Ridin' the Rails

Some of Ollie's favorite things. Riding his bike, and walking along the tracks to the Nadrazi. We saw four trains today, plus a couple cars shunted together. Especially good because it's our last time for another year as we are off to the middle east for a while. Teaching the boy a little country living techniques. He's a natural!


watch it here...Last day in Slany

Bleedland...Go Cavs!

Thank You Bleedland

When Kyrie hit that three with 53 seconds left, my mind stretched back through the years of heartbreaking moments wherein this exact thing happened to us. The moment when you realized, “It’s over!” Except this time it was us breaking hearts. I had this crazy hope and yet I couldn’t allow myself to hope, after all Jordan’s shot over Ehlo still threatened my dreams…Curry and Thompson and Draymond were still on the floor. And then James hit his second free throw and I almost believed we got this. But then I remembered Byner’s fumble and Jose Mesa’s choke in the 9^th and reigned in my excitement. There was still 6 seconds left and GSW was inbounding and Curry got the step and the shot...time stopped...he missed, a mad scramble and Speights put up a hilarious prayer and all the times I’ve watched Cleveland do this exact same thing vaporized and even though I was alone I clinched my fists heartily, I was already standing pacing the floor and ripping my hair out, but I clinched my fists and punched the air.

I’m happy LBJ got the MVP, but while I have no analytics to support this, I seem to remember Irving being the more clutch player. It seemed that when Cleveland really needed something to happen he was the one to do something big. A shake-n-bake with a step-back mid-range…a down-hill drive with a crazy left-handed, high-off-the-glass lay-up…an off-screen behind the arc crowd-deflating/inflating three…or some ridiculous ankle-breaking handle that made even the Oracle ooh and ahh! I understand LBJ dominated the last three games and that’s why he got the MVP, that’s what allowed Uncle Drew to do his thing and “get buckets,” but holy hell batman, Kyrie-diculous was a killer in this series.

I watched the playoffs in Germany with League Pass and this is a strange experience because you get pure game, no hype, no commercials, and the sounds of the game are often times devoid of the network propaganda. When I saw the end of the game and Lebron’s reaction it almost seemed contrived to me. I know this is a crazy notion because he wanted this really badly. It seemed to me he was trying to invoke the spirit of Michael Jordan’s first championship in Chicago. The difference, and one that’s hard for me to swallow, is that LBJ left Cleveland. Jordan stayed and fought until he won, then he won three and quit to go play baseball. It’s not a fair comparison I know…Jordan was older, wiser when he went to the NBA. He graduated college, got a degree, played four years in North Carolina. James came out of high school. When he failed to overcome adversity he was still young and let Wade convince him to “take his talents to South Beach.” Maybe if James had gone to college for four years he wouldn’t have been so naïve. He was just a kid so, while I didn’t watch basketball in 2011, I still forgave him. In a way I was happy for him. Finally a player who was writing his own destiny, vs getting traded, moved and manipulated like so much chattel. I never burned the shirt that bore his name.   

Watching the games on League Pass there are no commercials, no hype. In time outs the camera pans the crowd, aims at the on-court cheerleading, t-shirt tossing, and parachute dropping that when you’re in the stadium you would be subjected to. But they turn the volume down and whatever music is playing on the loudspeaker is funneled down through the broadcast without the background of the crowd. It’s like you’re there but not really there. Like I said, devoid of hype and the feeling of being there. I watched it alone in my apartment. My wife and son had already moved to Slany, Czech Republic and I was alone to clean, repair and paint the flat to ensure our three month deposit is returned in full. Nothing but my bed, a small table for my computer and cleaning and paint supplies. The games usually started at 3:00 AM. I’d wake up most games a little before tip-off and watch the whole game. In the case of the finals, this was agonizing. You can imagine, the shouting and pacing and exuberating cheers and howling…all of this echoing through my vacant flat…my neighbors already thought I was a lunatic. I watched with JJ. He was in Portland and we WhatsApped throughout the playoffs. The League Pass broadcast, to my surprise, was a little delayed compared to network broadcast, and at times he was tipping me off to events to come, it was a little like seeing into the future. Sometimes that was a good thing, other times, not so much.

JJ was definitely the more optimistic. I kept reminding him that throughout Cleveland’s run, they never really faced anything comparable to what lay in store for them from the West. I actually feared OKC more than GSW. Even though James has Durant/Westbrook’s number, they really looked like they’d figured it out. And if not for the hero ball tactics over the last two games they should have won. JJ kept reminding me during the finals, it’s not over yet! I kept remembering last year, and 2010 when Lebron seemed to give up in the Boston series. It seemed to me he was giving up. I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t taking control, why wasn’t he playing with urgency. After game four I was sure it was over. The way they played winding down the fourth quarter looked like they thought they were in the lead. My last WhatsApp to him after that game… “What a Joke!”

I told myself I wasn’t going to get up at 3 AM and watch game five, but I did anyway. Game six I said I’ll sleep until the fourth quarter and see what’s what, but I woke up at 3 and watched the whole thing. I was so excited all day Friday. On Saturday I watched games 5 and 6 a couple times each while making memes of Draymond Green as Bubba Blue from Forrest Gump. I tried to infect the Cavs fb page with multiple posts of the same image but it never took hold. I was sitting alone in my flat making memes and posting them secretly laughing to myself about how clever I was. It was fun, but nobody got it.

Game seven came and I slept through the first three quarters. I couldn’t bring myself to watch, I was so certain they’d choke…Cleveland always chokes. We’re always the ones left staring at the screen. Like at the end of game four, when Cleveland was cooked and they went on that fouling barrage in the last two minutes hoping for anything and the entire Q arena stood, no one leaving, everyone simply staring slack-jawed and feckless at the tragedy unfolding before them. That’s the way our seasons end in Cleveland. I woke up and JJ had shot a few WhatsApp’s at me and I was encouraged. By the time I logged into League Pass, the fourth was just about to start and it was 75-75 or something like that and I sat straight up in bed, made a coffee and started messaging JJ. What’s going on man? What you think? What’s the vibe? He was positive in his responses. GSW hitting 3’s and CLE battling straight-ahead LBJ style basketball to keep it close. I scanned the box-scores during time-outs and it looked good except CLE’s 3-point shooting was terrible.

Well the rest, as they say, is history. I told JJ before game seven that LBJ coming back and trying to recreate history wouldn’t work. It’s like getting back with an old flame, the moment’s passed, it never works out. But the difference here is that James didn’t come back…sure he returned to Cleveland, but the relationship was with his team, not us. We are all only witnesses to this, and it’s good enough for me. It’s LBJ and Kyrie. Irving and Lebron. These two guys should have been given the MVP together. Without James, Kyrie is just a really awesome scorer, and without Kyrie, James is all alone and runs out of gas (i.e. 2015 finals).

I love Cleveland. I remember the first time I watched a football game. My dad and I watched it on my little black and white TV in the kitchen. They were playing the Vikings and my dad was explaining to me how the game is played and by the time the game was ending I was hooked. Cleveland was leading and time was running out and my dad and I are screaming at the TV and Fran Tarkenton threw a hail-mary bomb down the right sideline. The ball was tipped around and bobbled and finally landed in the hands of a Minnesota wide receiver. I was crushed. It was my initiation into Cleveland sports. It wasn’t long after that our family started attending Indians games at old Municipal stadium. I’ll never forget the field opening up as we came out of the concourse and into the stands…the bright green field and the contrasting rich brown base paths. That moment resonates every time I walk into a professional baseball stadium. There were times it seemed like the stadium was empty, the lone drummer beating his impotent drum in the bleachers. A spattering of boo’s ran around the stands after the opposing team ran off this pitcher or that, and when something good did happen in the game the sounds of clapping barely registered in the cavernous stadium. It became a running joke that every time the Esterles attended a game the Tribe was sure to lose. I remember, Go Joe Charboneau! and Here We Go Brownies, Here We Go! The Tribe’s alive in 85! The Kardiac Kids! Mark Price, World B. Free. I remember going to watch the old Barons play and even had a pennant from them that I think I kept until I was in my 20’s. We went to an Indians game once in Minneapolis with my aunt and uncle to watch them play in the then brand new Metrodome. The ceiling would breathe up and down as the doors flung open at the end of the game. I caught a foul ball that day. I remember going to a Cavs game once with my friend Matt and Jon and JJ was there too. Matt’s dad got into an accident, it was winter and we were driving out route 303 and his dad swerved, lost control and ended up in the ditch. Somehow we got to the game. The old Coliseum seemed to come out of nowhere after driving along that old two-lane highway through the Cuyahoga national parks. Suddenly the forest around opened up to a gleaming edifice with white lights pushing out the darkness.

Going to these games, events, transcended the outcome. It was being with friends, or the times I’ve gone alone (and there were many) the atmosphere was enough company to outshine whatever happened in the game. But, every single season of my life, childhood and adult, has ended in “Why?!” or “There’s always next year.” or “Man, so close!” or “They got robbed!” or “F#$%’in Jordan!” or “Browns Suck!” or any number of appellations. Not this year suckers! This year we get to cheer. We get to be happy about our team doing something no one thought possible. We get to read the newspapers, watch the news, read the fb posts, and live in this moment. Thanks for the memories CLE! Thanks for doing what I began to think would never happen in Cleveland! Thanks for kicking ass! Go Cavs!   

Oliver's way home...

We went to Paul and Emma's kindercafe last weekend and Ollie decided to take a different way home and of course it was a good decision.



Long Way Home...

Ollie's first taste of chocolate, and he doesn't want to relinquish his quarry.

Chocolate Monster!

Here we are at the spielplatz near the where I work.

Spielplatz!

Chasing your Tail Isn't as Fun as it Looks; or, An Emperor Sits in Church

Education...I have a really good friend, goes way, way back, told me once when I was getting my M.Ed., “don’t ever call yourself an educator.” He went on about the type of teacher who refers to himself as an educator. I didn’t know what he was talking about. He is more wizened than me. He’d been around the block, many more blocks than I had. He’d dealt with reputable folk….me not so much. I’ve spent most of my life carving no powerful connections.

Like I said, I didn’t know what he was talking about. What’s wrong with referring to yourself as an educator? Nonetheless, I decided, from his tone of voice and anecdotal evidence, I would always say I was a teacher. Since…I’ve come to find myself more as an instructor. I still call myself a teacher when people ask, but in my CV I say I’m an instructor.

I probably shouldn’t admit this, but it’s a fundamental problem—an inner conflict—something I’ve always thought—I don’t really like teachers. I’ve said from the beginning of my career as a teacher… “just promoting the fraud.” And I still believe this.

When I first started teaching I could never sustain the fraud. By the end of the second week, students had lost faith in me. As the years went by, I learned to stretch this space of faith longer and longer into the school year. I remember, my fourth year teaching was the first time I was able to sustain their faith in me until the end of the year.

I call my students by their last names. This tactic helps tremendously. Mr. So-and-so, can you tell me what part of speech this word is? How does this help understand context Miss Such-and such? I’m also brutally honest with them. I think of two instances in my life as to why I am truthful with my students. Mr. Barge, my 9^th and 10^th grade English teacher, who broke down in front of us one day, and more recently, Atticus Finch’s advice to his brother Jack… “Kids see through your bullshit.” Or something to that effect.

Most teachers are well intentioned. I shouldn’t need to remind people the road to hell was paved with good intentions. Most teachers went to high school and were successful, then straight to college, then back to high school to teach. They’ve never had jobs. This is a fundamentally flawed system. Teachers don’t know what the world is like. A friend of mine recently told me his daughter came home excited about having to learn cursive writing. He was befuddled at the notion that teaching hours would be wasted on such an archaic skill. It’s a beautiful truth. Why on earth are we still teaching kids to write in cursive. The only justifiable reason that even approached sensible I’ve heard is to sign your name. But, upon further reflection, teach them to sign their name and move on. Other reasons I’ve heard: They need it in high school. They need it to read other people’s cursive writing. They need to be able to read their teacher comments. All of these reasons are self-perpetuating. The only reasonable rationale is to be able to read other people’s writing, which is debunked as soon as you realize that all…and I can verify this…all, forms and documents of official nature, academic, business, government or otherwise are either in print form or word processed.

When is the last time you read a memo in cursive, let alone in paper form. It’s a preposterous skill to teach and a waste of time. But, ask a teacher, and they will stand on ceremonious hyperbole defending the silly skill. Teachers have no ability to see their positions objectively.

I have encountered more teachers of the variety who would kill themselves before admitting what they’re teaching is obsolete than I care to admit. We are teaching students to analyze literature in a world where nobody is reading books. The average time spent reading is 15 minutes as an adult. 20 years ago, I remember having to learn about art. Having to write about it. We used to laugh…who in the fuck is going to care about this? We’d ask each other. Care about why DaVinci’s Mona Lisa is smiling oddly…this is about as helpful as understanding Raskolnikov’s need to taunt the police chief.

Yes, these are interesting quandary to ponder. But essentially valueless. We are more interesting people because we’ve thought about these things, but there’s no value in it. This is the core of my problem with educators.

Every English teacher fancies himself or herself a writer. I do as well. This is important because you can’t teach writing or analysis of texts without understanding the writing process yourself. Trying to get an English teacher to share their writing is like trying to get a 7^th grader to share something they’ve written personally. I’ve come across more than a handful of students who want to share what they’ve written and I always enjoy reading what they’ve written. I’ve learned students just want to hear that I liked their story. I think English teachers are the same, with the added baggage of years of experience. The vast number of students whose writings will never see publication; ratio-wise the same is true of English teachers. So, in both cases, why should we read these writings with such a critical eye. We would do better to allow the authors’ stories to exist within the lives they’ve been created, and not “make suggestions.”

Of course I have a different approach for essay writing. I will have students write stories and then analyze each others’, and hopefully provide authentic critic/creator experiences. It’s difficult to persuade kids they have as much right as anyone in the world to make judgements on texts bound in published books. To a kid, the act of picking up a book carries too much weight.

For example: You give out the next book to your class. The Outsiders. Maybe 4 or 5 have already read it and love it. Another couple of students have friends who’ve read it and can’t wait to read it. Then there’s a handful who’ve heard about the other class that’s reading it now and have heard how cool it is. There is weight in these expectations. And then, as English teachers we tell the kids we are going to create an argumentative thesis that speculates on what message the author is trying to deliver. That’s a best case scenario, things start to spiral down fast once you start including things like…what’s the effect of literary devices on tone or atmosphere, or how does diction convey point of view. To a seventh grader, this must seem like a preposterous and utterly pointless endeavor. To a senior, you can take away the preposterous, but the pointless aspect of such an obscure task still resides inside the psyche.

So give a task like write a short passage wherein the student must convey an emotion about a gift they’ve received. The challenge is to convey an emotion that is “not cliché” but maybe for the younger kids, “not normal.” Then students share documents and analyze how their friend expressed the character’s emotion…i.e., what emotion is it and what language delivers the emotional connotations.

This will help students see how often these literary “tricks” often rely upon one or two phrases, and many times one or two words is all it takes. Examples can be made of subtle and exaggerated approaches. This can parlay into dialogue and sharing verbally and hopefully generate deeper understanding. Do enough of these and then slip in an excerpt from a famous story and have the students do the same thing. 

Mullin' on it!

I write a column, "Mr E's Mullings," for the student newspaper at my school. One of the editors of the paper has a granddad who's started a dialogue with me via the form of poetry. I've copied the poems below, and following that is my response.

 Stroke or Strike

Stroke or Strike
Please, Mr. E., lets mull again

about two words that can affect us suddenly

and unexpectedly they menace us alike:

it's stroke or strike,

can either paralyze one person or us all.

Is stroke an act of God

and strike the right of some

to paralyze all others,

schoolchildren, even teachers, innocents and mothers?

Is strike permissible and wise

to paralyze and penalize

us who are not responsible at all?

-HCJ

Untitled

Please, Mr. E., let’s mull again

about the thoughts, thousands of thoughts

that cross our  mind each day.

What is a thought, where does it spring from?

Is our brain the garden,

offering hundred different ways -

and who decides which one to follow?

Are thoughts the seeds or are they flowers,

are words their image or their tools?

What is the difference between wise men and fools?

-HCJ

Dear HCJ,

Where do thoughts spring from? Sometimes they spring, but they also slip from us, they suffocate us and badger us, they haunt or escape us, they pop—blast—explode—and disappear. If the brain’s the garden wherein all of this takes place, then we are like that loveable fool Candide, meant to work in it. Because of this then it is us who decides and this is the thing that separates us from our predecessors. We can decide.

Sure, Fate or Freewill is a really old idea. I have a hard time believing that in all of ancient Greek civilization there wasn’t at least one guy sitting in the woods, racking his brain over the choices he’s made. Can you imagine this freak…all of his neighbors and buddies are like, “Dude, don’t be a Dionysian Downer!” or “Why ask why? Try Bud Dry!” Now because of Quantum mechanics we can reconcile this age old conflict and say anything is possible. In a Scientific American article, George Musser states, “Quantum mechanics is indeterministic, in that the outcomes of measurements are chosen at random from the slate of possibilities.” The “slate of possibilities,” is our garden. This means we aren’t destined for anything, but at the same time, a person could make all the “right” choices that would lead him seemingly in the “right” direction, yet never reach his intended goal. But something is happening in our collective streams of consciousness that’s simultaneously being discovered by Quantum theory, “Quantum physics is time-symmetric, so we are as justified in saying that our choices set the cosmic initial conditions as much as the other way round” (Scientific American). In this idea, we are the masters of our fate. Imagine the guy who’s been making all those “right” choices to no avail. He’s relentless in his gardening. Forever nurturing the fruits and vegetables that will feed him. In our shifting idea of Fate and Freewill everything is happening, everything is possible. Maybe his intended goal isn’t where and how his fate will lead him; but the collection of his choices lead him somewhere nonetheless. This is the beauty of our choices, they are the collective culmination of what we’ve decided upon and they take us to our righteous destiny. The intention is a reflection of the spirit of our choices, and not an idealistic version of our goal…where we inevitably end up depends on the choices. Intent is irrelevant and critical simultaneously. It’s the paradox of Quantum physics. I have a hard time with this notion because I’m from the 20th century, but soon, this “everything theory,” will be seemingly innate and people’s thoughts will be their guides and take them wherever they wish. 

This isn’t new…the power of positive thinking has been around for a while. I remember in middle school, I was at a school assembly and this group of actors came and performed a little power-of-positive-thinking-skit. I remember two things iterated from their play. “Tomorrow you’ll wake up and be 35,” and “Wake up, clap your hands and say, ‘Today is going to be a great day!’.” But these were only hopeful ideas. Based on the unreliable science of psychology. Now, because of Quantum theory, exclaiming today is going to be a great day can be a real truth—a real destiny.

As for the difference between wise men and fools…I recognize this as the rhetorical device it’s masquerading as. We both know, HCJ, there isn’t any.

As I read your poem, “Stroke or Strike,” two thoughts occurred to me. The first was a professor I had in college…Professor Jacobs. This guy could recite poetry, prose, theory…anything at an astronomically prolific rate. He had this weird quirk. He constantly pushed up on his lip. He had a mustache and with the tips of the fingers on his right hand, he’d push up on the right side of his upper lip…it always seemed to me he was fidgeting with his mustache. A couple years later I was sitting in a bar having a beer with a friend of mine with whom I knew from a class we’d both taken with Professor Jacobs. She told me that he’d suffered a stroke and the lip/mustache tic was a resulting side effect of the stroke. The other thought that came to me was the recent strike in Berlin. I have a new son and he still lives with my soon to be wife/mother…that’s “baby mama” for all you South Central homies out there…down in Slany, a small town about forty klicks north of Prague. I go down every weekend to be with them. They will be living with me here in Berlin by the time this article is published, but the point is, I rely on the trains. When the strike hit was the same weekend that my week-long October break fell. I got stuck in Berlin, and when I saw these lines…

Is stroke an act of God

and strike the right of some

to paralyze all others, schoolchildren, even teachers, innocents and mothers?

I couldn’t help but attach my own personal experience to this. I’m a teacher, meine frau is a mother, and my boy is innocent. I considered this line and its exact relevance. I thought it was too unbelievable…but then it dawned on me, HCJ has had a long life and that it’s just a metaphor. Nonetheless, the thoughts blossomed—they rattled around for a while—then moved on.

the stroller

There's an old guy walking down the street in this city. He's tall and thin and he pushes around this baby stroller. Everyone steers clear of him on the street. Everyone knows there's no baby in the stroller. The stroller is old and the wheels spin around out of tune with one another, the awning drawn down nearly shut, and he keeps the rain cover on rain or shine. He's a quiet old man, keeps to himself and occasionally he straps a tow-rope to the rear axle and drags a four-wheeled wagon behind with his belongings.

He sleeps under an over-pass where a bike path is the only traffic he sees...or sees him. A passerby will stop on the rare occasion to see what he's built his dwelling from. Mostly pallets and cast-off boxes from the furniture warehouse department store a few blocks up from the over-pass. He's been forced to remove his place a few times. It will happen again, but he still re-builds. He's got a gas stove, but no gas. He's not deformed or hideous around the face like most homeless people you see. He's got all his teeth, his hair is full, and he wears a dark five-O'clock shadow somehow. It never gets to be a full beard, yet it retains it's full shadow over his face...he's handsome in this way. His hands are dirty and he never wears gloves and the first thing someone notices if they happen to walk up to him and talk to him, or walk along side him in conversation--his dark rimmed fingernails. The knuckles are battered, cut. He never wears gloves, which is why they're so noticeable. 

Everyone knows there no baby in the stroller--he knows it too. He's not sad--per se--but he's definitely not happy. He smiles to people as they pass by. He's learned to do this. He never used to have to smile or carry in his natural demeanor the kind of thing he does now. Now he recognizes that when people see him, he's got to put his best foot forward. People are scared now-a-days, and rightfully so. He's the first to agree...best foot forward. When he was younger he just walked down the street. He had a home to go to. He had a job, a good job working for the bureau of motor vehicles. 

His son, the one who would have occupied the stroller many years ago, is still alive--it's not so tragic a story as all that. In fact from his point of view, hardly tragic at all. He never hears the street kids laugh and make fun of him...they're all tatted up, pierced, young and full of acrid sarcasm because they're living life the way they want...not the way society says. They still think you have to look like a freak to be one. He lives across state--the son, who would have occupied the stroller many years ago. He's doing well--goes to college. The old man doesn't know what his son is doing, he vowed to have nothing to do with him. The kids on the street are falling over themselves joking about how pathetic the old man is, but they have no idea. They devise a whole back story that looks like a Hollywood movie because unfortunately that's all they've ever paid attention to. They were raised on television and youtube videos. 

One time when the old man was young--relatively young--33, he was pushing his stroller along the park down on the waterfront. He was just off work, it was a beautiful spring day. He unloaded the stroller from his van and put the diaper bag on the handles making sure he had everything he needed in any situation, it took him extra time of course, but he didn't mind. He grabbed a book in case he had the time to read a bit. He'd told his wife before their son was born, "I really can't wait to push him along in the stroller and find a quiet bench down on the water and read a book while he sleeps or drinks his bottle, or just looks around." That was before he'd gotten mad at her and swore he didn't want anything to do with the boy. Now he had no more wife, and the stroller he was pushing along the waterfront had no baby boy, hungry or otherwise inside of it. So, he had everything in his stroller and walked along on the beautiful day, nodding to passersby and smiling. He felt as if he belonged...he seemed happy and the people would smile and glance into the stroller to catch a glimpse of the baby boy...it figured to be a boy because the stroller was baby-blue with dark navy-blue trim. The old man, then a young man of 33, would never turn and see their expressions. Most people just figured they couldn't see the boy snuggled up inside the warm comfy blankets... "Oh, he's so adorable," they'd smile and nod. Some actually even stopped to look and he'd say, "Just got the little devil asleep." And a joke about how when they're sleeping they're all angels would pass between them and a soft laugh or a stifled snuffle before moving along. 

In reality the boy would have been only a couple months old at that time and the young 33 year-old man wouldn't have been able to have been long on a walk like this without having to tenderly pull him out of the stroller in efforts to comfort him because he was hungry, or cold, or needed a fresh diaper. He would have had to have been with his wife so she could feed him under her shawl as they sat on a bench enjoying the day. But the young 33 year-old tried not to think about this. He tried not to think about walking out on his wife and son because she made him angry. 

Now, the old man hardly thought about those days. Now he pushed his miserable stroller along, protected from the rain, with his four wheeled wagon carting his belongings behind him. 

He would be sitting in his pallet and cardboard dwelling reading a book and he'd hear a young child asking his father who lived there? Or, why does that man live under a bridge daddy? And he would twitch inside. He'd remember and he'd shut his eyes tight in order to squeeze away the tears and prevent any burning of his eyes that might occur. He told her to go to hell...and to take that fucking kid and toss him into a dumpster for all he cared...and he would cry again. He would remember her crying and the sound of her soft, broken voice telling him to go but at the same time begging him to stay and hold their beautiful baby boy. To not do this. To please, don't take it out on the boy. And he remembered how so long ago, how easy it would have been--to simply forgive her and take his boy into his hands and feel his soft warm head against his cheek--how easy it would have been. But he didn't. And every child he overhears asking about the man who lives under the bridge he has to relive these memories. 

When he still had his job and apartment, his wife would call him, leave messages, texts, and emails urging him to come back and he swelled up in this power he had and yet he wanted for all the world to stop this and all he had to do was go to her. When he was still young, people at work all knew how much he looked forward to the boy coming...how happy he was when he announced to the entire bureau his wife was pregnant. When the boy was born and soon thereafter he'd gotten mad at his wife and left them, he never told anyone at work. When people would ask him to see the boy, bring him into work, he'd make easy excuses..."ah, the boy's spending all his time eating, sleeping and pooping...the kid's living my dream." As the months passed, he became withdrawn and by the time the moment had passed wherein people stop asking about your newborn baby, he was no longer the same colleague they'd all been accustomed to. His boss, the director called him into the office. "Are you alright?" "The family?" "How's the wife?" All these questions he would make up answers that were skin deep because in reality he could only imagine what these answers might actually be. 

The director talked with his supervisor about him. They were both concerned. 

Occasionally the old man will be pushing his beat-up old stroller down some boardwalk or city park path and notice a new couple with a baby in their own new, top-of-the-line stroller and how the young beautiful wife's eyes dart from carriage to old man and back again and then whisper something so only her husband can make it out. The husband's look of pity would give away what she'd said and the old man would lean down and check on his boy; make sure he's sleeping ok and stroke his pudgy cheeks and then just as the couple passed by the old man would nod and smile apologetically. He remembered when his boy was still only a couple weeks old and his family was still together they'd gone for a walk in the park overlooking the city. It was still winter and the boy's cute little face peeped out from a bundle of warm soft blankets from deep inside the stroller. He hugged his wife and they both seemed to smile from within. He pushed his stroller and smiled at every passerby and watched as they walked by to see what kind of reaction they'd have...he doesn't do that anymore. When he first left his family and started taking the stroller out for walks he still imagined the boy was buried deep inside and he would look. He would watch as people walked by. He wanted to make sure they believed there was a baby inside. He stopped doing that once, when a middle-thirties couple was walking by with their little four year old girl. And little kids this age can be bold and forward with strangers, especially on a warm summer day, and the girl reached into the stroller before her mother could stop her and pulled back the fluffy blanket discovering nothing at all. The stroller was still new, the diaper bag full and half-unzipped revealing a bag full of diapers and other assorted baby stuffs, and underneath was his book and water bottle...all perfectly settled save for the baby wasn't there. The mother's look of concern, the father's pitying stare and the daughters oblique laughter as if the man were merely pretending. "Are you practicing for when your baby comes mister?" The girl asked and of course he had to play along but the parents understood what was going on. After that instance he learned to appear to be "minding his own business," and not pay too much attention to people as they either looked or didn't look to see the baby inside the stroller he was pushing. 

McMurphy's anti-literary business.com

Big Nurse’s most effective control tactic is to emasculate them; McMurphy’s fateful demise comes at the hands of Big Nurse but not without a fight. McMurphy resisted under a guise of machismo and bravado and by building a network of supporters based again on being a “man.” Big Nurse views the notion of “manhood” as a deviant behavior in need of reconstruction methods. Big Nurse is a manifestation. She is the gate keeper—seemingly to everything—at least through Chief’s eyes.

The first group meeting McMurphy watches while Big Nurse horsewhipped Harding about his questionable virility and masculinity, and then he interjects to gain Harding’s trust…show him men stick together. Nurse’s “McMurray” intentional mispronunciation is her attempt to shut him down and he’s already slipped a wink at Harding and the group is in on the gag before she recognizes the sex joke was at her expense. She’s completely befuddled at the notion that someone would view her “femininity” that it doesn’t even occur to her until the effect has taken its roots. The “effect” is that McMurphy has established his right to be a man.

Big Nurse resolves to persist. She continues to “mispronounce” his name before promptly announcing he’s in “—for Rape.” Now, Big Nurse is a seasoned pro at controlling all types. Even the doctor is not allowed to overtly appreciate McMurphy’s full “effect.” But McMurphy dispels her attempt effortlessly by characterizing the “relationship” with the fifteen year old as one in which he was the victim of her libido—…took to sewing my pants shut (40). Somehow Big Nurse believed that shaming McMurphy about his virility would be effective indicates she is outmatched initially. At least it indicates she is out of practice and these are only lessons for her on adjustment tactics which she’s re-assessing constantly… “looking out through her window, got a tape recorder hid out of sight somewhere, getting all this down—already planning how to work it into the schedule” (64).  

Her perseverance is flawless and without effort as she “dispenses” of him now. This reveals another slip in judgment. She’d been mispronouncing his name in attempts to belittle him many times. McMurphy never corrects her. Big Nurse reasoned initially that McMurphy would correct her sooner, explains the numerous times she so abuses this tactic. And by the time the doctor speaks to McMurphy directly, he mispronounces it as well. McMurphy swiftly corrects him and the doctor must recognize the Big Nurse’s subversive tactics...he knows, Mac knows and Big Nurse knows. McMurphy’s hilarious concession speaks volumes, “It’s okay, Doc. It was the lady there that started it, made the mistake” (41). This is pure, gold. Good old fashioned, down-homey rhetoric. 

McMurphy’s response exposes the wires Big Chief reminds us are there. The doctor is an unwitting casualty of the war between McMurphy and Big Nurse. He lacks the courage to act overtly in McMurphy’s favor, but he allows McMurphy to tell the story of Hallilhan and Hooligan. Of course the poor doctor cannot, “overlook the possibility that this man might be feigning psychosis to escape the drudgery of the work farm” (42). He’s revealed himself twice already, snickering into his collar, and he must rectify the appearance of complicity and swing the pendulum back into Big Nurse’s paradigm. McMurphy…seemingly satisfied with the turn of events, settles back to observe…as Chief suggests would be another aspect of being a man—a gambler—“is a smart move” (43). This may also be the one real victory for McMurphy and mark the beginning of his demise.

McMurphy successfully establishes with Harding the catalyst for the pecking party is Big Nurse. 

McMurphy uses a colloquial caricature as an interface persona to eventually inspire Harding’s break down as the entire ward watches and on their proverbial seat edges….Big Nurse presumably is witnessing this event from her box. This information is pivotal and McMurphy’s symbolic offering of a cigarette is a gesture of both offering and accepting. The nurse intentionally observed and vetted the information for future possibilities wherein which she could exploit. The comradery will continue to align McMurphy more and more alongside the Acutes. He will become one of them…either by his proactive intentional actions or leading by example…behave like a man. Big Nurse knows at this point, the invaluable key to successfully breaking McMurphy is time. McMurphy hasn’t figured this out yet, but speaking to Harding is enlightening for McMurphy.

McMurphy immediately recognizes the value of the doctor’s role. The variable is how much of a spine does Spivey have. McMurphy knows this.

“It’s like an old clock that won’t tell time but won’t stop neither, with the hands bent out of shape and the face bare of numbers and the alarm bell rusted silent, an old worthless clock that just keeps ticking and cuckooing without meaning nothing” (49). Kesey’s nod to the title’s meaning. It’s especially meaningful because he tells this story of ol’ Pete during the group therapy meeting, while McMurphy is “observing,” and in this same meeting is where McMurphy discovers virtually everything there is to know about the Ward, Big Nurse, the Doctor and all the patients. He’s even seemed to have figured out Big Chief is not what he seems.

Kesey’s set-up of the battle between McMurphy and Big Nurse is an old theme, but McMurphy is determined to reject the literary allusions that work to expose themselves. Harding plainly states the Ward is a matriarchy and he extends the “controlled” scenario out into the world telling the story of how she’s taken to volunteering and donating to poor young couples. Harding’s building a literary giant out of Big Nurse. He makes her the matriarch in and out of the Ward and by virtue of the same emasculating tactics. She promises, according to Harding’s imagination, to send money for scouring powder and on her way out, “[Pauses]…draws the timid young bride to one side and offers her twenty dollars of her own: ‘Go, you poor unfortunate underfed child, go, and buy yourself a decent dress. I realize your husband can’t afford it, but here, take this, and go,’ ” as a way of insuring “the couple is indebted to her benevolence [forever]” (55). Of course this is only Harding’s version, but it smacks of literary allusions.

Harding is trying to elevate McMurphy’s truth…which is real men don’t get controlled by a ball-cutter, by giving it a prescriptive language. He makes allusions to obvious institutionalized and academic metaphors. He says they’re all rabbits and he’s a wolf; compares the EST sessions using Christ-like imagery; and he alludes to the American dream—rather the “Vanishing American” dream in Chief. But McMurphy rejects these couched allusions and reduces them to his truth tit-for-tat.

To McMurphy he’s not literally saying, “stop making bad clichés and metaphors,” he’s saying, “no, that’s not why…I can flirt the pants off a Mormon deacon’s wife, that’s why!” The thing a writer has to contend with, I suppose are his critics. It’s possible that McMurphy’s acknowledging Helena…rather Marilyn Monroe, a contemporary offering at least, is evidence of Kesey’s awareness. He couldn’t let his story hinge on the moral ramblings of Harding…nor McMurphy, and hence the necessary component, Big Chief as narrator. Literally blind to everyone save for on a subconscious level…except for McMurphy. A better metaphor for the narrator of the story cannot be discovered. Telling the story, sweeping up on discrete conversations, the longest on the Ward gives him credibility and ability to tell stories any mostly omniscient third person narrator could, even getting invited into the panel discussion regarding McMurphy, to clean some random mess—Big Chief is the perfect narrator.