Letter to a Blind Girl

Just outside the Humanities building,
you were trying to kick your dog.

Fury had smashed your face. The dog
kept wrapping itself around your legs.

Closer, I saw how your irises
had shot up into your head,

how your head was thrown back
as if dog were something in your skull,

as if you had to arch to reach it, as if
if you couldn’t kick the darkness,

you could kick the dog. 

--Don Welch

We’ve all kicked the dog when we really wanted to kick the darkness. In our frustration, we’ve punished what we could. Call it scapegoating. Call it projecting. Call it being human. In my father’s poem, “The Blind Girl,” he reminds us that, in our distress, too often we kick what is closest and most available to us.

Our continued struggle with the darkness is embedded in the monomyth or hero’s journey. Made popular by Joseph Campbell in his book, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, the monomyth outlines a common pattern found in many stories and myths. In this pattern, heroes set off on adventures–sometimes willingly and other times not–leaving the safety and familiarity of the known world for the unknown. As they enter the unknown and descend into darkness, they experience trials, overcome obstacles, and fight battles, so that they may return home victorious and changed. After the dragon is slain, the enemy vanquished, the treasure or lands returned to their rightful heirs, a hero’s return is the ultimate destruction of darkness and restoration of light and order.

We know this story well, for it’s ingrained in our movies, video games, books, and television series. We revel in heroes who set the world right again, destroying the dangers that threaten to subdue or undo us. We never tire of tales of such heroism and restoration, for the darkness may take different forms, but it’s a clear and present danger in every age.

Whereas the monomyth hero engages in direct battle with the darkness, confronting the enemy face-to-face, we’re often left to battle indirectly. That is, because we can’t confront employers, legislators, experts, lobbyists, or spokespeople directly, we’re often left to write letters or emails, to attend meetings or assemblies in hopes of voicing our concerns. Now, I fear our battles have become even more removed. In our desire to drive out the darkness–whatever form it may take–we often attack the people most available through our social media posts and conversations. We know they’re not the source of the darkness, but in our frustration and powerlessness, we kick the dogs in our literal and digital proximity, unleashing our fury on them any way.

Certainly, there are times and situations which call for civil disagreement and disobedience. One of the most powerful examples of this is “Letter from Birmingham Jail” written by Martin Luther King, Jr. In this letter, King refutes the claims of eight Birmingham clergy who argued his acts of civil disobedience were “unwise and untimely.” Using biblical examples and reasoning they’d understand and respect, he constructs a logical and spiritual argument in defense of the Civil Rights Movement. He doesn’t kick the dog by attacking these clergymen personally, by name-calling or hate-mongering. He understands these men aren’t the source of the darkness but rather symptoms of it. And even as they nip at his heels and threaten his work with misguided, ill-formed arguments and criticisms, he refuses to unleash his anger directly at them.

I recognize that some who criticize others for the political, social, cultural, and theological views believe they’re engaging in legitimate civil disagreement. As such, they argue they must speak up, for to remain silent is to passively accept the darkness. I suspect some contend they must “school” other less informed folks, arguing that if their means are harsh, their desired ends are righteous. I confess there are times when I’ve read social media posts, and my fingers have hovered dangerously above my keyboard. In my rural Iowa home, far removed from the legitimate source of the darkness, I’ve yearned to kick the dog before me. As every synapse twitched, I longed to type responses that would bring some immediate relief. Thankfully, I’ve stepped away from the computer many times, as I recognized my struggle to distinguish the dog from the darkness.

By nature, I suspect we’re all at risk of some dog-kicking. In rereading my dad’s poem, I’m reminded of how vulnerable I am and how I must seriously consider how I battle the darkness. Like many, I’ve often failed to fully consider the sources of darkness and to employ ethical battle strategies to confront them. In failing to kick the darkness, I’ve projected my anger and fear onto whomever and whatever was closest and most available. I’d really like to do better.

Marcia and Don Welch on the University of Nebraska-Kearney campus

Valentine Poem, 1996

The worlds through which you move
become more graceful through your moving.

In you the members of this family gather.
In you each voice is praised by name.

Your fate? Song marrowed in your bones.
Your love? Once tempered by despair.

In your presence we are wholly moved.
We cannot dance unless the air assumes your form.

–Don Welch to Marcia Welch

If I had to grade my dad as a gift-giver, I’d give him a generous “C.” He wasn’t particularly original, often buying similar gifts from the same store. The year he bought my mom an army green boucle winter coat trimmed with fake fur blew his “B” average. To say it was hideous is a gross understatement. My mom, ever gracious, received each gift with genuine gratitude, while the rest of us offered obligatory smiles and compliments.

What my dad lacked in gift-giving, he more than made up for in the poetry he wrote for my mom throughout their courtship and marriage. Without fail, my dad marked holidays and birthdays with poems tucked beneath a mirror clip on my mom’s vanity. On Valentine’s Day, an occasion celebrated with Hallmark greeting cards and heart-shaped boxes of Russell Stover chocolates, my dad out-Hallmarked and out-chocolated tradition, honoring my mother with poetry that he hoped moved her as much as we were “wholly moved” in her presence.

My father was best when he was “naming things.” In the final lines of his poem, “Still Hunting,” he writes:

When I’m dead, go on naming things well.
That’s all you need of integrity.

In a world that increasingly has little time or heart for naming things, this practice is sadly going the way of letter-writing. We generalize to save time, offering platitudes and cliches in our haste. We generalize for expediency and practicality. After all, who has the time or inclination to slog through details? Better to get to the point, to offer the gist of things. As I think about Valentine’s Day and the racks of generalized declarations of love in the greeting cards there, I’m reminded of what made my father’s poetry particularly good. Refusing to generalize, he named things well, paying homage to the people, places, and things he loved. Especially the people. Especially my mother. And in naming the things he loved and admired about her, he was saying, I see you. I see and love these things about you. I can’t dance unless “the air assumes your form.” In your presence–and yours alone–I am “wholly moved.”

In notes he’d made for his university course, The Philosophy of Poetry, my dad urged his students to develop the kind of eyes and sensibilities necessary to name and recognize these kinds of things:

Can the ordinary be extraordinary? What does it take to see it, appreciate it? The innocent eye can see nothing. The rushed eye may see a little more, but not much.

By the world’s standards, my mother was an ordinary woman, a stay-at-home mom who learned to make-do in a barely middle-class life. She taught herself upholstery because buying new furniture was a luxury our family couldn’t afford. She sewed and mended our clothes, learned to stretch a pound of hamburger, and hosted anyone who needed a place to stay and a homecooked meal. Truth be told, our lives are filled with such ordinary people who bless us in extraordinary ways. But if we don’t have the eyes to see them, if we don’t take the time to name the things that make them uniquely who they are, how will they know they’re extraordinary? How will they know the ways they bless us and others?

In the years after my father’s death, my mother regularly reread the letters he’d written her. In these letters, my father declared his love for her by naming the ways she’d changed him and how he viewed the world, by reminding her that he couldn’t imagine his life without her, and by recalling the miracle of their union. In these handwritten pages and the poetry he’d written for her, he hoped my mother would see herself as he saw her. In the mirror of his words, he wanted my mom to know her value and virtue.

We’ll soon mark another Valentine’s Day with dozens of roses, boxes of chocolates, and greeting cards in large, red envelopes. I’m proposing a new Valentine’s tradition, an add-on to the traditional gifts and cards we buy. What if we helped others see how extraordinary they are by naming the very things we love and respect about them? What if we took the time to name these things well, offering a mirror through which they could see themselves as we do? As my father contended, this would be truly honorable and very good.