When you meet someone named William, and they tell you they prefer to be called Bill, almost all of us do the one rational and sane thing that the situation calls for. We call them Bill. If their name is William, and they ask to be called Chip, all the non-crazy people in their circle call them Chip. Not only is it basic human decency to call people what they want to be called, it's also the path of the least resistance. It causes exactly zero problems, and it actually prevents conflicts that would be caused by some idiot's stupid obstinacy in insisting that the only rational name to call anyone is the name on their birth certificate. It's no one else's business why any of us choose to be called by our preferred name. Whatever the reason is for your choice or mine, it is good enough.

My middle name happens to be Kimbal. When you shorten it, as most people did when that was the name I went by, it's Kim. From birth to the first couple of years of school, Kim is the name I used when introducing myself. It's what I wrote on my first and second grade spelling tests, right there at the top on the line labeled "Name". Because kids are assholes, some of them decided that my name didn't conform to the gender norms they thought were acceptable, In other words, they thought Kim was a girl's name. Since I am not a girl and have never identified as a girl and because I had that traditional social conditioning that anything that challenges one's manliness is bad, even if for a six-year-old, I was greatly offended. It made me mad enough to cry, which made me even more mad. Since I was then a pissed off, crying, immature little boy-child with poor coping skills, my next step was usually to make the socially unacceptable choice of attempting to beat someone's ass. That was frowned on, and I got lectured on how I should just ignore mean people. Well, that was bullshit then and it is bullshit now.

I eventually caved to pressure, tried a few other names and ended up going by Lou, which is a perfectly fine name, I suppose, but not the one that I was used to.

Now, you probably know where I am going with this. Most people who are going to read this most likely don't have an issue calling people what they want to be called. If they wish to be called Mary, even though the name on their birth certificate is William, most people who read the rants of this particular progressive old white guy, are cool enough to call that person Mary. If Mary asks, quite naturally that you say she and her when you refer to her, then the people I like, are going to say OK, and do exactly that. They do it because they aren't crazy and they aren't assholes. They have manners and basic human decency. They are not needlessly antagonistic, and they would rather not make another human being feel bad for absolutely no reason. Good for them!

The only reason to refuse to call someone by their preferred name, gender, and pronouns is that you are morally deficient. You are a flawed human being with untreated personality issues. You are probably cruel in other ways that make sense to no one apart from your own twisted self. You may know and be friends with some other weirdos who share your flaws, but that doesn't make any of you right. Not only that, but you are most likely still mad at six-year-old me who beat your ass back in 1971 — because you deserved it then, just like you deserve it now.

Please send this, anonymously if you have to, to anyone in your life who needs to read it.

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My Dad can be aggravating every so often. He's conservative and opinionated and not a little arrogant. He got religion about thirty years ago and that made it worse. Despite all of that, he is as entertaining as anyone I have ever known for one reason. He is a supremely skilled and captivating storyteller. Granted, most of the stories are about him, but he's lived an interesting life, and he weaves all sorts of different elements into his tales. Unlike many combat veterans, he loves to talk about his time at war. It's rarely about the ugly parts. Usually, he has funny stories about different men in his unit during his first tour in Vietnam or men he flew with during his second tour.

One of my favorite stories is the one about one of his young soldiers who Dad said was the happiest American in Vietnam. Dad was a second lieutenant in charge of a platoon on armored cavalry soldiers. He knew this private stateside, before they deployed because the kid had gone through training at Ft. Know while Dad was also stationed there. He's found the private crying one day outside the barracks and with his best fatherly attitude (he was 21 at the time), asked the kid "What's the matter son?"

"Sir," the young man answered, "My girlfriend, she's going to have a baby." My Dad assured him that he could arrange leave for him to go home and "make things right." "But sir, you don't understand. Her Mom."

Dad asked,"What about her Mom, son"

"Sir, she's pregnant too."

Dad said it took a few seconds for the situation to become clear. Yes, the answer is yes. This young draftee from Nowheresville, Oklahoma had gotten both his girlfriend and her mother in the family way at the same time and then left for the Army. So, yeah, when he ended up in the jungles of Vietnam fighting a way, he was relieved that he wasn't back home being murdered by two irate women.

Telling stories runs in the family, though. My grandfather never presented himself as a military man, although he had been on active duty before Pearl Harbor and didn't get discharged until 1946. His World War Two stories were mainly about geography and culture. The National Guard unit he joined during the depression had been activated and sent to Trinidad in the later 30s. He pronounced it Trinny-dad. There was, of course, no combat there, but he played a lot of baseball. He'd been all over the states and spent time in England before landing in mainland Europe where he proclaimed to he's gone all the way across France and Germany until he "hugged necks with the Russians at the Elbe River." Some of his stories were harrowing in their own way. His unit liberated a German POW camp holding Russian prisoners. Before running from the approaching US Army, the Nazis turned loose their Alsatian dogs on their prisoners in a final spurt of brutality. The Russians, rather than scrambling in fear, instead caught the dogs and promptly ate them. I heard that story many times and thinking about it today reinforces the "war is hell" ethos like no other I've ever heard personally.

Some of my stories also take an ironic turn like that. I was in the military during the Cold War, so I thankfully, I have no combat tales. My personal war stories are from working manhunts after prison escapes. The most surreal moment from that period was when I was sent to escort a bloodhound handler into a patch of woods, where minutes before three prisoners who'd managed to penetrate a fence fled under gunfire. Two of the prisoners were being held at the prison where I worked even though they hadn't been convicted yet. They'd escaped from jail and were being held at my unit because they were a security risk. Yeah, no shit. Since they were not yet convicted felons, the "shoot on sight" law that is supposed to keep criminals from climbing fences technically did not apply to them. Thus, my captain as he pushed me into the woods to look for then cautioned me to "Try not to shoot them." Read the whole story.

Those stories are memorable, but they aren't my favorites. I loved to listen to my grandmother's tales of cooking for her six brothers on a wood stove, trying in vain to quell their appetites after they'd spent the days plowing with mules. I also love to hear my mother recount her early hardscrabble life living in an old farmhouse without running water or adequate heat where sometimes the hot water bottle she took to bed with her would fall to the floor where she'd find it frozen in the morning when she crawled from under the quilts.

It's not just the older generation that can spin a story. My kids love to elaborate on the things they did to exasperate me when they were growing up. My oldest daughter, who I dearly love, has and has always had a slightly sharp tongue. She used it one too many times on a trip home from a friends' lake house one day back in the 90s and I turned around in the car to pop her on the leg as a warning, except I didn't. I tagged her brother, who, while not an angel, was an innocent bystander in this case. "Dad, you got me!" was his indignant response. I was doubly furious. When we finally got home, my daughter, sensing that she had pushed things too far, climbed over the other children in the back seat and took off running as fast as she could with me chasing her. Lucky for both of us, I didn't catch her. Not funny at the time but hilarious to hear then tell it now.

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This month, the topic for those participating in the monthly IndieWeb Carnival is "affirmations." I've long enjoyed reading poetry and collecting quotes. I will stop whatever I am doing if I hear a recording of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. or Winston Churchill, two of the greatest speakers to ever be recorded. I am inordinately fond of the power of language. Several years ago, I decided to see if it was possible to achieve happiness through adopting positive behaviors. Among the many things I tried over the course of the year-long experiment was internalizing affirmations. I didn't use an app for it or search through my quotes collection. Instead, I looked at the parts of my life that caused me the most stress. Then, I flipped that by determining what my favorite things were about myself.

Affirmations for Stress

The year I undertook this project was one of changes. After 15 years of working in elementary and middle schools supporting teachers and students using Apple computers, I switched to working in high schools where everything was Windows-based. I transitioned from using computers and software with which I was intimately familiar, to systems I loathed and had done my best to avoid for a long time. Not only that, I was faced with learning the ins and outs of the faculty and staff at four giant campuses. I went from a life on cruise control to one where the stress level was ramped up by the demands of high-stakes online testing, students striving for college admissions and ramped up security concerns.

Since I was trying everything in my power to make that year the best I could, I used two affirmations, which I wrote out by hand in a notebook every morning.

1. I react calmly to stressful situations
2. I am intelligent and resourceful. I find solutions to problems. I am not defeated by them.

I repeated those affirmations to myself before I got out of my car in the mornings as work and I had post-it notes taped to my laptop as constant reminders. I was doing a lot of other positive things that year, meditating, walking several miles a day, striving for eight hours of sleep a night, eating healthy. Combining all of those things did, in fact, keep the stress level down. Despite my misgivings, I finished out my career truly enjoying the time I spent working with older students and adapting to a whole new workflow.

Having a Purpose

The other word game i played with myself, not only that one year but right until this very day was taking the time to determine my purpose. What is it I'm on earth to do? It's a hallmark of my personality to like the things I like as much as I possibly can. I am not one to dip my toe into the pool. I do a cannonball. Because I am usually convinced that my latest passion is the best thing ever, I naturally try to convince other people to take part. When I started rescuing parrots, I had two aviaries built at my house within a year. I set up anyone who was interested with a bird of their own and helped them outfit a habitat and choose the right food. When I was into cycling, my greatest joy was helping people train for and complete their first 100-mile bike rides. When it comes to tech, I have spent the past thirty years showing people how to use various gadgets and programs to be more productive and creative. With blogging, I went from one blog to four in just a few months and I evangelize for the IndieWeb every chance I get.

My Purpose — To let my curiosity and enthusiasm create and nurture passions I can share with others.

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