The Passenger, Part 1

Hey Guys,

This is a story I wrote. I'm not sure how long it will be, but if you like and want to see more of Mel and company, leave a comment!

Daniel

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The office is full of Skymall products, the kind of thing no human should spend money on. There is a shelf full of torso-length undergarments in the corner (They were still in the package: apparently underwear that reaches from your armpits to your thighs is a classic case of buyer’s remorse). On top of the underwear shelf perches a bouncy ball with a smiley face sporting a racially-inappropriate Mexican mustache. There is a segway scooter, a quesadilla maker and a cake decorating kit strewn about the room. To my knowledge, Melchizedek Martin has never made a cake in his life.

In between the airline paraphernalia, there are grammar books galore. On the table in front of me, there is A Guide to Ancient Sanskrit. Stacked to the right of my chair, there is a six volume overview of the intricacies of the Attic Greek verb. On the shelf behind Mel’s head rests such chestnuts as Classical Chinese for Dopes and Gersenius’ Concise Guide to Hebrew Grammar. The concise grammar is sixteen volumes.

In Melcizedek’s self-proclaimed dungeon, there are no windows. Besides a small cot in the corner, the only places to sit are a small chair where Mr. Martin and I sit. My interviewer is wearing a suit from a thrift shop. It has holes in the elbow and a stain above the forearm. Despite the fact the Melchizedek Martin literally wrote the book on the first known extraterrestrial language (Martin’s Field Guide to Passengerian--a measly two volumes), despite the pools of money this feat has rewarded him with, despite all the that, it has been before the Arrival since Melchizedek Martin has bought a new shirt, and longer still since he has washed the one he now wears.

“Thanks for agreeing to this interview, Mr. Martin,” I say.

“Please, call me Melchizedek,” he says, as if he was cutting me a break, as if Martin was much harder to pronounce than Melchizedek.

I am unsure where to begin. Interviews are hard to start in general. So, tell me about your life and everything that matters to you. Talk about a broad question. Melchizedek Martin is even worse: So, the Aliens say anything cool lately? I clear my throat, telegraphing my intent to begin. “You have been called the ‘the father of xenolinguistics.’ What exactly is ‘xenolinguistics?’

“Xenolinguistics is the study of systems of formalized meaning by entities of extraterrestrial origin.”

“So, it’s the study of extraterrestrial languages?”

“Not exactly. If one human society meets another, we think about language in much the same way. One person points at a dog and says their word for it in English. Another person says the word in Chinese. Masang Voilà, we learned a word.” He sniffles as he speaks, as if he has a cold, as if his congestion makes his point for him.

“However, there are all sorts of presuppositions about words that aliens might not share.” He gets up from his chair and paces around the room, dancing around the random ecclectica of meaningless objects: trivia made manifest in things. “Humans have a rough word-to-word correspondence for each thing. Passengiarian is very different. Different equipment. Different hardware.”

I look down at my notes. “You made that distinction in your book, didn’t you? Oral and Phernomonal Passengerian?”

He looks at me then, as if his eyes are taking a long drag of optical cigarette smoke. He sighs then--like an old man blowing a smoke ring. It’s long enough to make me uncomfortable, and I begin to wonder if I have something in my teeth.

“Have you ever considered becoming one of them, Daniel?”

“Mr. Martin, I think my Passengerian status is hardly relevant to this interview…”

“I was… indisposed during the Arrival, but I went back and watched to news clips. It’s all online now anyway. The Youtube is a wonderful thing.”

“Mr. Martin, back to Passengerian…”

“They thought it was a fungal infection at first. The fungus would take over the face, and then the extremities, crawling like a neon squirrel down the body.”

Of course I knew this, although I wouldn’t have put it quite so colorfully: alien fungus landed on Earth and arranged a timeshare in the brains of a quarter of the human population. This was hard to miss.

“They say it’s voluntary, that no Passenger bonds with a human against their will, that each colony is a symbiote, not a parasite. Unfortunately, that is incorrect.”

Melchizedek Martin, a Body Snatcher! I’m not a Passenger yet, though not through lack of trying. Getting a Passenger these days is difficult. That said, any cursory reader of my blog would know how I felt about the aliens. My last entry equated the Body Snatcher sect with “climate change deniers and those who believe the earth is flat.”

“Mr. Martin, I… I…. that’s quite a claim. In order to print that on my blog, I’m going to need some proof. Passengers have eliminated disease. The average lifespan--Humans and Passengers--is thirty years longer since the Arrival. Some would say that our entry into intergalactic society ushered in a golden age.”

“Daniel, my boy, let me tell you a story...”

As he speaks, I grab my pen again and begin to write. What follows is the account of Melchizedek Martin’s translation of the Passengerian language. Everything below are Mr. Martin’s words, as exactly quoted as my poor note-taking skills allow. I have tried to let Mr. Martin’s words speak for themselves, even when they offend my sensibilities or intergalactic norms of political correctness.

My only request, as I begin this narrative, is that you consider this tale as a whole before you judge Melchizedek Martin. His contributions to Earth’s understanding of its place in the universe are unparalleled, even if Mr. Martin himself would have difficulty seeing what they are.  

Masang Ii’llio Arnor’erai

“Peace between Passengers and Men for All Time”

Daniel

Four Things I Understand About Christmas Now That I Have a Child

Due to the birth of, objectively, the cutest baby in the world, Christmas kind of snuck up on us this year. That isn’t to say, I haven’t had time to consider the Advent mystery though; if anything, having Izzy has totally changed how I see Christmas. Below are four things I learned taking care of my newborn this Advent.

1. Newborns cannot do anything. They cannot feed themselves. They cannot find shelter. They are completely dependent versions of the human species. They cannot clean up their own poo. The Creator of the Universe, on the other hand, can do whatever He wants. He thinks, and the world springs into being; He sneezes, and stars explode. Of all the people God could have incarnated Himself as, He chose to become a newborn?

2. Before Isabelle was born, we spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about where she would sleep. By my count, we have four different beds/bouncy seats/cribs for her to sleep in. Let’s not even talk about all the thought that goes into how she sleeps: Are there too many blankets? How do I swaddle her? Is she too warm? Is she too cold? The Almighty, in His efforts to explore the human condition from the inside, chose to sleep in a box from which animals eat. I’m worried about taking my kid out to a shopping mall for fear of the germs; Jesus slept in a stable.

3. If I were the immortal Creator God and I wanted to become an infant, I would have not have chosen first-century Jerusalem in which to be born. Think about it: Jesus was born in territory occupied by a ruthless dictatorship. Some people think the Romans taxed Jews as high as 90% in the first century. He had no civil rights to speak of, but more than that, the sheer amount of baby equipment that Americans “need” was not available to Mary. She certainly was not given baby gear at a baby shower. (Heck, if it were me, I would have chosen 21st century Sweden for the incarnation: they get a year of parental leave and a box of baby supplies paid for by the state).

4. While we are on the subject of rights, let’s talk about the rights of children in the first century (or lack thereof). In 21st century America, everybody is your best friend when you walk around with a baby. When I go into a store with Izzy, people open the door for us. They make goo-goo noises. They ask how old she is and how Suzanne is feeling. Seeing a baby puts everybody in a great mood. Few people realize that the notion of children being special is a relatively new idea. During Jesus’ time, the head of the household could disown their children, sell them into slavery or kill them. If a head of the household didn’t want a child, that child was put outside--exposed--to be abandoned to the elements. Our Savior, due to the unusual circumstances of His birth, would have been considered illegitimate. If Joseph weren’t such a good guy, Jesus wouldn’t have made it to his first birthday.

If I were writing the Nativity story, I could not have written a story more likely to result in the death of the baby in question. Yet, not only did Jesus survive, but He grew up to save the world. It is a wonder that Jesus made it, and that wonder is what we celebrate this Christmas. Merry Christmas!

Manna Max Tribute Post

Dearly Beloved,

I'm reading this book on creative writing. One of the exercises in the book asks you to write a short story describing a regular routine. For this exercise, I decided to describe Manna Max, my cell group from Shanghai. I had the privilege of co-leading this group, along with the inestimable CC Lau, for three of the seven years I lived in the City Above the Sea. Maximites, consider this a shout out.
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Cell group was on Saturdays, promptly at 3:30. What that meant is that it usually started around 4:00ish. In our cell group, eating was elevated to a highly religious experience: chocolate-covered pretzels, pandan cake, green tea kit-kats from Japan-- I still associate these tastes with the presence of the Almighty. People would complain that they gained weight in our cell group, but that would never stop them from enjoying the snacks; food was our love language at Manna Max and we loved each other very well.

Worship was first on the agenda. Throughout my tenure as cell group leader, guitar players were precious comodities in the cell group ecosystem. Our group was spoiled; we had several guitar players who would lead us in worship. Other groups would joke about sending their members over to poach our guitar players, we had so many. Even when we didn't have anybody to lead worship, another member would set up a playlist on itunes. Even the non-musical could lead, and their heart was always in it.

Next was "Word." For our weekly Bible study, somebody would use DVD workbooks smuggled from overseas or we would discuss a chapter of Scripture with questions the leader would prepare. I never could handle silences well. During this time, I suspect I was "that guy" who talked too much during Bible Study. And some people would talk, but others would just listen. The listeners' silence would contribute; didn't most music need rests just as much as it needed the notes?

After the Word was dinner, whereby one person would undertake the near alchemical task of choosing a place to eat. Person A would suggest a place. Person B would remind us that person C didn't eat spicy food/was allergic to peanuts/was on a budget. Person B would then suggest another place, when Person D would remind us that this place would only fit five people/gave somebody they knew diarrhea/was too far away. Then, Person E would eventually suggest another place, and so on. Cat herding would have been easier.

When we eventually would come to a consensus, we would undertake a feast the likes of which epic heroes would envy. We would often order delivery to Yang's apartment, and it would sometimes take two delivery guys to carry all the food we ate. When the food arrived, we would chat and eat and play music late. At some point, somebody would bring out wine and cheese, we would all have a glass or two and watch movies or play Mahjong until long after the subway closed. It was a celebration, every Saturday; it was how I imagine heaven to be like.

The Return of the Blog: Fatherhood Rocks!

I really like being a dad.

I realized that a few weeks ago when my wife and I had our first child. (If you haven't talked to me in so long that you didn't realize that A. I was married and B. we have a child, my apologies. Both of these conditions were untrue the last time I blogged anything. My perennial inability to keep in touch is not your fault but mine).

Throughout the first three weeks of fatherhood, I'm processing my new definition of 'clean.' Pre-children, I would consider a shirt caked in another creature's spit-up to be dirty and in need of a wash. Post-children, I would still consider this shirt dirty, but perhaps not as urgently dirty as as I would in my childless days. "Sleep" is another word undergoing substantial definition renovation. Before kids, a good night of sleep would be eight continuous hours of rest. After kids, a good night of sleep would be six non-continuous hours of sleep and two cups of coffee (Full disclosure: except for a few growth spurts, we are enormously lucky with Isabelle. I have heard horror stories from other friends, and it could be MUCH worse).   

And, strangely enough, I don't mind such things. When I spoke to my male friends during pregnancy, I found that men, on the whole, were much more likely to focus on the privations of child-rearing. You won't get sleep. You'll be covered in the child's bodily fluids. Did I mention the lack of sleep? My wife found the opposite to be true: women were much more likely to discuss the joys of having a baby. You'll never love somebody more. Your whole life will be wrapped around your little girl's finger, etc. I started to envy the positive view of child-rearing that women in our culture have. If we are going to bring this child into the world, we might as well enjoy it.

Maybe I'm just in the honeymoon period right now, but it's important to remember that my child is going to poop and cry, regardless of my attitude. My child is going to disrupt my schedule with a diaper change, regardless of my to-do list. Heck, a diaper change interrupted this blog post. It's important I don't miss the forest for the feces (see what I did there, haha), and choose to have a good attitude about the rearing of children. I can chose to appreciate the daddy-daughter diaper dates that I spend with Isabelle. I can chose to enjoy every minute with this little bundle of joy. That is more fun anyhow.

Daniel  

(Another yet fuller disclosure: Very reasonable people could say, "That's easy for you to say, Daniel. you aren't breastfeeding every two hours." Very true. So far, child-rearing is definitely more draining for my wife. Due to my lamentable lack of homegrown milk-producing equipment, she's the one who needs to feed the child. I try to stay up with her as much as I can, but I don't always hear Izzy like a mother can. Often, by the time I get up, she's mostly done feeding and changing her. My wife is Supermom and a Rock Star, rolled into one. End of story).