5-minute blog: Impress the animal in us

I'm going to try this: I'm timing myself from the end of this sentence; I've got 5 minutes to write a blog and hit publish.

Impressing people makes you look important and wanted. So who the hell wants that?

When I was young I wanted to impress people. I wanted them to think I was some kind of important. Impressing other people is a dead-end, though, that's for sure.

If I spent my whole life doing things to impress other people, I'd be dead in a few years with nothing to show for it but a sad legacy. I'm not entirely sure what that means.

So what the hell am I doing now? Am I still trying to impress people? To be honest, I think I am. Not as much, and not as intentionally as when I was young. But I'm sure it's in human nature. Not even human nature, it's in all nautre. The animal kingdom is all about trying to impress people, no not people, animals.

Animals have two things they do:
1) find food/water
2) impress other animals.

Then let's ask this: Is me just doing my own thing without worrying about tyring to impress people more human or less human? I think it depends on the definition of human. Are we a species that's trying to evolve to some unknown goal that will leave us so isolated from resembling anything else on this planet? Or is to be a true human to remain a little animalistic?

I think, like most answers, it lies somewhere in the middle (Is that a cop out answer?). We aren't always animals, but sometimes we need to be. And other times, acting like animals can get us into trouble.

I'm not sure if this blog was worth reading. I hope it was. But then again maybe I don't. I guess that depends if I'm writing it to impress you or if I'm writing it to just be me.



Time's up. But I'm going to add some extremely relevant pictures now.

I've gone an entire year without posting anything to this blog. That's shameful. In my defence, I've started another blog. It's from the desk of the Unintelligent Speaker. Check it out at www.UnintelligentSpeaker.blogspot.com.

I use the Unintelligent Speaker blog for more of a creative outlet. The Jesse Robson blog is more about serious, professional stuff, but why bother with that when I got things to be creative about?

Anyways, I promise, I'll get you something worth reading on this blog. In the meantime, go to www.UnintelligentSpeaker.blogspot.com to see what I've really been up to.

Merry New Year.

The Indian Stereotype

Growing up, I hated the Indian stereotypes I grew up hearing. I hated them because they were all too true.

My dad was an Ojibwe man from Manitoba. In 1999, he died of a drug overdose. It was a few years after abandoning my mom, my brother and me. I couldn’t tell you why he left. It didn’t make sense to me – it never will. And once he was dead, it reinforced my hate for those stereotypes I grew up hearing.

I felt so much shame. It was embarrassing knowing my dad chose cocaine and heroin over me – his son. I carried that shame and pain for years. But after a while, I got sick of being ashamed. Why should I fall into a spiral of self pity, like my father did and his father did?

In 2007, I began taking classes at the First Nations University of Canada. And in 2011, I graduated with a degree in Political Science and double minor of English and Indigenous studies. Now I have a beautiful wife, an amazing daughter that brings me more energy than she takes and I work for a multi-billion dollar corporation. I’m not rich – or even remotely close to rich for that matter – but life hasn’t been this good since I was a blissfully ignorant eight-year-old.

I want you to understand what I’m saying here. As a kid, I idolized my dad. And the older I got, the more my idol disappointed me. But, he was disappointing me because I was still idolizing him. That meant, the only way to stop being disappointed was to stop placing him on a pedestal he didn’t deserve. So that’s what I did.

But, by the time I was able to do that, he had been dead for nearly a decade and I had pissed away the first half of my 20s. It took so long to take him off that pedestal because I was still thinking he was the loving, strong, happy, smart and invincible father I remembered. But that’s impossible, because a man like that would never die the way he did.

The truth is, Dad was a flawed human being. Just like me and everybody else on Earth. I’ll never know why he chose to live and ultimately die the way he did, but even if I did understand that, it would change nothing.

Sometime after my dad’s death – maybe it was a month, maybe a year – my mom said to me, “It got to the point where your dad can do more for you dead, than he could alive.” Those words changed the course of my life. They also changed his.

So now, those Indian stereotypes I grew up hearing still bother me. But it’s not because they’re true, it’s because they’re not. The new Indian stereotype doesn’t look back to find shame. The new Indian stereotype looks in the mirror. The new Indian stereotype refuses to fall into a downward spiral. The new Indian stereotype is proud and humble, strong and sensitive, smart and forever learning.

I am the new Indian stereotype and you can be too.

Religion is not spirituality

We capitalize specific religions because they are proper names. Spirituality requires no capitalization, except of course if it's the beginning of a sentence. But how often does that happen, really? The word spirituality requires no capitalization because it is a humble word. Words like Catholic, Islam, Mormon even the Church of England all require capitals because they are proper names, they are proud.

It's okay to be proud, but it's far more satisfying to be humble. Famed martial artist and creator of Jeet Kun Do, Bruce Lee once said, "Learn everything. Keep what works."

Religion is one ideology at a time, one belief at a time, shared by many. Spirituality can be everything we've ever learned. Spirituality is best used to help us recognize and understand life as individuals.

Grand

My Grandfather built a grand house as strong and sturdy as He
Poured the foundation nearly a lifetime ago
Bags of concrete He carried on His back
Generations held together inside

A bench in the dining room is fastened to the wall
Floating against the wall and strong as a tree
Babies turned to parents, whose babies turned to parents
Whose babies run and jump and eat on that floating bench like all those before them

I once fell from the roof of the house with nobody near
Hanging by the tips of my fingers, the ground a grand distance below my small body
Afraid for my life, I struggled to hold on
With ease He reached up to save me and lowered me safely
I took comfort in the scolding that followed

He built a second garage because one wasn’t enough
Bloodied and scarred, His bear hands worked without pause
Grizzly strong words, authoritative and wise
One gusty day He climbed the family elm just to trim the branches
That’s when they told my Grandfather, it’s time to slow down old man


Thick-skinned and weathered, His grand house fears nothing
Only peach coloured house on the block
Children, grandchildren and He painted the rings
But the latest layer of paint is not peach, it is a faded yellow instead
And it has been applied by a contractor whose name I’ll never know

Grandfather stood up from a conversation we recently had
Put on His coat and said He was gonna’ be late for work
Afraid to break the news, I told him He’d been retired for 20 years
“Fired?”
He sat down in disbelief, “Why would they fire me?”

Slow down, old man was more than a request
It was His last era's beginning
An era he didn't much care for
His powerful voice became weak and uncertain
Mourning began before he was gone

Grandfather earned his peace.

Finding My Groove: From the Dark Green Forests, to the Cold White Arctic

I have this vision for myself when I write. I see myself in a small cabin surrounded by kilometres and kilometres of dark green forests, and the subtle sounds of birds singing so eloquently that their songs can only be heard if I listen for them. I imagine I am sitting at my desk in front of a large picture window. Occasionally I glance out the window, just one look rejuvenates me. The words I write always illustrate the great freedom I am feeling every time I breathe the inspiring tranquility that surrounds me. This imagery is all I need to keep my pen to my paper, or my fingers to the keys. The environment I write in can be anywhere: a busy office or cubicle, a crowded noisy library, my personal office at home or even on a big bus with a notepad. There is something liberating for me that emanates from blank pages that will soon be covered in words. Writing feels like freedom. Sharing my words with others is exciting. I write in hopes that readers will experience the same feelings I did when I filled those blank pages one thought at a time.

Writing is not merely mushy feelings and birds singing; there are many types of writing. I recall writing an essay on climate change and not knowing anything about the topic. In order to simplify the topic I decided to narrow my perspective slightly and focus on a specific issue of climate change: polar bears. I was always fascinated with their massive size and their intimidating presence. I find something courageous about an animal trekking alone in the cold blowing snow of Earth’s most northern region, trusting itself to go the right direction with every step it takes. By narrowing my topic in the essay from climate change, to the effects of climate change on polar bears, the essay suddenly seemed more manageable. Like the polar bear navigating through the Arctic with a purpose, I now had a direction; I was no longer wandering.

As I began my research, the proverbial doors began to open. One fact led to another fact and in a very short period of time, the essay was practically writing itself. This left me with a great feeling. I began the essay early, so I would have time to revise, and it was a good choice. By the time I handed the work in, my essay was a representation of the dedication I used to write it. My final mark on the essay was 85 percent (I think!). At the risk of sounding cliché, I remember the feeling of accomplishment I got when the instructor handed back my work. I felt I did a great job and so did she. The instructor even asked me to email her a copy so she could use it as an example in her future classes.

Looking back on the essay in the above example, I realize I was enjoying the work because I focused on what I wanted to accomplish. Realizing any goal means knowing what you want to accomplish. Focusing on what I want automatically sets my pace and forces me into the type of groove that inspired this page of words. I look forward to the many blank pages that await me tomorrow.

Sunday Drivin'

We veer left off the number 10 highway somewhere west of Balcarres; we head south. The paved road did not take long to transform into a dirty, dusty back road. An upcoming junction in the dust indicates a decision had to be made, and it was. Had we not gone east we would have drove to the Motherwell Heritage site: a stone house and farming property that has become an important piece of the Canadian historical puzzle for reasons beyond my understanding and knowledge, despite having gone there on a field trip in Mrs. Edwards’ grade four class over a decade ago. But there was no time for Motherwell, not today – that’s for sure. After one more turn, we head south once again.

Dusk grasps onto the hills of the surrounding valleys for as long as its grip could hold – 20 minutes, maybe. We pick up speed and kick up dirt seeming reluctantly certain that we are going the right direction. Guided by our faith and a dirt road, the crunch of gravel beneath the tires of the red 2008 Impala slows as the trail dives and twists downwards. I slip ‘er into third . . . “Whoops! That’s neutral . . . There we go.” I slip ‘er into third.

Anybody who says South Saskatchewan has got nothing to see hasn’t driven through the grid road valleys on the cusp of clear and colourful sunset. Orange, amber and if your lucky, even purple; colours so brilliant that the greatest poet would not dare to rhyme them. The scenery is vivid; I continually remind myself to keep my eyes on the road. We carry on through the dips and dust, trusting whatever direction the road steers us.

Finally, the dirt trail straightens for the time being. Confident and calm from the soothing sunset’s subtle withdrawal only minutes ago, our speed increases. On either side of the road we can see hidden farm houses through the tall trunks of their matured shelterbelts.

“WHOA!” Out of the trees dashes a big brown animal! I jerk the steering wheel left but fear it’s too late. We’re going to smash into it. Will we be okay? Will the car be okay? I accept that I am about to kill some kind of wild beast with big shoulders. There is going to be damage to the car. These thoughts and more circulate through my brain within the fraction of a second it took for this drama to unfold. It's a dog; a Rottweiler. We pass by without hitting it, but the swerve at high speeds on loose gravel and the shock induced screams from the two of us were humbling to say the least. The fear and panic of this heart-stopping moment spawns laughter. The near death experience suddenly becomes uncontrollably hysterical. Our laughter intensifies.

This triggers a flashback for Jody, my beautiful wife, passenger and part time navigator to my right. Suddenly she remembers that road. She remembers that farm house, she even remembers that dog. For her it’s like déjà vu. Apparently, the dog is so familiar with his driveway that he can run full speed towards the road and stop on a dime without actually being in the way of traffic. I am telling you, it was inches from the car before it stopped.

Even more determined than before to find our way, we continue driving; still occasionally chuckling. It is dark now and I can see us approaching another valley. The entrance to this valley is not very steep, causing us to slowly engulf ourselves in its depth and darkness. The lower we get the darker the night grows. We see one car in the distance travelling on another road, perhaps on a Sunday drive of their own; it is refreshing to see that sign of life.

The curvaceous dusty trail leads us across a bridge, then across another. Jody begins reminiscing again about how she used to close her eyes because of the steep incline that we are approaching. It was very steep; I could see why it would frighten a weary young girl. She points left and remarks that the road used to be over there when she was a kid; now wild prairie foliage grows in its place. We climb the new road and out of the dark valley without looking back, knowing for certain that we are being led in the right direction, truly confident and moving forward.

It’s after 10 pm. Lights from the Trans Canada Highway can be seen as the empowering horizon quickly draws nearer. “It’s good to know these back roads”, says Jody referring once more to a childhood memory. We had survived our Sunday evening adventure. Unpredictable, unforgettable, beautiful, treacherous and even hilarious: this is our journey. It may be the road less travelled but I would not want it any other way.