contributor to my children's preschool newsletter, "The Mamas and Papas", at Kodomo No Ie Preschool (Japanese for  "House of Children").   Obviously I write my articles in English and they are translated to Japanese.  I should clarify that this school is like a slice of Japan here in nearby San Gabriel California (different from, say, an American school that teaches the Japanese language).  The school is run as though it would be run in Japan, and everything about it is entirely Japanese.  It's been a great experience for my sons, and a wonderful cultural exchange for me.  I am fortunate that a few of the parents translate school notices and whatnot for us.

Apologies for the long introduction, but I suppose it gives you some idea about my audience for the original piece.  It's about dirt.  And it's about my dad.