When This Is, That Is

Exploring the world of conditionality


Yesterday morning I discovered that my website, this website, got hacked. The first thing I noticed was that email from my account at this url wasn’t coming in. Then there was the very long spammish-looking email it turns out wasn’t spam after all. Somewhere within all the gibberish was the address of my hosting service and a message saying my account has been suspended. 

So when I called up my site, all I got was a screen just like the one shown above. When I tried to login to WordPress admin, same thing. And with cPanel, same thing. Bad stuff. I was able to start an online conversation with technical support at my hosting service. My account was suspended because it’s against their terms of service for me to host pornography on my website. 

But I didn’t. Honest.

My account would be unsuspended on condition that I remove the offending material within 24 hours and that I promise never to do it again. And I was warned of their three-strikes policy. What a relief I get two more chances before my account is permanently suspended.

Once my account was again active I was able to see what got them so upset. I don’t know how this stuff works, but an HTML file got inserted into my root directory. Pornography all right, no doubt about it. After deleting the file I spent the better part of yesterday and much of today backing up my site files and database, upgrading WordPress, scanning for viruses and malware, changing passwords and permissions, backing up again (and again), researching and installing security plugins, and other stuff like that.

This is no fun. And it’s not the way I need to be spending my time, but I need to spend it that way like it or not.

Thinking Within the Shadows

Philly Thinker

Sometimes I’ll push away from my desk, rise to my feet, and take step a or two only to pause as though I’d forgotten where I’m headed. The older I get the truer it is I’ve forgotten my immediate intention. But most of the time when I pause in mid step it’s something else. If Robin’s in the room she may say something like: “There you go,… thinking again.” Yes, there I go again. Thinking. In my world, windows are for introspection as much as to allow me to see what the neighbors are up to.

I am easily distracted by my own thoughts. I’m like a thought hobo, hopping on a train and musing my way through a wilderness of ideas. These particular bouts of thoughtfulness aren’t the common wandering mind, or day-dreamy fantasies, or imaginary intrigues, perhaps of the kind a novelist would have while conjuring plots and characters. Rather, I’m likely trying to make sense of some vague philosophical question or even how I might develop an idea into an essay like this one. 

That’s why, while rummaging around the Internet looking for something to read one day, I was stricken with curiosity with the discovery of the essay “Thinking as a Hobby,” by William Golding (sorry, can’t remember where I found it). Golding is the author Lord of the Flies, the classic survival tale of group of British schoolboys shipwrecked on an island.

Golding’s essay begins with himself as a young schoolboy, standing in front of his headmaster, in trouble again. And once again the headmaster is demanding that he think! 

Central to Golding’s story are three statuettes kept on a shelf above the headmaster’s desk: The Venus de Milo, a leopard ready to spring, and Rodin’s The Thinker. The headmaster uses them, as needed, to drive home a point. In this case he says to the bewildered Golding as he plunks The Thinker on his desk, “That’s what a man looks like when he’s really thinking!” 

Golding admits that he wasn’t, at first, much of a thinker. “Clearly there was something missing in me,” he writes. “Nature had endowed the rest of the human race with a sixth sense and left me out.”

I know the feeling. 

But gradually, as he observes the people around him, Golding realizes the way they think drives their behavior. He derives from his observations three grades of thinking, with grade three being the lowest and most common and grade one the highest. 

He illustrates the difference between a grade-two thinker and a grade-three thinker with a story about himself and a potential girlfriend, Ruth, both now fourteen. In a discussion about religion, Ruth, a Methodist, claims the King James Bible is “literally inspired.” Golding counters that the Catholics, who use the St. Jerome Vulgate version, also claim their Bible literally inspired. Well, Ruth argues, there are so many Methodists who can’t be wrong, surely “…not all those millions?” To which Golding responds:

That was too easy, said I restively…since there were more Roman Catholics than Methodists anyway; and they couldn’t be wrong, could they—not all those hundreds of millions? An awful flicker of doubt appeared in her eyes. I slid my arm around her waist and murmured breathlessly that if we were counting heads, the Buddhists were the boys for my money.

Ruth, the obviously grade-three thinker, “fled.”

Grade-three thinkers don’t rely so much on logic or reason to form opinions and make decisions. Instead, as Golding states, they feel rather than think.

Grade-two thinkers, however, are able to see the contradictions within grade-three thinking. Heartless grade-two thinkers—as Golding himself demonstrates—can easily exploit and demean grade-three thinkers.

I have a tendency to compare myself with others, usually unfavorably, and as I read through this essay I wondered how I rated within Golding’s hierarchy of thinking. Surely, were I grade-three thinker, the essay wouldn’t have appealed to me in the first place. And, if it did appeal to me, I wouldn’t have gotten too far into it before I recognized myself as a “Ruth” and dismissed it as garbage. But I did recognize myself as the grade-two Golding. I see inconsistencies, contradictions, and ironies in many things—sometimes even in my own thinking. And I confess also to having the ability to cut sharp and quick—sometimes without thinking first of the consequences.

Of course, Golding does not devise three grades of thinking only to stop at grade two. As he tells it, he tires of thinking as a hobby and goes on to be a professional grade-one thinker. But, reading the essay, I am looking for clues that suggest I, too, am a grade-one thinker. But then I read:

Grade-two thinking, though it filled life with fun and excitement, did not make for content. To find out the deficiencies of our elders bolsters the young ego but does not make for personal security. I found that grade two was not only the power to point out contradictions. It took the swimmer some distance from the shore and left him there, out of his depth.

The emphasis is mine. I took that sentence personally. So often it happens: I have a great idea and begin to develop it. But suddenly it seems as though I have no idea of where I’m going with it or what I’m to do with it, as though I’m floundering out of my depth. I was consoled, however, by the distinction Golding draws between grade-two and grade-one thinkers. Grade-two thinkers will end a conversation with a rhetorical “What is truth?” For a grade-one thinker, however, the question is the beginning of a conversation. I recognized the instinct and felt enough ease to continue.

Although Golding, while studying at Oxford, describes a chance encounter with “Professor Einstein” (an exemplary grade-one thinker), he does not give an obvious example of grade-one thinking. Rather, I should say, the example he does give wasn’t obvious to me at first. Only after thinking it through did I realize the importance of the three statuettes. He brings them into the story three times. I mention the first above. Then, while doing some cleaning outside of the headmaster’s office, he takes advantage of the headmaster’s absence and rearranges them in a way that is meaningful to him at the moment. But, later in life he gains a different view. He writes:

 If I were to go back to the headmaster’s study and find the dusty statuettes still there, I would arrange them differently. I would dust Venus and put her aside, for I have come to love her and know her for the fair thing she is. But I would put the Thinker, sunk in his desperate thought, where there were shadows before him—and at his back, I would put the leopard, crouched and ready to spring.

Grade-one thinkers are curious, always looking into the shadows for what can be discovered there. But it’s more than that. For for a grade-one thinker it is imperative to explore what hides in the shadows. Life depends on it.

A Graduation

RobinWhen the need arose for Robin to get back into the workforce several years ago, she applied for a job in the Vancouver School District. Prior to that, she had worked as a volunteer in the schools her children attended, so it was not a completely unfamiliar environment. Still, it took her ten minutes to build up the courage to drop the big envelope into the mail slot. She knew going back to work would be a life-changing event.

For a few years she worked one-on-one with a boy with disabilities, helping him navigate physically and emotionally through elementary and middle school. Then she found herself working as one of two para-educators in a middle-school structured-learning classroom. Her job was to help the teacher manage the dozen or so students who had a variety of behavioral problems. In spite of being called every possible name, accused of doing every imaginable thing with farm animals, and even being physically threatened at times, she loved her job and cared very much for the kids she worked with. She never referred to them as bad kids. To her, they were ordinary but disadvantaged kids whose bleak living conditions made it impossible for them to come to school to learn much of anything.

As much as she liked the job, Robin realized there was not much potential for advancement. Her job was fairly secure, despite all the cutbacks elsewhere, because not very many people could do what she did for more than an hour or so, let alone five days a week. And the pay? Well, it’s a little better than minimum wage, at least. So she began thinking about going back to school.

She knew she wanted to work with kids, especially kids with disadvantages, but she didn’t want to be a teacher. Art therapy sounded good. Washington State University has a campus in Vancouver, perhaps there was something there that would interest her. But she didn’t do much else but talk about possibilities. 

One day a friend who works at Clark College, a community college here in Vancouver, brought her a flyer. Eastern Washington University was starting another three-year social-work cohort at Clark. “You should apply, Robin,” the friend said. Never mind that the deadline was only about a week away—not enough time for much vacillation. It was a push to get her transcripts from Fresno State, where she had graduated with honors in 1976 with a degree in consumer science (previously known as home economics).

She was accepted into the program and thus began a new way of life for both of us. Her schedule was grueling. Classes were from 12:30 to 9:00 on Fridays. She was able to get Friday afternoons off from her job at the middle school, which made this whole thing possible. Off hours—outside of both classrooms—were consumed with reading, researching, and writing dozens of papers in the very meticulous APA style. Things like vacations were eliminated from our lives.

This past 15 months had an added bonus of stressors: practicum internship. Robin got an excellent placement, one that gave her lots of good experience in a setting that allowed her to showcase her skills: working at the Clark County Juvenile Justice Center. She started out as a mentor at community service activities on weekends. Then she got certified in Aggression Replacement Training (ART), classes designed to help juvenile offenders from going deeper into the system. Aside from her day job at the middle school and her classes on Fridays, she was now assisting in classes at the justice center on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evenings. She went directly from one job to another. And still there was research to do and papers to write.

But today that came to an end—at least for a while. Today Robin graduated—again with honors—from Eastern Washington University School of Social Work. Well, not exactly with honors. Even though her GPA is around 3.95, she doesn’t have enough credits specifically from EWU to warrant them giving her proper acknowledgment. She didn’t get to wear the applicable summa cum laude cords nor have *** after her name in the program. But one of her professors said to me after the ceremony, “We didn’t do questions and answers, we had conversations. She’s brilliant.” Yes, high honors for extraordinary effort.

So this was Robin’s day, celebrated with a party at our house with a few of the great friends she made through this extraordinary experience.

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