The Fisher of Stories

Sunburns, hang ups, and paper mouths

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Sat, 28 Apr 2018 20:35:00 +0000

I had a happy moment today.

I turned from my truck to go get a basket of fish from the lake — fish that we'd spent all morning catching — and there was Drake, lugging the basket towards me, grinning like only he does, dropping them, switching hands, doing the whole "this is too hard but I'm going to act tough" routine.

It wasn't much, just seven crappie and a flathead catfish. But we'd just spent four hours fishing. Not once did I hear him or Aven gripe, they didn't fight, and in fact, they both pulled fish out of the water, kept a couple, and threw some back.

Aven has picked up my habit of kissing largemouths before throwing them back in the water.

Drake has learned what to watch for when a fish takes a cork under.

I am spending time talking with my father-in-law...time that I wish I had spent with him years ago.

Things are hit and miss around here right now.

But today...

...Drake lugging that fish basket;

...Aven walking our leftover minnows down to another family on the bank;

...John saying he was proud of them both for how they'd fished;

...I had a happy moment today.

An open letter of resignation from an Oklahoma teacher

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Sat, 07 Apr 2018 17:48:00 +0000

It's a confusing April morning in Oklahoma.

I have a cup of coffee and I'm looking outside my front window at my azaleas...which are covered in snow. Earlier this morning we had an earthquake. My wife is helping my son with his homework, even though he hasn't been in school all week, and he won't be there Monday either.

April, blooming flowers, snow, my son actually doing homework, earthquakes...and those aren't the weirdest thing to happen this past week.

This week I watched through various social media platforms and news outlets as my fellow educators, students, apologists, sympathizers, and according to Mary Fallin, ANTIFA, stormed Oklahoma City and the Capitol to rally for education funding. Awestruck, I saw them fill the Capitol building every day, I saw them spell out messages with their bodies for aerial photographs, and I saw some of the funniest and most grammatically-correct protest signs I've ever had the privilege of looking at.

I wasn't there.

On Monday, I watched our children as my wife joined with her school on the Capitol lawn. On Tuesday, one of our kids had an appointment that my wife and I had to be present for. My school decided at zero hour to not participate in the full-fledged walk out, so for the rest of the week I had to be in class. I wasn't happy about it.

That said, I'm not unhappy about it anymore. I decided instead to take action. I've resigned.

I've resigned myself to the thought that most of the people in this state (most of the media included) think that this entire thing is about a pay raise. I've spent the whole week telling people I want my raise to go to my classroom, to no avail. In an effort to combat this, I looked at my wife and said, "I'm going to spend all of my raise after taxes on stuff for my room, just to prove a point." I felt noble. I was proud, standing before my wife having made what I considered to be an incredibly magnanimous gesture. But alas, my beautiful, lovely, and always taciturn wife brought me back down to earth: "Travis, no one cares about you."

I'm still seeing news stories and Facebook posts about how greedy teachers are. Our own governor thinks we all just want new cars. We can't win. We're either greedy, or we stop the fight now and we never cared about the student funding, so we're selfish. As Bobby Hill says:

I've resigned myself to the knowledge that even with this "generous raise," Oklahoma will still be near the bottom of the barrel in teacher pay, and because the money from the bills in question is going to general funds, in a couple of years the legislature can appropriate the revenue to whatever they want, leaving already crumbling districts to figure out how to pay for those raises.

I've resigned myself to the realization that the leaders of this great state don't care at all about public education, and their end goal is clearly consolidation at best, and vouchers at worst. This means my tiny school district in Okay, Oklahoma - the school I graduated from and now teach at - might not be long for this world unless something changes.

So I've resigned. What else could I do?

One of the biggest battles as a teacher in my district is convincing my students they're capable of being heard. A more perfect example could not have been constructed than in a conversation that took place in my classroom this past week.

Student: "Why aren't we participating in the teacher walk out?"
Me: "Well..."
Another Student: "We're just Okay. We're too small. We can't make a difference."
Me: *rage intensifies*

I think that may have been what broke me, and so I just went ahead and resigned again.

I've resigned myself to educating not just my students, but those of you who think teachers aren't fighting for your students. To educating those of you who think teachers just want a raise. To educating those of you who feel like just because your taxes went up, that gives you a right to blame my fellow educators and I, instead of the state government you keep voting into office just because you're pro-life and those stinkin' Democrats kill babies. You can be a Christian Democrat you narrow-minded Pharisee simpleton.

I've resigned myself to being nicer to those who don't share my views. And yes, that means starting right now, after the Pharisee simpleton line. Every journey has a beginning, and mine might as well be the space between these two paragraphs. I love you, even if you're an idiot (okay, now). There are ways to have reasonable discourse on volatile issues, and I have to take responsibility for my part in that. Part of the problem is social media - every issue is polarizing, and if you don't take a clear stance on an issue, you're often overlooked. Being overlooked is the worst thing that can happen on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or any other digital outlet. Fear of being overlooked can cause people to say emphatic things, even if they don't entirely believe them.

I'm resigned to investing in G, in H, in H. In L, J, B, D, J, C, A, A, A, E, T, and M. In R, J, T, L, L, J, R, T, T, T, A, N, A, B, and S. Investing in H, S, C, T, T, C, S, R, and R. In A and Z. In K, K, B, K, K, S, C, S, and S. In S, J, B, D, K, K, A, T, K, C, and S. Investing in M, K, N, K, M, K, S, A, E, S, C, L, R, and B. All of these young people depend on me to teach them about English, sure, but more importantly, they depend on me to help them become the kind of people this state can be proud of. They depend on me to protect them. I am their tutelary.

I won't be at the Capitol next week. I'll be in my classroom, helping administer state tests and trying to convince young men and women that yes, they absolutely can make a difference, and yes, their voices can be heard. I'll be showing them pictures of your signs and videos of your congregations. You can have the stage, and I'll take my broken classroom podium. Together we'll scream the same message. "You are powerful. You are capable. You are cared about."

To the Oklahoma Legislators who are currently supporting us, thank you. We are in your debt, and I personally would love for you to visit my classroom when it's over. It's an open invitation. Come and let my students and I thank you personally.

To the ones telling educators to get back in our classrooms and teach: There's a point in every dystopian novel where the hero(ine) meets those in power. If you could read anything other than bills penned in oil instead of ink, you'd know how they end.

Okay, okay, starting now.

"If it's not your butt, don't touch it"

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Sun, 22 Oct 2017 21:01:00 +0000

Everyone just ignore my obvious face cancer, doc says it's an overactive parotid gland.

“I’ll be right back,” I said. “I’m going to shred some chicken for tacos.”

“That’s fine,” Tye replied. “Throw some in a box and mail it to me.”

I laughed and muted my gaming headset, mostly because of the ridiculous stuff that gets said in this house, and because Alicia won’t let me have a private gaming room where that stuff won’t get heard.

I shredded the chicken and came back to a chuckling clan mate.

“I just heard the best advice,” he said, barely able to speak through his laughter. “Your wife said, ‘If it’s not your butt, don’t touch it.’”

“Kids,” was my succinct and exasperated reply.

I’ve really got to make sure I start hitting the mute button better.

•••

It’s 9:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning, and we’re not in church because I had photography plans today that were canceled by the rain. Somewhere, Brian Sloat is upset about that.

Isaac woke up at 5:45 this morning, ready to start his day, and quite offended that the rest of us weren’t ready to start ours. He made this known through noises that, thankfully, I’m too deaf to hear, but I got up with Alicia anyway and headed to the living room.

She fed him, then he griped until she stood him up and let him watch me play Destiny. I looked over at him, and he smiled. He smiled so wide he almost lost his pacifier, but he didn’t. He grinned at me every single time I glanced over for a solid ten minutes. It was inspiration an to me.

“I will write,” I said to myself, “about baby smiles this morning. I will compare them to something also wonderful, and make the kind of allusions that will undoubtedly go viral on the social media.”

My Muse was smiling at me, happiness personified, a very fat cherub with more chins than wings. It was a moment.

I didn’t get up and write immediately, of course. I was in a game, trying to level up a character. I couldn’t quit then.

The thought of the blog stayed with me for an hour or so, and from time to time I would formulate little ideas of how I would word things — powerful adjectives; not too heavy on the adverbs; and all of the other little things writers like to do when they’re putting something off.

Then it happened. The 8 a.m. fight between Alicia and one of the boys, this time Aven. My Muse vanished, not a tangible thing after all, definitely not a smiling infant with drool running down his chins.

•••

For the last couple of months, Drake has been a complete nightmare. We’re talking a “there’s a new hole in his bedroom wall because he chucked his bed frame (he’s five) into the sheetrock during a fit” nightmare. It was bad. After speaking with his doctor, the conclusion was drawn that part of his brain is underdeveloped due to drugs consumed in utero.

He prescribed some ADHD medication that worked well with Aven. It did not work well for Drake. After a couple of weeks of tantrums and biting, a second doctor’s appointment was scheduled and a new medication prescribed. It’s working wonders.

•••

I’m going to stop right there and talk a out something that is going to piss a lot of people off. I’m also going to use some language that might piss some folks off. I’m not here to apologize, and if you happen to be one of the pissed off folks, then I want you to do me a favor. Shut the browser down, and take ten minutes to think about it. Process it. I can promise you it took me longer than that to write and edit it.

The kids’ bio family reads these blogs. They follow me on Facebook, and more than likely they are reading these words right now. They had to read that little bit up there about the drugs.

I’m going to restate that: Drake’s biological mother just had to read that decisions she made as a nineteen-year-old have affected her child’s brain.

Darlin’, if you’re reading this, I didn’t type it to make you feel bad. In fact, I want to tell you a story.

The other day, Alicia texted me about the whole thing while she was at the doctor with Drake. She ended without blaming anyone. She told me about the medication he’d be taking and that was it. I was angry, and in anger I banged out a reply.

“Fuck her,” I wrote. “Fuck her and her stupid ass decisions.”

Drake caught this and then was scared to death to touch it. It's a lot like my wedding night.

My thumb hovered over the “send” button, but I didn’t press it. I still don’t know why. An incremental move to the left, a double tap, “select all,” and “cut” were pressed instead. I never sent that message. I’m done blaming you. You were young and dumb, and I’ve done plenty of dumb shit. I have had an affair. I did irreparable damage to my marriage and my relationship with my wife. I should have been divorced. However, I was shown grace. That grace led to us adopting three children. Those three children came to us swimming in the dumb shit that both you and I did.

Grace hosed them off.

It’s a hose I have to get under every day. There’s a long way to go before I forgive you completely, but anytime you want to use that hose…I invite you to it.

•••

Drake has gotten better. However, Aven has stepped back up to the plate, doing his best to make everyone around him as angry as he is. He’s hateful, he’s sneaky, and he’s deceitful. We’ve basically taken our foot off of the brake and pushed on the gas, only to find out that some horrible mechanic has swapped our gas pedal for another brake.

Things are not okay at the Sloat house. We’re covered in brake fluid and ADHD medication, pumping brake pedals like they belong to a vehicle in a Carrie Underwood song. The resulting collisions leave us covered in the viscous lifeblood of relationships with our children, our friends, and the people we work with.

Grace keeps hosing us off.

Photographer is Mandy Lundy, and she's incredible. Go check her out.

I started this blog eight years ago with a simple purpose: I wanted to make you laugh. If I could go back in time and read all of these blogs before I posted them, I’m not sure my purpose would still have been the same. One thing is for sure, I never would have believed any of them actually would come true. Yet here I am; here we are; and this is reality:

“If it’s not your butt, don’t touch it.”

“You’ve been acting like a dickhead for the last two weeks.”

“If I was Jesus I’d hide in the dark.”

“I’ll have sex with you if you fix dinner and clean some stuff tomorrow.”

“Those sweats make him look like he’s smuggling grapes.”

“Maybe one day we’ll all die and then you can be happy.”

“Yep, thank God. I’m gonna go get Taco Bell.”

“I’m getting the kids McDonald’s because of their shots.”

“Our children are stupid.”

Maybe you’re laughing at us. Maybe you’re crying for us. Maybe you’re angry at us. It doesn’t matter.

When you’re ready, just motion for us to scooch over, and we’ll make room for you under the hose. Until then, if it's not your butt, don't touch it.

“Why do You even love me?

Why do You even care?

Why should You think of me?

Oh my God, I’ll never know.

Fire emoji times a million.

It’s unconditional love,
The Grace Flood.”

- "Grace Flood" The OC Supertones

Cleanin' out my closet

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Tue, 04 Apr 2017 15:41:00 +0000

A post shared by Travis Sloat (@tstyles77) on Apr 1, 2017 at 7:14am PDT

It happened a few weeks ago.

"Travis, you need to clean out your closet. I need hangers."

I laughed and went on about my business, trying not to give it a second thought. I did though, and a third, and a fourth. However, I never got around to cleaning out my closet.

Sunday though, it happened again.

"Travis, I got you these bags, you need to throw some clothes out, but if you want to keep them I understand. We're just going to put them in these bags."

I was cooking dinner for the family — nachos if we're being honest — and Akeeli was helping me. I laughed again, then stared at Alicia, trying to come up with something to say. A lump formed in my throat, and I felt tears coming in the corners of my eyes. I turned back to the hamburger sizzling on the stove and busily crumbled it, hoping the situation would resolve itself without me having to acknowledge it.

It almost did.

"Daddy, why did you laugh and then not say anything?"

•••••••••••••••••

I've heard a lot about Stockholm Syndrome, and I've always wondered how it's possible for a captive to have any positive feelings about their captor, much less sympathize with them. If someone ever abducted me, I always felt I would never fall victim to the mysterious psychological condition that is apparently so powerful, it led hostages in a Stockholm bank robbery to decide not to testify against those who held them captive.

My weight has abducted my happiness, healthiness, attractiveness, my self-esteem, my activity levels, and some of my relationships. It has taken more from me than I'll ever get back, particularly my health.

I've lost weight before. Back in 2010, I went on a run where I got from around 380 down to 300. It lasted approximately 10 weeks, and then the scale was tipping 360 once again. I couldn't maintain. I fell back into bad habits, and I got to the point where I didn't care anymore.

However, I loved Fat Travis. Fat Travis didn't care what people thought about him. Fat Travis knew he was fat and he took pride in that. Fat Travis didn't have to wear compression shirts to keep loose skin from jiggling underneath his shirts. Fat Travis just enjoyed food, he didn't count calories. Fat Travis was happier, Fat Travis was funnier, and Fat Travis took that one picture on a turtle one time.

Fat Travis was an awesome abductor. He wasn't an inherently bad guy, he just made some bad choices. He wasn't keeping me hostage with the intent of killing me, he just wanted to not have to worry about self-control. He enjoyed the lack of responsibility, because Fat Travis hated responsibility and accountability.

Fat Travis is a good guy, really. Don't hate him. I don't, and there are also days when I miss him.

•••••••••••••••••

So when my daughter asked that question: "Daddy, why did you laugh and not say anything?" it slapped me in the face and brought me back to reality. Tears threatened once again, and I fought the urge to lie to her. Instinctively though, I knew she needed the truth.

"I don't believe it's going to last."

"Oh."

I went back to cooking, and she went back to helping, and Alicia wound up knowing exactly how I was feeling, thank God. Later that afternoon, I went to play a game of basketball, and when I got home, she motioned to the closet.

"I took care of the closet. It seemed like you were having trouble. I didn't throw all of it out though, some of it is just bagged up."

There are sixteen million reasons why I love my wife. This is one of them.

I don't know if this will stick. I'm trying my hardest, though. If it does, then I'll get to look back ten years from now and wonder why in the world I didn't do it sooner. If it doesn't...well, maybe my struggle will motivate someone to never let it get this bad to begin with. Maybe my beautiful daughter will realize the mental struggles her father dealt with about his weight, and it will help her say no to another plate of pizza and yes to a salad.

But for now, a large chunk of me is gone. Success, I'm told, is kind of like being pregnant. Everyone is happy for you, but nobody knows how many times you got screwed. The plot line of my journey isn't something you could ski down, instead, it looks more like someone having a heart attack.

I am also taking steps to surround myself with people who support what I'm trying to do, even if it leads to me throwing out three-quarters of a brick of Velveeta.

I'll continue to fight. I'll continue to grind. I'll continue to repeat.

I guess I'll also continue to try to make space for my success. Even if it hurts.

On not being allowed to fail

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Tue, 28 Mar 2017 01:41:00 +0000

Image credit

Many of you know (all too well, I'm sorry, well, actually I'm not, it's amazing) about my transformation over the last nine months. You know about Chris at Reform Strength and Conditioning, and you know that if you don't think you have the money for it, you really do, you're just spending it on things that make you fatter.

I've bumped my workouts to four a week, and I'm making huge strides in the gym right now. I have never in my life been stronger than I am now, even in high school. Weight loss has plateaued, if only because I still have struggles with food addictions that I'm doing my best to break (I will NOT eat candy before bed, I will NOT eat chips before bed, I will NOT eat an entire double quarter pounder and three Filet 'O Fishes before bed).

I got my first four week plan from Chris the other day, and I started in on it after asking him a bajillion questions he promptly answered even after he'd already provided video instructions (love you).

The first week, I felt good after I finished my decline dumbbell presses, but I didn't feel like I challenged myself. I decided to challenge myself the second week, and I felt even better, even though I didn't complete four sets with the same weight.

So I set a goal. Use the 45s for all four sets.

I GET A BREAK ON WEEK FOUR THANK YOU BABY JESUS

When I looked at the app today, I saw what I wrote last week, grabbed the 45s from the rack and leaned back on the bench. I put the weight up twelve times, felt a wobble at the end, but dropped them with a sense of satisfaction. Round two went much the same.

Before I started round three, a buddy of mine walked in with his mom. I like this guy, as far as that goes. He's one of those guys that would give you the shirt off his back and smile while he was doing it. He sat down, asked me how I was, told me he was through with his workout, and started looking at his phone.

I threw the weight up. Once, twice, three...ten times. The tenth one got me, I'm not going to lie to you folks. Serious wobble, and a dip at the top that almost resulted in a 45-pound weight coming down to rearrange my overall gorgeous facial construction.

I saw a blur out of the corner of my eye, and then a face above me.

"How many more?"

"Two."

"Do it."

I lowered the weights, then got them halfway back up. A slap against my elbows and the weights were at the top. Lowered, another slap, at the top. Set three was in the books.

"Thanks," I said.

"No problem."

A couple minutes later I was ready to start round four. Having needed a spot the last set, and not wanting to bother anyone this set, I walked over to the rack and I picked up two 40-pound dumbbells.

I got to my bench, got ready to sit down, and I looked up. He was looking at me.

"You've got 45s in you."

I opened my mouth.

"Travis. You've got 45s in you."

I set down the 40s and picked up the 45s. I knew I didn't have them in me, heck, I would wind up having them inside my brain by six reps.

I laid down on the bench, opened my eyes, and this guy was there.

He let me get through eight reps on my own. I couldn't believe I got that many, to be honest. The ninth rep though, wasn't happening.

A slap. Nine happened.

A push. Ten happened.

"Squeeze it at the top."

Another slap, another push. Eleven happened.

"C'mon. One more. Do it."

His hands never left my elbows, and I think it was more him than me, but twelve happened. I threw the weights across the room (dropped them pathetically), and opened my eyes. He was gone, sitting back down, going through his phone.

It didn't hit me until the drive home.

I wasn't allowed to do less than I was capable of, and I wasn't allowed to fail.

I'll add this. I had tuna for lunch. I spit when I exhale. When my head is lower than my feet, my face turns a sort of odd purplish-red color, kind of like a grape about to go bad.

I was not easy to help. It didn't matter. I wasn't allowed to fail.

As a teacher, I come across all sorts of kids. Some kids don't want to try, some want to try but don't have the means, and some are completely capable with school work, but are socially awkward.

What if I didn't allow my kids to fail?

Some of them aren't pretty. Some of them might have had tuna for lunch, and some might not have showered for a week. Some might spit when they talk, and some might not talk at all.

Some are not easy to help. It doesn't matter. They shouldn't be allowed to fail.

What if, as educators, we began to look through the lens of this guy at the gym? What if we took the too cool to try kids, the socially inept, the nose pickers, and we didn't let them fail? What if we carried this attitude through an entire school day. An entire month, a year?

"Hey kid, put the 40s down. You've got 45s in you. Yes you do. Two more. One more. Finish this."

It might be unrealistic. Some don't want the help yet, some don't want it at all. However, we owe it to them to try. We live in a world that encourages trophies for participation, results that happen overnight, and exerting as little effort as is required to reach the goal.

Hand 'em the 45s. Push them. Don't let them fail.

And Zac, thank you. You did more than just help me lift weight in the air. You didn't let me fail.

Figuring it out

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Mon, 13 Mar 2017 21:14:00 +0000

Look at that enormous Sloat head.

I'm typing this from the doctor's office. We're here for a checkup on Isaac, making sure he's growing like he should and hoping he won't be covering his face for the next ultrasound.

I'm about to be brutally honest with you, and I hope you can forgive me for it.

I don't want four kids.

Up until this morning, I have been dreading Isaac's arrival, I've been worrying about my money, my time, and the fact that I've got three adopted children who might grow up holding a grudge against our sole biological child.

Akeeli, Aven, and Drake, if you're reading this, I need you to know I never loved you any less than Isaac. Not for one second. I know you can't help feeling like you might feel, but listen: I love you more than you could ever imagine. I love you so much I'd die for you.

On the way to Tulsa this today, I had to drop my truck off in Wagoner to get the oil changed. This is in no way a sponsored post, but the guys at Kevin Grover are seriously the best, and one in particular slapped me in the face with some truth this morning.

He walked over to me, and I spent some time trying to figure out if I was looking at his smile or the sun. That's Neil being Neil though. I've never thought of him as car salesman, he's a friend who happens to be exceptionally skilled at getting me to spend huge sums of money on things with four wheels.

My son weighs 2.6 pounds today. He's grown tremendously in the last two weeks.

We're sitting in the lab now, waiting on blood to be drawn. In fact, I'm almost positive Alicia is actually reading what I type as I type it. She's talking about how much Isaac has grown over the past couple of weeks, and saying that he better slow down. I think she's finally realizing that when you have a giant for a husband, his kids might be huge too. I don't know, maybe just my head is giant.

Back to Neil. He came over and shook my hand.

"Two things to congratulate you for, Travis. One, you look fantastic, and two, your newest little one!"

Everyone always does that. If they're familiar with our situation at all, they're so excited for us; for me. I get that, and I'm thankful for the empathy, but up until today, it was a forced smile, forced enthusiasm. So I smiled back at him, and I gave my prototypical response.

"Aww, thanks! Be excited for her though, I don't want four kids."

Neil didn't even blink.

"Oh stop that, Travis. You've created an eternal soul."

I'm alone now, Alicia has gone back to have her blood drawn, and I'm fighting tears as I type this. It's me and one old lady in the waiting room, and I don't need her wondering why the behemoth four chairs down is blubbering quietly into his cell phone.

We've created an eternal soul.

My son is an eternal soul.

Isaac is an eternal soul.

Somewhere in my brain a switch flipped. I took a couple of confused steps and finally spit out a response.

"Thank you, Neil. I've never looked at it like that."

"I'll leave you guys alone, I know you've got a busy day planned!"

He bounced away, frustratingly happy, unaware of the chaos he'd just wreaked in my brain. Unaware of his creating a tectonic shift in the pangean plate that is my selfishness.

You see, that's all it is, selfishness. One thing I've discovered since having children is that I am, by nature, a selfish person. I didn't realize that until after we'd adopted the kids, but it's true. I am a selfish person. I want my time, my money, my stuff, my wife. I, I, I, I.

I'm not saying all that changed instantly. I know somewhere between now and the next eighteen years, I'm going to be selfish. But I was given a new way to look at things today. I have four eternal souls that I am now responsible for. Five and six if you count mine and my wife's, and that's a whole lot of souls to be in charge of.

My dad figured it out. I don't know how, but he figured it out. Reading his writings from when I was a kid, I know he was frustrated, unsure of himself as a father, and selfish. But at some point he cracked the code. He figured it out, and he took responsibility for the eternal souls he'd helped create, and he did a damn fine job of it.

Now I'm back at the doctor's office, waiting for my beautiful wife and my son to come back from getting a shot, which is apparently what you have to do when your husband's blood (A+), has a higher GPA than yours (A-). We'll leave here and go pick up two other sons and a daughter, all of which are mine.

Today is a new day. Today I was verbally slapped by a friend who has obviously figured some of it out.

Thanks, Neil.

Here she comes. Gotta go. I'm gonna try figure it out.

#OklaEd chat questions for March 12

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Wed, 08 Mar 2017 16:33:00 +0000

Photo credit

Well, someone somewhere messed up and gave me the keys to the pound sign Oklahoma Education (#OklaEd) chat on Sunday night.

My topic? How to help students succeed with "real life" English Language Arts (ELA) skills. I have a bee in my bonnet about prepping students for the workforce, and not just for the state tests they have to take. If that means they get through my class without knowing what a gerund is, but they can send their boss an email with the correct homophones in place, I feel like I've done my job.

I was asked to preview the questions in a blog, so here they are. I will give you my answers on Sunday evening, and I very much look forward to hearing yours as well.

Thank you, educators of Oklahoma, for what you do for our kids.

Introduce yourself. Have you ever gotten a work email with spelling/grammar mistakes? How did you react?
What ELA skills do you find yourself using the most at your job(s)?
What ELA skills do you think our students need to learn before they graduate?
How are you helping teach those skills to your students while staying inside your subject area?
How are you effectively demonstrating those skills to your students?
Do you use writing as a punishment (essays, sentences, words, lines, etc.)?
How can you specifically alter your lessons next school year to teach some of these “real life” ELA skills?
Do you show your writing to your classes? Do you write in real time on SmartBoards, etc.?
Do you think it’s important for your students to see you make “real-world” writing mistakes (as long as you correct them)?
Do you have a policy/reward system in place for when a student catches a typo/grammar mistake you’ve made?

Have a great rest of the week, and I'll see you on Sunday!

Follow me on the Twitter here: @tstyles77

One

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Mon, 06 Mar 2017 15:51:00 +0000

Let us not forget Lloyd's eyeball, lost in the battle.

"Defeat, my Defeat, my deathless courage,

You and I shall laugh together with the storm,

And together we shall dig graves for all that die in us,

And we shall stand in the sun with a will,

And we shall be dangerous.

- Kahlil Gribran

One more.

One more trip to Oklahoma City. One more trip to the Big House. One more game. One more piece of hardware for the trophy case.

You gave that to us, Mustangs. You did. You gave us one more.

When you walk into the hall, there are still streamers and small basketballs hanging from the ceiling. There is still paint on the door, telling you to go get the gold. There are still signs on your locker that say, "State Bound."

All of these reminders of what happened on Saturday night. If I had to imagine, painful reminders. I'm here to tell you they shouldn't be.

You gave me one more chance to go see my favorite team from my favorite school play in my favorite place: the state final.

And let us not forget Coach Clark's tie, which remained the entire game on Saturday.

You gave me one more chance to hang out with friends I hadn't seen in forever.

You gave me one more chance to tell your story.

You also gave me one more chance to spend approximately $250 on food for the weekend, but we're not going to focus on that, believe me, my beautiful and loving and kind and forgiving (did I mention beautiful) wife has focused on it plenty.

You can't see it very well in this pic, but that bucket had a lid on it.

When the final horn sounded on Saturday night, I didn't see anyone on the floor hang their heads. I didn't see anyone cursing, throwing a fit, or mouthing off to the other team. I saw what we all hope to see in the young men who represent our school: dedication, not defeat; pride, not self-pity; and sportsmanship, not petulance.

You gave me one more chance to be incredibly proud of my school, my town, and my students.

Marcus literally cannot believe how high Caleb is jumping here.

Also, can we be honest, just for a second, and say that you almost gave me one more heart attack on Friday night? No one had hopes of winning that game. I do not care what anyone tells you, no one thought you would pull that off. But you did, and you did it in such a way that gives this amazing town one more story to tell about that time in the state tournament when a miracle happened.

You also gave one more chance to someone to score a basket in a state final. You did that. You gave that to him. He will never forget it, and neither will anyone who saw it.

"Travis, I'm sorry, I tried to take a good picture but I was crying." - Alicia
So was I, babe. So was everyone.

As an aside, I would also like to thank the Ft. Cobb-Broxton players who helped make that happen.

So, Mustangs, if I see you in the hallway with your head down, I will address it. I will remind you that greatness is not measured in the color of your trophy, but in your character, in your work ethic, and in the way you represent our town. And for those, Mustangs, you get the gold.

For those, you are number one.

Thank you.

"Between the pavement and the stars,
beneath the weight of years of scars,
burns the same soul -
paint the sky blue.
Hallelujah,
you're still you."

- Reese Roper

Two

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Sat, 04 Mar 2017 16:46:00 +0000

Two seconds.

Specifically, 1.9 seconds. But I'm rounding up because it's my blog and my story. So two.

Two seconds separated the Okay Mustangs from a loss in the semi-final round, packing up and driving home.

If you were there, you know what happened. If you weren't, you probably still know what happened. It was, in my opinion, the single greatest two seconds of basketball I've ever watched, and I watched Christian Laettner hit "the shot" in 1992.

I have hugged, I believe, everyone at the Big House this evening. I have done irreparable damage to my heart. I got real close to saying a bad word on Facebook.

And I sent this text before it happened.

I know I should be ashamed. But I'm a pragmatist.

It's now 7 a.m. on Saturday morning. Everything above this was typed when I got home last night, on an adrenaline-laced jag that made for great Facebook posts, but not so much in the inspiration department.

So now I'm sitting here, staring at the computer, and hoping that somehow, words will appear on the screen the way the ball appeared in Caleb's hand last night. I guess I could set a timer on my phone for 1.9 seconds and add a little pressure.

If you follow me on Facebook and Twitter, you know I do a lot of talking about pure moments of happiness. Hopefully, everyone reading this knows what I'm talking about; hopefully all of you have experienced one. A moment in your life which causes so much joy, it temporarily blocks out every other thing in your life. You are lost in that moment.

I believe these moments can't be directly obtained, they have to be gifted to you. I've been fortunate enough to have a few given to me. Last night I got another one.

It had gone terribly, the end of that game. We built a lead, then lost it, and then to top it all off made a couple of bad decisions late that took some wind out of the Mustang sails.

I watched fans head for the exits. I don't blame them, I was mentally preparing for the drive home, thinking about whether or not I wanted to spend another night in the city. I sent Alicia the above text. I checked out.

I vaguely remember Ben Smith looking over and saying, "Anything can happen."

The stage was set for Pond Creek-Hunter. They had overcome the number two team in the state, and they were headed for the championship game. I've seen a news article that said Chad had told the team not to contest the pass, then changed his mind. I can't tell you how valuable it is to have a coach who won't give up. I played for one.

I'm not sure when the moment happened for Caleb Riggs. I'm not sure if it was the walk out to the floor to finish a game he probably didn't still want to be in, or if it was something in the PCH guy's eyes that triggered it. Maybe he never doubted, I don't know. I can definitively say he was not preparing himself to be on every highlight video the OSSAA makes for state tournaments from now until the end of time.

The referee blew the whistle, handed the ball to the kid from PCH, and what happened next was something the town of Okay will talk about until we're all old and gray and wear the bottoms of our trousers rolled.

A bad decision. A deflected pass. A hopeful tip. A scoop. A jump. A release.

Time stopped. The collective intake of breath from both sides of the stadium could have vacuum sealed an entire year's worth of saltine cracker packages. And then...

Anything happened.

If you'd like to see it from more angles than a dodecahedron, you can click here.

As an educator, an English teacher, and a "Literary Man," I feel it very important to maintain a firm grasp of the English language at all times, both to keep up appearances and because of some sort of inner piousness, I don't know, don't judge me.

But after that shot, I lost the ability to make words with my fingers.

All caps because, well, the situation warranted all caps.

On March 4, 2016, I typed these words: "Book the hotel rooms, Mustang fans. We'll be back next year. And I hope Fort Cobb-Broxton is there in the final, Goliath vs. Goliath, four or five moments away from another shot at a gold ball."

Well, Fort Cobb is in the final, just like us. Waiting. Gunning for their third title in a row, and with the chops to do it.

But we have guys who don't give up. Gritty players and coaches who stare loss in the face and defy it, challenge it, who beat the odds and overcome.

Our little town of Okay was once known as Rex. Rex is Latin for "King." Author F. Scott Fitzgerald said there are no second acts in American lives, and I beg to differ. The Kings vs. Goliath, Act II happens tonight at 7 p.m.

Last year I closed by saying how proud we all are of you, Mustangs, and that pride is still there. We are grateful for the moments you've given us, and we're standing behind you tonight.

Now finish the job.

"You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise."

- Maya Angelou

Three

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Fri, 03 Mar 2017 15:56:00 +0000

Three.

Because I am first and foremost an English teacher, it seems only natural that I should begin this with a word you probably don't know.

Triskaphobia. A fear of the number three.

There are superstitions about the number three: death comes in threes, if you take a picture of three people the person in the middle will die, and that it's bad luck for three people to light a cigarette off the same match.

Y'all look, the "S" is missing in Students.

It would appear that for some, the number three is a bad thing, a thing to be feared. It's portentous, malicious, and terrifying, particularly if it's the amount of Christian Grey novels you have to read before you're through.

The Okay Mustangs headed out on a three hour bus ride yesterday, for the third year in a row, to try to win three games in three nights. If you've got triskaphobia, you might want to stop reading this now.

If you take 11 from 14 you get...well, yeah.

In education, if you stay somewhere for three consecutive years, you get tenure. Tenure, simply explained, means your position goes from temporary to permanent. You can stop wondering if you really belong, and you are able to approach your duties with a sense of security and a newfound purpose.

The Okay Mustangs belong in the state tournament. They're tenured.

Last night I watched our boys hit three pointers, saw our fans lift three fingers in the air proudly, and witnessed three incredible quarters of basketball (that fourth one got scary y'all). I watched a lead form by what can only be described as a dog fight, observed a blowout, and suffered heart palpitations as Cyril did exactly what good teams do: fight back.

I honestly had no idea number three was in this pic until I decided to caption it.

In the end though, one-third of the goal was accomplished, and the Okay Mustangs walked to the locker room with heads high, with tenure.

Pond-Creek is waiting for us today, hoping this is their year, and you can bet they were up late last night, nervously contemplating how to stop the Okay Mustang three, how to defend Okay Mustang number thirty-three, and how to saddle all our players with three fouls in the first quarter.

33 + 3 = mad hops

The best things in life come in threes. The Holy Trinity, The Lord of the Rings, the Musketeers, BLTs, Destiny's Child, and the number of times that are charms.

Personally, I like the first one and the last one the most.

There are three players in this picture. I know, I'm reaching, but Caleb looks too good here.

Let's go boys. Triskaphobia be damned. This third time is our charm.

And when the dust settles, when you're hoisting the gold ball over your heads, we'll all hold a single finger over our heads instead of three.

My response to your vote on Oklahoma State Question 779

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Wed, 23 Nov 2016 01:53:00 +0000

Alicia: "One of the Baptist Childrens' Home kids wants a Fitbit watch…and this one wants shampoo and conditioner."

God save this world.

— Travis Sloat (@tstyles77) November 22, 2016

That's the tweet that finally sparked this, just to let everyone know. I've been meaning to post this since November 10, but I've just never gotten around to it, and hearing those words come out of my wife's mouth this evening, it finally consumed me.

Earlier this year, in October, I was asked to guest blog on a site called Blue Cereal Education, an education blog based here in Oklahoma. I wrote this post. In it, I told everyone that no matter what Oklahomans voted on State Question 779, I'd be fine, and I'd show up the next day at work with a smile on my face.

I lied.

As I stayed up later and later on November 8, it became very clear that Oklahomans had made their voices very clear on a tax increase...no matter how good of a cause it was for. I fumed, and then I fumed more, and finally I went to bed entirely too late, incensed at you people for checking no instead of yes.

I googled the rate of pay for teachers in Arkansas, then Florida, and Kansas before finally my own words drifted through my head.

"I'll die here or retire here."

So much for that, right?

So on that Thursday, November 10, we had a blood drive at my school. As a teacher, I find it crucial to take time out of my day to give blood, ostensibly extending my planning period by two hours and helping me avoid the after-lunch rush of freshmen.

I'm kidding.

But I did decide to donate, and things went swimmingly. Another teacher so graciously covered my ninth grade class, but not before snapping a picture of me and another student...a student who I love more than I'd care to admit, who is part of a family who I've known my entire thirty-four years of life.

Here's the pic.

Obviously a real intense moment, a moment full of caring and love.

The teacher who was covering my class (who is a math teacher)—instead of just sitting them down and boring them to tears for an hour—took matters into her own hands and threw the picture up on the SmartBoard, then had them write a short essay describing what was happening in the scene (still think we should step it up, Fallin?).

I walked back into her classroom towards the end of the period, and the entire class looked up from their projects and began to laugh. I glanced up at the SmartBoard and put two and two together, and I smiled. The other teacher began to tell me what was happening, and had all the students gather their work and hand it to me. What followed was one of the best moments of my short eighteen-month teaching career.

Sometimes, I feel like I am blessed with moments of happiness so pure, so distilled, that they're meant never to be forgotten. Moments where you smile, you laugh, you cry, and then laugh again as you're wiping tears and snot all over your face just so you can see what you're consuming.

So as I was wiping tears and snot all over my face, I read the following gems. Now listen up: I know the spelling is atrocious, and I know the grammar is bad. We're working on it. As much as I'd like to be an actual miracle worker, I'm not, but I'm a damn fine teacher, and we're working on it. So judge or judge not, but as the great Ricky from Sunnyvale would say: "Make my words," if you make a comment about the spelling or grammar, I will scour your Facebook feed with all that I am and will bring your every error to light. These are my kids. Enjoy this like I did.

Her story is done, y'all.

Me being in birth was a popular theme, maybe I should work on my blood giving pose?

For the record, you could wax my legs smooth and not notice any difference. I am not a hairy guy.

If this kid only knew how many times I've looked like this because I've eaten something that isn't good for me.

Hey, my reputation went down the drain when I publicly admitted to crying over your stories.

MR. SLOAT IS SO AMAZING, YES MORE OF THIS PLEASE AND THANK YOU.

Again with the leg waxing, is this a natural position for leg waxing?

I died a noble death, much like the late Albus Dumbledore. Harry Potter reference achieved.

I can't figure out if I want to hug this kid or accidentally punch her in the neck. MR. SLOAT OUT.

Well, I mean, doesn't everyone poop like this? Just me? Let's just forget this one.

*crickets* mmmmm Nacho Day.

There were so many more, one actually said it looked like I'd just heard all the Destiny servers went down (I brayed like a donkey), a few more about waxing, a few more about pooping, a bunch more about giving birth, and then a few solid hundred about how noble and brave I looked (just kidding they were about pooping).

If you're a student, you keep reading. Everyone else get out of here after this paragraph. This is my response to you voting whatever you did on SQ779, and I'm through talking about that now. I understand your reasoning, and I'm sorry for lying to you, but "make my words," it was a small stumble along a long and loyal path that will end with my death or retirement from Okay Public Schools. I don't blame you. Now go. Young person, keep reading.

Thank you.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you for taking time out of your day to make me laugh, and to make me feel loved (YOU LOVE ME I'M TELLING ALL YOUR FRIENDS). You gave me a moment I will remember for the rest of my life, and a story I'll tell future students, some of which might even be your kids. Thank you. You are amazing, you are a gifted writer, you are a great human being, and these stories will stay in a box for me to pull out and remind myself just how much I love this job. You did that. You are responsible for my continued happiness. Thank you.

Now do your dang research paper. I'll see you Monday, and we'll act like this never happened.

Love you.

I open at the close

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Mon, 14 Nov 2016 16:44:00 +0000

image source

I open at the closet.

Allison pulled her phone out of her pocket and looked at the text, then looked again. It was from her husband, Brandon, and it lined up perfectly with the morning she was having: it didn’t make sense, and it kind of pissed her off.

She stared at the tiny pulsating dots at the bottom of the screen, and hoped that the forthcoming explanation would be something funny. Brandon was nothing if not funny, and at one point he made her life interesting, not that she needed any more interesting at the moment.

Hahaha, I’m sorry.

•••

I was trying to type Allison, I love you. I am so thankful for you. You have made my life completely different from what it was just a few years ago. You are beautiful, smart, and I always hoped that you’d be the mother of my children. If I don’t see you again, just know that you were the best thing to ever happen to me. I love you.

Panic raced through Allison’s heart as she read word after word, then read it again. She called up the keyboard and began inputting text at a blistering rate, not caring about the typos this time, he surely wouldn’t care about them this time.

•••

Before she could hit send, the three little dots popped up again, moving silently left to right, and for just a moment she was able to hear the ellipsis, boom boom boom, boom boom boom, boom boom boom, but then realized she was hearing her own heart, frenetically trying to leap out of her chest.

Allison whoah, don’t worry abou that I’m fin

•••

I’m fine

•••

I’m trying to set up an automated message on my phone, I was trying to say Allison, I love you. I am so thankful for you. You have made my life completely different from what it was just a few years ago. You are beautiful, smart, and I always hoped that you’d be the mother of my children. If I don’t see you again, just know that you were the best thing to ever happen to me. I love you.

•••

Ugh! I’m trying to text I open at the close but the freaking thing won’t send before it changes.

•••

Allison’s anxiety faded, but her heartbeat didn’t quiet. When fear stopped pumping adrenaline through her system, chilling anger took its place, and it did a more than thorough job in fueling her outgoing text.

Why, Brandon? Why would you send me something like that? I thought you were dead or dying somewhere, why wouldn’t you just call? And what does I open at the close mean?

•••

Allison, I’m SO sorry. I had no idea I’d saved it, and was just testing it to see if it worked.

If WHAT worked, you idiot?

•••

I set up a text replacement in my phone and the key phrase was “I 0pen at the close.” You know the line from Harry Potter? The one on the Golden Snitch that Harry looks at before he faces Voldemort? I just had to put a zero in ‘open’ so it wouldn't send again.

•••

I thought it would be cool to use that as something I could text, then it would be replaced with all that other text, if, you know, if something happened to me on this trip or ever. You know? Just in case?

Allison’s reply was sharp, and she hammered the rectangular screen as though each letter she typed was a hot coal she pressed against Brandon’s skin, and she envisioned him flinching as he read every word. She knew how important words were to him.

To be honest, the Harry Potter thing is getting a little weird. I don’t feel good, the commute was hell, and the last thing I need is my supposedly grown husband sending me texts telling me he’s dying and then telling me he’s preparing for the worst by referencing a teenager’s film series.

There were no more dots.

—

Brandon sat back in his office chair, defeated. He knew Allison was going through a difficult time, and since she was going through a difficult time, so was he. He tried to lighten the mood as much as he could with humor, but that only worked so well before he became annoying. It wasn’t always that way; there was a time when Allison laughed at everything he said. He had felt like Dave Chapelle in the good years, before he got all preachy and walked away from television shows.

But the years passed quickly, and one dream after another had escaped her. College failed. The dream job failed. And finally, what she considered to be the biggest failure of all: she couldn’t get pregnant. Of course Brandon never saw that as a failure, not once, and in fact, he wasn’t even sure if he wanted kids. But Allison did.

At her insistence, they had tried for eight years to no avail. They had tried everything short of in-vitro fertilization, which was out of the realm of possibility because of the astronomical costs associated, and the risks of needing multiple treatments were too high. Adoption was out of the question because she wanted a biological child…lately it was all she wanted.

He was leaving today, heading to Washington D.C. for a work conference. Brandon was an information technologist for a mid-level security firm that did occasional work for the Department of Homeland Security, and part of his job included these trips to D.C. once a year for security briefings, which honestly would have been better disseminated in a five-paragraph email. But hey, it gave him a chance to drink a few Yuenglings, and that alone was almost worth the trip.

As for the Harry Potter obsession, he’d only recently acquired it. He was never allowed to read the series at home; his parents were convinced he’d try to put a spell on his younger brother. The movies were out of the question also, and as he got older and left the house, he never got around to either the books or the movies. That changed on his twenty-ninth birthday, when he picked up Sorcerer’s Stone. Less than two weeks had passed by the time he turned the final page of Deathly Hallows, and he was a fan for life.

Brandon was fascinated with two particular facets of the series, Harry’s loss of his parents at such an early age and his “Green Mile” moment in the final book. There were times, he admitted, when he felt like his life would have been easier with parents who were less strict, and he was certain the Dursleys were less strict than his own parents.

As Harry walked to his certain death in Deathly Hallows, Brandon couldn’t help but see the allusion to Christ walking to the cross in the final moments of His life. He also knew this was the kind of thing he could never say to his parents, or they would make his life—even his life away from home—seem like it was being orchestrated by Dolores Umbridge.

In Hallows, when he read the line “I’m ready to die,” he marveled. Here was a young boy who knew he was going to die, and he willingly walked into it in order to save the lives of his friends and extended family. In the moment, his fear of death was overshadowed by the concern he had for the well-being of those he held dearest. He’d thought about it over and over in the weeks that followed.

His phone buzzed. He looked down. It was Allison.

Babe, I’m sorry. I’m frustrated, and I took it out on you. You said a lot of nice things about me there, and even though they were meant to be your last words, it was still comforting to know that you felt that way about me, especially with all that’s been going on. And I really do want to be the mother of your children.

Brandon smiled. Maybe they were turning a corner.

—

Allison stared at the dots, both wondering if her apology would be accepted, and knowing the last line was a lie. Just in front of her, the television they kept tuned to CNN burbled quietly. She moved to set the phone down on her desk when it vibrated.

Hahaha, it’s okay, babe. I’m sorry for getting you worked up. It’s just something I wanted to try. I love you, too. And all that stuff is still true, btw.

His forgiveness did nothing to lighten Allison’s spirits. To be honest, she had been hoping for a fight to help her justify the recent decision she’d made, to give her a target for her anger and frustration. She needed to lash out at Brandon because he was part of the problem right now. Not directly, of course, but he had certainly helped create the problem.

Allison was pregnant. She had found out a week ago, after a missed period that she could normally set her watch by. Fourteen years she’d had that thing, and for fourteen years it showed up at exactly the same time. When it didn’t happen last week she knew something was up, and immediately thought it was cancer. A routine blood test—“There’s no way I’m pregnant, doc, it’s cancer”—had given her even more surprising news: after eight years, she was, in fact, pregnant. And now the problem was figuring out how to tell Brandon, because two days before she’d gotten the “big” news, she had decided to leave him.

Figuring out the date of conception wasn’t difficult, Brandon’s birthday had been a few weeks ago, and sex was the only thing he wanted, according to his hilariously inappropriate reply to her emailed question about potential gifts. That had been the last time—the only time—in the past six months that it had happened. It wasn’t that the sex was bad, really. It just felt like a wasted effort to her now. The end result should be pregnancy, and that hadn’t happened, so why couldn’t they both just watch television until one of them either died or got the nerve to file for divorce?

She once was of the mind that pregnancy would fix all their problems. A baby, she thought, would be the solution to the crumbling marriage, the lost love, and the constant bickering. But when she got the news, her first thought was “How am I going to raise a kid alone?” instead of, “Oh my god we’ll be so happy now.” That had only solidified her thoughts that the marriage wasn’t going to last, kid or no kid.

Brandon of course was as clueless as ever. An eternal optimist. Not that there was anyone else, Allison was a faithful spouse, and she wasn’t interested in other guys any way. There had been a few at the office she could have had if she wanted, and perhaps they thought they had a chance, until they experienced her brusque rejections to even the most innocuous flirting.

In fact, now that she knew she had a baby on the way, she had begun to think she wouldn’t need anyone else for a long time. She had always been a bit of a loner; someone who preferred the company of herself to others. She thought it might be fun to raise a daughter—or a son, but it would be a daughter, a mother knew—by herself. Sort of a them against the world, sitcom-type of thing. Allison smiled at the thought.

The phone buzzed again.

Alright babe, I’m pulling up to the airport. I’ll be leaving soon, I love you, and when I get back we can talk more about what I can do to stop annoying you with some of my habits, hahaha. My flight number is 298, Bismarck straight through to D.C., I’ll let you know when I land.

Allison shook her head, snapped back into reality by text. Oh well, she’d keep him in the dark until he got back.

I love you too. Be safe, and maybe just forget you’ve ever read Harry Potter, that would be a start. ;-)

The message received indicator changed from Delivered to Read, but there were no dots. Well, at least he wouldn’t bother her for a couple of hours. She shook her head again, then remembered the tiny life—all the websites said she (or he) was the size of a peanut—growing inside her.

“Don’t worry,” she said under her breath, “I’ll make sure you never meet Harry Freaking Potter.”

—

The plane engines hiccuped once, twice, then roared back to their normal pitch. Brandon glanced up from The Goblet of Fire. He’d experienced turbulence before. This wasn’t turbulence. The in-flight map on the headrest in front of him said they were just over Michigan, getting ready to hit the final leg of the flight over Lake Erie. His view of the screen was suddenly obstructed, and it took a moment for him to recognize the object. It was the oxygen mask. He grabbed his phone from his pocket. He looked around and saw he wasn't the only one with the thought.

“To hell with airplane mode,” he said.

—

Allison glanced up from her work to gaze absently outside at the storm gathering dark clouds in the distance. It wouldn’t be awful, just another North Dakota spring shower. Maybe some lightning, maybe a few thunderclaps to make everyone here in the ten-story office building jump and give them something interesting to talk about as they passed each other coming in and out of the lavatory.

Her eyes caught her reflection in the glass—time for a haircut—then she focused on the background and a reversed image of CNN. “eirE ekaL revo nwod seog 892 thgilF :gnikaerB” is what the ticker said, and pieces of metal littered a dark blue background. Her curiosity piqued, she turned around.

“Breaking: Flight 298 goes down over Lake Erie.” It took a moment for the correctly ordered words to register. When they did, her heart jumped. She knocked over a stack of papers on her desk trying to find her phone, as an urgent knock sounded on her door and all of the lights representing different lines on her office phone lit up at once. She glanced up, still searching for her phone, and saw her boss enter the room, panic and pity etched into her face.

She felt the phone, finally. Looking down, she saw a notification.

Messages

BunnyHunch (1)

She hadn’t called Brandon that in years. Why was he still saved under that name? She pressed her shaking thumb nervously against the Home Button, hitting it twice on accident. Her Visa card came up, asking to be passed over the machine that would process her payment.

Allison cursed loudly, and pounded the button with her thumb, finally clearing her screen. She heard her boss say something, but her attention was now on the Messages icon, and the tiny red number “1” in the corner of it. She opened her messages.

It was a single line, something so simple, yet so complex, and something that perfectly encapsulated the entire marriage she was now not so sure she wanted out of.

I open at the closet.

I open at the close

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Mon, 14 Nov 2016 16:44:00 +0000

image source

I open at the closet.

Hahaha, I’m sorry.

•••

•••

Allison whoah, don’t worry abou that I’m fin

•••

I’m fine

•••

Ugh! I’m trying to text I open at the close but the freaking thing won’t send before it changes.

•••

Why, Brandon? Why would you send me something like that? I thought you were dead or dying somewhere, why wouldn’t you just call? And what does I open at the close mean?

•••

Allison, I’m SO sorry. I had no idea I’d saved it, and was just testing it to see if it worked.

If WHAT worked, you idiot?

•••

There were no more dots.

—

His phone buzzed. He looked down. It was Allison.

Brandon smiled. Maybe they were turning a corner.

—

Hahaha, it’s okay, babe. I’m sorry for getting you worked up. It’s just something I wanted to try. I love you, too. And all that stuff is still true, btw.

The phone buzzed again.

Allison shook her head, snapped back into reality by text. Oh well, she’d keep him in the dark until he got back.

I love you too. Be safe, and maybe just forget you’ve ever read Harry Potter, that would be a start. ;-)

“Don’t worry,” she said under her breath, “I’ll make sure you never meet Harry Freaking Potter.”

—

“To hell with airplane mode,” he said.

—

She felt the phone, finally. Looking down, she saw a notification.

Messages

BunnyHunch (1)

It was a single line, something so simple, yet so complex, and something that perfectly encapsulated the entire marriage she was now not so sure she wanted out of.

I open at the closet.

A forced entry

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Thu, 03 Nov 2016 20:20:00 +0000

These last few weeks I've been struggling with self-discipline.

I'm not making good food choices at home, and I'm not making good food choices when I'm by myself in my truck, speeding off to whatever it is that has me away from home that night.

My workouts are fantastic, and I'm seeing some muscle definition that wasn't there before, particularly in my upper arms and my outer thigh (my inner thighs have enough loose skin to start a whole new human).

Speaking of whole new humans, The Missus and I are, at long last, pregnant. We heard the heartbeat just a couple of weeks ago, and of course I became very emotional and sobbed like a baby, because that's what I do in emotional situations.

One of the things I have been struggling with is how I need to let our three children know that this fourth kid isn't a replacement for them. I don't want them to ever feel that way, but I have a very strong hunch that they already do (and will). I don't want to come right out and say the words, lest I am responsible for putting a thought there that they hadn't even considered.

And so I bite my tongue and I continue to try and let them know they're loved in other ways.

I probably won't ever publish this blog on any social network, so there's a good chance the only people that will see it will be those of you who are stalkers (HI!) and my children when they get old enough to find this thing (Keeli has already tried, unsuccessfully).

Just in case one of the kids is here, maybe you need to see this. I love you. I love you more than you could ever imagine, and the reason why I can say this to you in the future is because that love will never go away. You see, that's the love a parent has for a child. You are my child. You are a Sloat. You are perfect for your mom and I because God brought us together. There is a verse in the Bible that talks about what God brings together, no man can separate. No one can ever get in the way of my love for you.

I think a big part of self-discipline is forcing yourself to do what you don't want to do until it actually becomes something you can't wait to do. I used to be that way about writing. I finished up a piece today that took a few days to write, and it was almost exhausting to get through. I feel like I've let this little blog go, and the only writing I do is for the paper, or for tests to hand out. That surely can't be good.

I told Alicia the other day that I had a pretty good book idea, and this is my official way of logging that, so in ten years when I haven't gotten around to writing it, and someone else comes out with a book about missionaries trying to reach the last people group who hasn't heard the gospel, I can safely say I had the idea first. I had a friend tell me once they believed ideas aren't just given to one person. That there's a huge pool to swim in, and sometimes people are in the same part of the pool at the same time, or someone will swim up to something you just passed. Might not make sense to you, but I wholeheartedly believe that's true.

I need to write more. I need to discipline myself the way that I have with food and exercise. I need to force it until it becomes natural again. That's what this post is, a kick in the butt. Maybe it'll work, maybe it won't.

If you're here as a stalker, I am truly sorry you sat through this garbled mess. If you're one of my kids, I'll say it again, I love you more than life itself, and no matter what happens, that love will never change.

My "Little Win" system, and being best friends with the Timekeeper

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Sun, 09 Oct 2016 21:54:00 +0000

It's cheat day.

I'm sitting here in my recliner, listening to the children fight about watercolor paints in the kitchen, and I just had to physically move a bag of Sour Patch Kids out of my reach so I would stop eating them long enough to type this thing out.

Here's the funny thing: I never liked Sour Patch Kids until this recent weight loss kick/lifestyle change/diet/personal hell I've put myself through. Now though, now I eat Sour Patch Kids on Sundays like John the Baptist probably ate those locusts — in great amounts and wondering why they taste so good.

My close friend and personal trainer, Chris Pearson, texted me the other day and asked me for a topic for his weekly fitness blog. I gave him three or four terrible ideas to give myself time to think of a good one, and then suggested he write about "little wins," which you can read just by clicking through that link. In fact, go do it now. I'll wait.

I wanted to elaborate on his writing by giving you a laid-bare look at who I am.

I am someone who is currently celebrating a ton of little wins.

My driver license photographs from 2009 (bottom right), January 2016 (top right), and September (left). A total weight difference of approximately 130 pounds.

Me at the beach in 2012 (350 pounds) and me in the gym two weeks ago (260 pounds). The bruise you see on my stomach is from an insulin shot to control my type-2 diabetes. Something I don't need anymore.

Since June of this year, I've been on a tear. I've dropped 67 pounds, and I now weigh as much as I did when I graduated high school. I've accomplished this through a lot of little wins.

Essentially, my week is a gigantic scoreboard. My day is a slightly smaller scoreboard. And sometimes, depending on the level of temptation, each hour is a scoreboard. Each win and loss is meticulously counted, and some losses wind up being wins without realizing it at the time. A perfect example of that would be my last meal at Taco Bueno versus my "Fat Travis" meal at Bueno.

Remember Chris from the blog I had you read a minute ago? Well, he wrote another one that got this whole thing started. You can find that here. Go read it. I'll wait. Do you have a why?

When I read what he wrote, I realized that I wanted to be able to get up and play with my kids as well. I wanted to chase them, to throw things at them, to be able to run and laugh and not fall down winded or with a sprained ankle because I was too fat to move. And so I started keeping score. I won a few. I won a few more. And now here I am, and I plan to keep more wins than losses on that scoreboard until I'm skinny.

But I am also someone who is dealing with more than enough little losses.

Slowly, I've tried to carry each aspect of my daily life over and throw it onto its own scoreboard. Food battles. Marital battles. Student battles. Idiot driver battles. And finally, father battles.

Two weeks ago I tweeted something.

My biggest goals for this week are to not yell at my kids and to try and eat a little healthier for dinner. Both are challenges.
— Travis Sloat (@tstyles77) September 26, 2016

I lost the food battle that week. But I didn't lose the father battle. And I didn't lose it last week either. I made it two full weeks without yelling at my kids. And then this morning...

"She gave me that hairbrush and now she took it back."
"I told him he could use it, I didn't give it to him."
"You can ask mom, she gave it to me!"

So I threw away a perfectly good hairbrush this morning. Then, as we were getting dressed for church, auditory evidence of an iPad kerfuffle drifted into our bedroom, and I marched into the living room in my underwear and blew my two week streak.

"I promised myself two weeks ago that I wasn't going to yell at you kids, and here I am, two weeks later, yelling, because you all can't figure out how to act like civilized children while we get ready for church!"

And then the words came out of my mouth before I could reign them in.

"You are horrible children! Think about that at church today!"

I walked back into the bedroom, furious at myself and them, and uttered an oath entirely inappropriate for any day of the week, and doubly so on Sunday.

"GD kids," I said.

I am a terrible father.

I don't need your placating words, and I don't need your, "Oh it's okay, everyone gets mad and loses it sometimes." I really don't. I need to be coached.

This is not okay.
This is not acceptable.
This is not trying your hardest.
This is not how we get little wins, this is how we ultimately wind up with huge losses.

I know people who are amazing dads with little to no effort at all. I can think of at least three right now, one has one kid, the other two have two each, and both have a third on the way. They don't have to try. Being a dad comes as naturally to them as breathing, their love for their children exists in the minuscule space between oxygen molecules that utter the supporting words children need, that grant mercy, that give comfort.

For whatever reason, I'm missing that. For me, being a good dad requires an intentional scoreboard. A scoreboard that gets reset frequently. Sometimes it's a week, sometimes it's a day, sometimes it's an hour. And I lose a lot.

We sat in church this morning, and Randy led us in "Good, Good Father." I stood, trying to sing, trying to keep tears from spilling over my eyelids, making the lyrics both a prayer and a plea, "You're a good, good Father. It's who You are, it's who You are." God I am so not a good father. I suck so much at it. I want to be good, help me be good. "And I am loved by you, it's who I am, it's who I am." God please help me show my kids they are loved by me. They need to know that, but I'm just so freaking bad at it."

Then, Johnny got up to preach and the sermon was about God the Father, and qualities of God that are reflected in fatherhood. Fathers are protectors, they are proud of their kids, they want to give gifts to their kids. He used an illustration about a father and his adopted daughter attending an event, and the father sharing that the best memory he had was when they were standing in front of the judge at the finalization. Again, fighting back tears, I remembered both times I'd done that.

Surely, in that moment, my kids knew that I loved them. But I've learned the hard way that every day with children isn't Finalization Day. So how are they seeing that I love them on days when it's exceptionally hard to show them that? Yeah I feed them, yeah they have a bed, and clothes. But we all know that's not what counts...not in the long run.

I took an L this morning. It's there, and it's glaring at me. I need a win to cancel it out, and a win to get better than .500, and if I can do that, then the day is salvageable. Because the great thing about having a little win system is having the ability to set the clock however you need to. My new father battle clock started at 9 a.m. Tomorrow's food battle clock starts at midnight (somehow I finished that entire freaking bag of SPKs while writing this). Idiot drivers? Well, that one resets every single time I drive through Muskogee.

In sports, they call that "cheating." But I happen to be best friends with the Timekeeper, so I'm just going to call it home field advantage. I'm going to call it being a good father. I'm going to call it being loved by You.

It's who I am.

***

If you are interested in having Chris help you, I've included links to his website, his Twitter, and his Facebook. He is currently taking clients, and having worked with him for a while now, I can say that his system works. The pictures above prove that. Not only that, but his motivation factor is a 10/10. Give my boy a call, he'll help you get a whole bunch of little wins.

Champion Fitness
Reformed Strength and Conditioning

My "Little Win" system, and being best friends with the Timekeeper

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Sun, 09 Oct 2016 21:54:00 +0000

My driver license photographs from 2009 (bottom right), January 2016 (top right), and September (left). A total weight difference of approximately 130 pounds.

Since June of this year, I've been on a tear. I've dropped 67 pounds, and I now weigh as much as I did when I graduated high school. I've accomplished this through a lot of little wins.

Remember Chris from the blog I had you read a minute ago? Well, he wrote another one that got this whole thing started. You can find that here. Go read it. I'll wait. Do you have a why?

My biggest goals for this week are to not yell at my kids and to try and eat a little healthier for dinner. Both are challenges.
— Travis Sloat (@tstyles77) September 26, 2016

I lost the food battle that week. But I didn't lose the father battle. And I didn't lose it last week either. I made it two full weeks without yelling at my kids. And then this morning...

"She gave me that hairbrush and now she took it back."
"I told him he could use it, I didn't give it to him."
"You can ask mom, she gave it to me!"

So I threw away a perfectly good hairbrush this morning. Then, as we were getting dressed for church, auditory evidence of an iPad kerfuffle drifted into our bedroom, and I marched into the living room in my underwear and blew my two week streak.

"I promised myself two weeks ago that I wasn't going to yell at you kids, and here I am, two weeks later, yelling, because you all can't figure out how to act like civilized children while we get ready for church!"

And then the words came out of my mouth before I could reign them in.

"You are horrible children! Think about that at church today!"

I walked back into the bedroom, furious at myself and them, and uttered an oath entirely inappropriate for any day of the week, and doubly so on Sunday.

"GD kids," I said.

I am a terrible father.

I don't need your placating words, and I don't need your, "Oh it's okay, everyone gets mad and loses it sometimes." I really don't. I need to be coached.

This is not okay.
This is not acceptable.
This is not trying your hardest.
This is not how we get little wins, this is how we ultimately wind up with huge losses.

I know people who are amazing dads with little to no effort at all. I can think of at least three right now, one has one kid, the other two have two each, and both have a third on the way. They don't have to try. Being a dad comes as naturally to them as breathing, their love for their children exists in the minuscule space between oxygen molecules that utter the supporting words children need, that grant mercy, that give comfort.

For whatever reason, I'm missing that. For me, being a good dad requires an intentional scoreboard. A scoreboard that gets reset frequently. Sometimes it's a week, sometimes it's a day, sometimes it's an hour. And I lose a lot.

We sat in church this morning, and Randy led us in "Good, Good Father." I stood, trying to sing, trying to keep tears from spilling over my eyelids, making the lyrics both a prayer and a plea, "You're a good, good Father. It's who You are, it's who You are." God I am so not a good father. I suck so much at it. I want to be good, help me be good. "And I am loved by you, it's who I am, it's who I am." God please help me show my kids they are loved by me. They need to know that, but I'm just so freaking bad at it."

Then, Johnny got up to preach and the sermon was about God the Father, and qualities of God that are reflected in fatherhood. Fathers are protectors, they are proud of their kids, they want to give gifts to their kids. He used an illustration about a father and his adopted daughter attending an event, and the father sharing that the best memory he had was when they were standing in front of the judge at the finalization. Again, fighting back tears, I remembered both times I'd done that.

Surely, in that moment, my kids knew that I loved them. But I've learned the hard way that every day with children isn't Finalization Day. So how are they seeing that I love them on days when it's exceptionally hard to show them that? Yeah I feed them, yeah they have a bed, and clothes. But we all know that's not what counts...not in the long run.

I took an L this morning. It's there, and it's glaring at me. I need a win to cancel it out, and a win to get better than .500, and if I can do that, then the day is salvageable. Because the great thing about having a little win system is having the ability to set the clock however you need to. My new father battle clock started at 9 a.m. Tomorrow's food battle clock starts at midnight (somehow I finished that entire freaking bag of SPKs while writing this). Idiot drivers? Well, that one resets every single time I drive through Muskogee.

In sports, they call that "cheating." I'm just going to call it home field advantage. I'm going to call it being a good father. I'm going to call it being loved by You.

It's who I am.

***

If you are interested in having Chris help you, I've included links to his website, his Twitter, and his Facebook. He is currently taking clients, and having worked with him for a while now, I can say that his system works. The pictures about prove that. Not only that, but his motivation factor is a 10/10. Give my boy a call, he'll help you get a whole bunch of little wins.

Champion Fitness
Reformed Strength and Conditioning

A big reminder about small-town kindness

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Wed, 15 Jun 2016 19:04:00 +0000

This week has been nuts, right?

Tragedy stacked on senseless tragedy, and every single time I open Facebook or Twitter, I've been bombarded with what I'm supposed to think or do in the wake of these events.

This is not a post about how bad of a week it's been for our nation. This is a post about how my hometown just keeps coming through in a pinch.

"Travis, if you talk about Okay one more time, we're quitting. It can't be that great."

Well, it is. And let me tell you why I got shown that again on Tuesday.

First order of business on Tuesday morning was a doctors appointment. I seem to have picked up a bit of the swimmer's ear in Florida, and I have decided that since diet and exercise are not things I want to try, I'd ask the doctor for prescription methamphetamine and appetite suppressants to keep me from eating until October.

When I walked in, I saw a familiar face, a good family friend who happens to be a nurse at my doc's office. She's very active in Okay, she's at most city council meetings, she's a volunteer firefighter, and she married into a family a love and respect a lot.

She took my blood pressure, and I joked about how the walk from the lobby to the exam room was all uphill and that's why my pulse was 500, and then the conversation turned a shade more serious.

You see, she worked a fatality accident earlier this week. You might have seen the story on the local news, but a pickup rolled over and pinned a guy who wound up dying. Alcohol was involved, and the whole thing was a mess. I'd call it a tragedy on a lesser scale, but that kind of depends on who you ask.

I told this young woman that there is no way I could do what she does. I cannot comfort the dying, I cannot work with injured and scared people. I've often said that a writer can take the coward's way out in that regard - I can just step back and ask questions after everyone is taken care of. Don't get me wrong, the real journalists out there know what I just said is false. But I never considered myself to be a real journalist, just a writer.

She looked at me and laughed, and said that she can do all her job requires except speaking to the families. Something her husband is good at, she said. I mentioned that it was funny how God pairs us up in life, and more laughter followed. Then she said something I'll never forget.

"This girl, Travis, she stuck with me. I don't know what it was. I prayed with her as she was getting in the ambulance, and since then I've added her as a friend on Facebook."

I think we all assume that emergency personnel have to create a distance between themselves and their jobs. They see so much, that it helps to have the dissonance there, otherwise they can easily be overwhelmed. I can understand that. Doctors, nurses, volunteer firefighter, EMS personnel, and law enforcement all have to deal with the worst. I find no fault in their removal from attachment.

But this young woman, this young woman from Okay, Oklahoma, went above and beyond what her job required of her that night. It wasn't loading another injured body into an emergency vehicle, it was a held hand, a prayer, and a conscious effort to follow up. That struck me.

I'm positive that emergency personnel make that kind of personal connection every day. But it makes me extraordinarily happy to know that we have that kind of person working in Okay.

As I left the doctor's office, I went to my new favorite place in Muskogee, the QuikTrip. Walking in, I saw a student of mine, a future student of mine, and their father picking out soft drinks. I stopped by to say hello, and asked them how their summer was going, and jokingly told them they better be ready to write when they walk into my classroom in a couple of months. It was a great conversation.

Then I saw another Okay alum putting the lids on her drink as well as her daughter's. As we met in line to pay for our items, I looked at the future student and asked, "When do I get you?"

Mom spoke up. "Two years," she said. "And you better still be there."

I gave her what has become my standard rhetoric when my loyalty to that town has been called into question.

"I'll die there, or I'll retire there."

She laughed, and as the cashier rang up her items, she looked at him and said, "Oh, and I'll get his too."

I was floored. The sheer kindness of such a simple gesture left me stammering out, "You don't need to do that," and she laughed and told me to be quiet. I thanked her and left, smiling the entire way to my truck, out of the parking lot, and dang near the whole way home.

Okay, Oklahoma. The school that's now infamous for the gun signs, and recently famous for the best state basketball run ever seen in the school's history. The town that raised my brothers and I, the cemetery where my father is buried. The town people can't wait to burn and leave. The home of the Mustangs and the church I found God in. The town that pops up on your iFunny app from time to time.

The town I love, and the people I love.

And I can't wait to invest the rest of my life there.

Red Flag of Courage

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Tue, 07 Jun 2016 23:21:00 +0000

My family and I are, as you probably know after being inundated by social media posts all week, in Navarre Beach, Florida, on vacation.

Things are great, thank you for asking. We've minimized the fighting, I've only had to beat one child since we've been here, and last night I had this for dinner, so yeah.

I can't even really describe it to you, other than using the words "I" and "came."

There's really only been one problem.

Red flags.

Saturday when we pulled up, the water was fine. We didn't go near it, of course, because after I've driven fourteen hours through Alabama traffic, the last thing I want to do is drag children to the beach.

As an aside, Alabama is the actual worst. Second only to Arizona in states I hate.

Sunday we got up early and went to the beach. We didn't even eat breakfast, we just trunked up and went to the water.

I don't know if you're familiar with the beach flag system in Florida, so I've included a pic.

Sunday we had a yellow and a purple flag.

"Screw harmful marine life," I said bravely to my family. "I'll punch a shark in the mouth."

We had fun.

Enter Tropical Storm Colin, which my family and I bravely soldiered through, as can be seen in the following life event on Facebook.

Sprinkles aside, the storm gave us a red flag yesterday, and another red flag today, even though the weather was gorgeous.

I don't like coming to the beach and not being able to get in the water. I'm a fish, with a natural born grace in the sea and a body full of flotation devices to keep me buoyant and right side up. I'm also fat, and there aren't a lot of forces in the world that can act upon me in such a way to knock me, as the expression goes, *ss over teakettle.

So this afternoon I got in the water.

"Screw the red flag," I said to my family. "Kids, stay out, daddy is going to do this alone."

And I went in. Brazenly ignoring the fact that I was practically alone in the water, and ignoring the fact that most people gave a startled look as I walked by, as if they were thinking, "Wow, this guy...look at this guy."

Things went well for about five minutes. I dipped, I dived, I twirled in the water like a fish, nay, a dolphin.

Here's where I want to tell you about the beach reconstruction.

You see, in Navarre, they've been reconstructing the beaches, which involves pumping copious amounts of sugary fine white sand from the ocean floor onto the existing beaches, extending them further into the Gulf. The thing is, when they bring up the sand, they also bring up seashells. Millions of seashells. I can't even adequately describe the amount of seashells on this beach.

Large, small, medium sized and razor sharp seashells.

Naturally, standing barefoot on the beach or in the water takes a bit of practice. A fine touch, if you will. Something I possess in the water.

Something that failed me just as a monstrous "red flag" wave crashed over my body.

Y'all remember the scorpion in Latvia, I'm sure. That was nothing. The football team making me their collective girlfriend? Child's play.

Guys I crap you not that wave rag dolled me into a shape I didn't know I could achieve. My feet touched the back of my head and then my head went straight into the largest bed of seashells ever collected by the Lord Himself under the waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

As I bobbed upside down in the turbulent water with my feet looking like a cork with a perch attached to it, and the skin being flayed off my forehead like I belonged to Ramsay Bolton, it slowly occurred to me that this was it, this was how I was going to die.

Alas, the Lord returned my buoyancy and grace at just the right moment, and I sucked in more seawater than a man should ever inhale just before my head broke the surface and I tasted sweet delicious oxygen...right as another wave tossed me to shore in much the same way I imagine Jonah was spat onto the beach in Nineveh.

I stood up on shaky legs and shaky pride, and quickly assessed the situation.

"No blood, no blood, ah crap, blood."

I was bleeding from the head, and seawater was pouring out of my nose, and my finger hurt. I looked down, and my finger was bleeding. I was, in essence, shark bait.

I walked slowly up the bank with people staring at me. Some of them even had snarky little smiles, as if they'd known all along what would happen to the fat white guy from Oklahoma who couldn't wait for a yellow or green flag.

"Dude, you're bleeding. Are you okay?"

"You get turned over?"

My beautiful and ever-concerned wife sat in her beach chair, discussing our plans of being teachers in Florida with our condo neighbors as I walked up.

Her voice cracking with the weight of her overwhelming concern, she collapsed into a fit of laughter as she surveyed my bloody forehead.

"You get knocked over?"

I nodded shamefully.

Our neighbors joined in the laughter.

If you need me, I'll be on the beach, waiting for that sweet, sweet green flag.

The Scorpion strikes again. That said, my back feels amazing.

The one where I finally find something Brian Sloat can't do

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Tue, 17 May 2016 23:55:00 +0000

"Watch this."
"What?"
"Watch Travis here. He's going to learn something. He doesn't know it yet, but he's going to."
"What's he going to learn?"
"Shut up and listen, this will be good."

Let's be real for a second. As an adoptive parent, I have a problem. It's a problem that stems from my selfishness and pride, both of which can spiral out of control very quickly in my life.

I don't need your kind words and panegyrical speeches about how awesome we are for adopting kids. I really don't. I still don't think we did an amazing thing, I think we did what any human being on earth would do, we saw some kids who needed a home, and we gave them one.

By the way, I'm getting all the stuff that makes me look like a douchebag out of the way early, so if you want to scroll a bit you can. I'll understand.

For whatever reason, though I don't want your edification of our character, I do expect our children to be grateful.

See the problem yet? Again, the offer to skip forward still stands.

I feel like my wife and I (who I am absolutely not speaking for here) pulled these kids out of a situation where their lives could have taken a much different turn. Some of the birth family reads this blog regularly (Hi guys!) and I'm not out to skewer them about how the kids' lives would have turned out. For all I know, they might have changed their lives around and raised better children than I could ever dream of.

So the kids should be grateful. No, I don't expect kissing of rings or regular shoe shines from them, but maybe stop the entitled behavior a bit, yeah?

The other day Aven decided he didn't want to live here anymore. Said it was awful. He wished he lived somewhere else.

Guys, seriously, skip ahead.

So I told him anytime he was ready to leave I'd help him pack. I was pissed. I was offended. I've also never parented an eight-year-old boy before, so cut me a little slack.

Fast forward a couple of weeks. Aven had a real bad day at Drake's birthday party on Sunday. Drake got Legos, and Aven got pissed because he thinks he should have all the Legos in the house, and he threw a fit then gave everyone the silent treatment, and basically took all the attention away from Drake on his big day.

For his behavior, he earned some alone time in his room, along with the promise that when the family left, he'd be getting his rear end lit up.

For an explanation of why I was waiting until family left, see the following tweets:

Well, eventually the party died down and I went into Aven's room with the paddle. I had planned on doing a bit of yelling, a bit of paddling, and ending in a lecture about his choices.

I told him to sit down, and I explained what was about to happen. I told him that he had made some real bad choices today, and that he was now going to pay the consequences for his actions. I told him he had options when he got mad. I explained that one of those options was walking away. I explained that another option was some alone time in his room if he wanted. I made sure to reinforce that these were his choices, and no one could make them for him.

I then told him he was to go apologize to his mom and his brother, and then he was coming back to get his spanking.

He walked back in to the room, and I told him that he could get mad about the punishment, but my dad busted my butt and that's why he was getting his butt busted.

And just like that, words stopped coming out of my mouth, because a very shocking thought crossed my brain.

Aven doesn't need Brian Sloat as a dad. Aven needs Travis Sloat as a dad.

The revelation floored me, and I'm sure I seemed a sight to Aven as I stood there holding the paddle while being unable to communicate.

I heard a voice in my head. It wasn't Brian Sloat. To tell you the truth, I absolutely know it was the Holy Spirit, giving me a direct order that I wasn't ready to accept.

"Pray with your son."

Eventually I put the paddle down. I sat down on Aven's bed and I told him to stand in front of me. I looked at the wall for a while, then at the giant Superman on the wall. Then I looked at the dresser, the whole time trying to find words that adequately suited the situation, and that would affirm to my son that I had not gone completely bat-shit crazy.

I finally looked him in the eye.

"Aven, I love you so much."

The tears fell. Through blurry eyes I watched as everything in his countenance changed, his features softened from anger to what could almost be called remorse, and then tears fell from his eyes too.

"Dad, I'm sorry," he said. And then he hugged me.

It was one of those classic father/son hugs you see in the movies. The whole tears staining the shirt, me gripping the back of his head like a man desperately trying to keep a hydroplaning car on the road type hug. If you had been in that room, you'd have cried, trust me. Nicholas Sparks in all his writing glory could not have manufactured a better hug than that one.

And we cried.

Eventually the crying stopped, and I looked at him again.

"Son, if anything ever happened to you, I would never be the same. You are wanted. You are special. I love you so much, and I know it seems like I'm mean to you sometimes. I've never had a son before. I don't always know how to be a good dad."

And then we prayed.

"God, help me have a better attitude, and help me not be jealous, and make better decisions, amen."

"God, I'm a bad father sometimes. Please help me realize that Aven needs me as a father. Please help me be a better dad. Thank you for showing me what mercy looks like. Thank you for Aven. Amen."

May 15, 2016 will mark the second time ever that I have prayed with my son. The first was his salvation. I am an absolute idiot for not doing it more. I should be praying with all my kids. I'm going to try and make that happen.

As for Aven, well, there will be more bad decisions. He's eight, after all, soon to be nine. He's got a whole lifetime of bad decisions ahead of him. Just like his dad.

And I'll spank him again. It'll happen. Not for fun, not because it's what my dad did to me, but because I'm biblically bound to do that. I just need to remember that I'm also biblically bound to love my children as my Heavenly Father loves me.

Alicia walked in the house yesterday and said, "I don't know what you said to him yesterday, but he's been amazing today."

I guess sometimes sparing the rod is necessary. I guess ultimately, that's what Christ did on the cross. I deserved a beating, and instead I got told that I was loved, that I was special.

I'm a horrible father. Nothing you can ever say to me will change my mind about that. But I love my kids, and Christ loves me, and that'll work just fine. And in the meantime, I'll be busy reminding myself that although Brian Sloat was a brilliant father, he doesn't need to be the one who parents Aven Sloat.

That's my job. That's what I do.

Whole30: Day Three

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Thu, 07 Apr 2016 14:54:00 +0000

Well, Day Three sucked.

Lack of preparedness, Alicia being sick, and intense cravings/mood swings almost put me over the wall. But, here I sit, Day Four, having gotten through Day Three without caving.

Breakfast was the only meal I got a picture of because it was seriously the only meal worth photographing. I sautéed mushrooms and onions, then added GUESS WHAT?!?!?! Three fried eggs. That's right, more eggs.

I did apply my homemade hot sauce liberally, and truth be told, it was a great breakfast.

I also sliced up some tomatoes and sprinkled some pink salt on them. They were store-bought so they weren't great, but they added a nice contrast to the eggs.

Lunch was leftover lettuce tacos from the night before. Ugh. I just sort of powered through it. Lunch will be tough for me as long as I continue to eat leftovers, and I'll continue to eat leftovers because it's really difficult to get up and fix breakfast AND lunch. Maybe I should try this meal prep thing.

As an aside, I did make it through the mid-morning without a snack. However, I broke into my almonds at about 2 p.m. I have my seventh graders that hour, and we're working on research projects, and I could feel myself getting a little cranky.

I got home and ate five pickles. Five. They were tiny pickles, but I ate five, and drank pickle juice because that's allowed and don't judge me. I also ate an apple.

Dinner was a shitshow. Alicia had set out turkey and ground beef, and then got to feeling puny, and I was pissy because, no carbs, and so I had to think of something. My plan? Turkey burger patties with sautéed onions, garlic, and mushroom powder, then I made a sauce out of drippings, chicken stock, and almond milk. I also sautéed onions, mushrooms, zucchini, and asparagus for a side. My patties were undercooked, so that sucked, but three minutes in the microwave fixed it.

Alicia also brought home some raw almonds, and I tried my hand at roasting them. I popped them in a 350 degree oven for 15 minutes, let them cool, then added a teaspoon of light evoo, salt, onion and garlic powder, and cayenne. I wound up eating them all as a bedtime snack.

As previously mentioned, today is Day Four, and we'll see how it goes. Hopefully supper will be a shade better this evening, and I'm really going to try to stay away from all the "snacks" that I'm indulging in, even though they're compliant, and even though Erica is telling me it's okay.

Whole30: Day Two

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Wed, 06 Apr 2016 15:48:00 +0000

Day Two of the Whole30 was not as bad as Day One.

This was, I think, due partly to good planning. We made a grocery trip the night before (see yesterday's blog), and picked up some things for the day.

One of the things I picked up was asparagus, because I freaking love asparagus, and I'd seen someone in our Facebook group talk about asparagus and eggs for breakfast. Since you basically eat eggs forty-two times a day on this plan, you have to think of ways to church them up. So I did.

That is roasted asparagus, topped with three over easy eggs fried lightly in clarified butter. I also added a few drops (half the bottle) of a really good hot sauce, which Erica then mentioned might not be compliant. So what did I do yesterday? I MADE MY OWN FREAKING HOT SAUCE.

That's right, jalapeños, dried Carolina Reapers, tomato paste, smoked paprika, apple cider vinegar, beef stock and a few other compliant spices. It'll peel the paint off your car, and it tastes pretty dang good if I say so myself.

Back to the meals though. I did get hungry about halfway between breakfast and lunch, and luckily I was prepared.

I doled out exactly twenty-eight almonds and ate them slowly, thinking about how good they'd be loaded up with sugar and syrup and all the things I would never put on almonds but that I want to put on them now.

Lunch was leftovers from Day One, steak and mushrooms with hot sauce. It was freaking phenomenal and made me wish I had made more. One of the things I'm trying to do though is to make sure I'm eating smaller portions. Yeah, I'm pretty sure I can eat all I want on this plan, but that doesn't mean I need to abuse it.

I found a recipe for Whole30 tacos online yesterday, and essentially begged Alicia to let me make them. Another short shopping trip after school, and I had the ingredients for the tacos, as well as the ingredients for the aforementioned hot sauce.

I mixed up my own taco seasoning, and I forgot the oregano listed in the recipe, and that sucked. It wasn't as good as the taco seasoning I buy in the pre-made packets, and I don't care who you are, it'll never be better and you won't convince me otherwise. But it was tasty, and it'll do.

Scooping that beautiful taco meat onto green and crunchy romaine lettuce instead of taco shells was probably the most depressed I've been on this whole plan, and it was just Day Two. I threw some fresh onion, tomato, and avocado on as well, and enough of my hot sauce to drown the sadness in my heart.

A lot of people get mad at me for being able to tell a difference in my body so quickly when I make a diet change. But the plain and simple truth is, my diet was SO TRULY TERRIBLE, that any changes I make get noticed very quickly.

As a result, the following things have happened: I've noticed my stomach is laying flatter in the mornings when I wake up, instead of being bloated; my skin is less oily; I'm colder, which means my blood sugar is dropping; and I feel like absolute shit.

Day Three will be interesting, I brought leftovers from last night's dinner, and Alicia set out turkey to eat tonight. I don't know exactly what we're going to do with it. In the meantime, I'm going to try to make it without a midmorning snack.

~~Day Three~~

Whole30: Day One

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Tue, 05 Apr 2016 15:51:00 +0000

Yesterday my wife and I began the Whole30 food program. I hate to think of it as a diet, it's more of an eating change.

The basic tenements of the program can be found here.

We didn't really have the groceries on hand to begin the right way, but I have a couple of Yeah Write buddies who are in on it, and I wanted to give them some support.

I weighed on Sunday. I am 324 pounds. I have man tits. My gut is enormous. I'm currently taking three medications for diabetes (Metformin, Glyburide, and Invokana), a pill for blood pressure, and a pill for a fatty liver, as well as an antidepressant.

Something has to give.

So yesterday was Day One.

I had two poached eggs for breakfast. That was it. That was a poor decision on my part, but it's what we had. For lunch, tuna. No seriously, that's it, tuna with pickles. I ate that meal in the teacher's lounge and wanted to cry afterwards.

I was mean to students, moody, and determined to go get groceries for a better dinner. So when I left school, that's what I did.

Dinner was sirloin steak, sliced thin with mushrooms, garlic, and a sauce made from beef stock, fish sauce, and oregano. My god it was amazing. I put the larger portion in a container for lunch today. That was a difficult thing to do.

I also made clarified butter, which is something I've never done before. Something else I did was buy only myself dinner, and didn't get anything for my wife and kids. Alicia pointed this out to me when she got home, and because we've begun depriving our bodies of things it thinks it needs, she pointed that out to me in a rather angry fashion.

I had a church league basketball game last night, and my performance was awful. Not that it has even been grand (not since high school), but I missed every shot I took and airballed a three. Embarrassing.

Even tougher was coming home. I was starving (or so I thought), and I wound up eating plain salsa (Whole30 approved) and pistachios. I went to bed hungry, but (sorry for being personal) I got laid, and that helped a lot. It also helped that Villanova beat UNC in the National Championship game.

Today is Day Two, or Day Twenty-Nine, depending on my mood. I'm going to try to post every single day, even if it's just words and no pictures. I've accidentally discovered that food photographs way better when it's healthy, and so I'd like to document that for you guys.

I also don't plan on posting anything on public Facebook until the deed is done. Then I'll post the link to Day One, and people can follow it through.

Well, let's do this thing.

Day Two

Bright lights, heartbreak, and it's really not that bad

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Sun, 06 Mar 2016 03:04:00 +0000

maybe, maybe, maybe
you'll find something that's enough to keep you
but if the bright lights don't receive you,
then turn yourself around and come on home.
- Matchbox Twenty

Sixty hours ago I was throwing my backpack into my truck and headed to go get Nate.

As we made the trip to the State Fairgrounds, I kept checking Facebook and seeing all the statuses about heading to Oklahoma City and how excited everyone was.

I was excited too.

The State Tournament. The Big House. And the Okay Mustangs.

Those words aren't used together every year. Volleyball, maybe, but not basketball.

Since no one bothered to tell us about the massive construction project on I-40 (shoutout to all you chumps), we got to the game just a few minutes before it started. Okay vs. Velma-Alma, two schools that, had you conducted a poll anywhere but there, no one would have heard of.

Our boys made it look easy.

That's not slighting the Comets, that's simply a testament to the shooting performance our boys gave. Shots were dropping like gas prices during an election year, and it was fun. After a certain point, it didn't even seem real anymore.

I'll be perfectly honest with you and tell you I wasn't sure how they'd handle the big stage.

Turns out they didn't need me to believe in them.

A twenty-point win and a drive back to the hotel, where I swam in the pool and thought about the game. Where I thought about Chad, and how he was back where it started for him in 1998. About that time I played thirty seconds in a state tournament game and had one rebound and one turnover.

I seriously think I told that story to whoever would listen. I was pulling hotel maids into the room and reenacting the rebound, making Hayden and Nate play defense every time I told it.

Enter day two.

A 10:30 a.m. game against the number three team in the state. A team that had also been up by twenty points in their first game.

I was, yet again, worried, because that's what I do.

Turns out they didn't need me to believe in them.

The shooting performance they put on Friday made Thursday's show look like me trying to dip two McNuggets into a painfully small hot mustard packet.

I honestly think at one point I made a three. And if I live long enough I'm sure that's how the story will go one day. Three-pointers were flying through the nets like a...well, listen, I've watched my two favorite teams lose today, so I'm at a loss for a simile.

They got hot.

They won by ten, but it was really by twenty.

In the meantime, Fort Cobb-Broxton was busily winding their way through the bracket, making it look as though the OSSAA had mistakenly assigned a 5A team to the A tourney.

And then today happened. Day three. The championship game.

A Facebook post informed me earlier that Okay has been a school district for 97 years. In 97 years we've never once had a basketball team in a state championship game.

But by God we did today.

I was worried. I watched Fort Cobb play both nights and I was worried. I tried to contain what I felt but my celebrations were muted, my conversations heavy with the weight of my pessimism.

Turns out, they didn't need me to believe in them.

Our boys—Our Okay Mustangs—went out onto that floor and from the very first tip worked their butts off to bring home a gold ball for our town. They ran off screens, they dealt with bumps, they hustled for loose balls—all for us. All for Okay.

Those shots that fell the first two games didn't fall today. And you know what? That's okay, and here's why.

My children teach me things all the time. Just when I think I'm the smartest person in the family, one of them will innocently say something so full of wisdom that I know The Lord is trying to knock me over the head with a lesson.

I pulled into the driveway this evening, emotionally exhausted, upset, and proud all at the same time.

Aven, my eight-year-old, was playing in the yard and came up to the truck as I got out.

"How was basketball?" he asked.

"It was a lot of fun," I replied.

"Did you win it all?"

"No, son, we lost in the championship game."

"Oh...well, that's really that bad though, right?"

I looked up, and saw my beautiful wife, who I'd missed very much, coming outside to kiss me hello.

In that moment, the entire weekend sped through my mind like a highlight reel on fast forward. The jump shots. The three-pointers. The conversations with people I'd grown up with. The celebrations. The hustle. The silver ball. The first second-place state tournament ever for our basketball program. The beautiful game of basketball that I love, played by young men that I love, coached by two men I admire and respect, administrated by a principal and superintendent that I think the world of. It all came over me, baptizing me in the sheer fun of the weekend.

And I realized that my son is wiser than I am.

"No, Aven, it's really not that bad."

Book the hotel rooms, Mustang fans. We'll be back next year. And I hope Fort Cobb-Broxton is there in the final, Goliath vs. Goliath, four or five moments away from another shot at a gold ball.

Thank you, boys. Thank you, Chad and Steve. Thank you to the fans, to the town that raised me, and the town that is letting me help raise their students.

November can't get here quick enough.

On hope, and four or five moments

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Sat, 05 Mar 2016 13:44:00 +0000

"The game can kill you with hope." - Kevin Baker

Well, they've done it.

Yesterday, while battling to maintain a lead against the No. 3 ranked team in the state, the Okay Mustangs were suddenly up 20 points, and I'm still not entirely sure how it happened.

I mean, yeah, 70 points from Caleb and Darius Riggs probably did it, but still.

Remember yesterday when I said I wanted Goliath vs. Goliath? Well, I watched Fort Cobb's game with Seiling yesterday thinking that I was an idiot for writing it.

But I'm not. The whole season has been leading up to this point. Two teams, both Mustangs, across the state from each other, and each doing the kind of work it takes to be successful in this glorious game of basketball.

And now we're in the finals. School history has been made. We all got to see it. We all get to see it.

This small group of boys from a town no one has ever heard of have given hope to thousands of people.

hope

noun — the feeling that what is wanted can be had.

It's such a simple word. One syllable and four letters with an ocean in between each one, and a gold ball waiting just after the "e."

You know, you're going to laugh, but I finally went to see Deadpool last night, and I think I can actually use part of a scene from that movie to teach something here.

Colossus, a member of the X-Men, stops Deadpool from shooting someone by saying:

"Wade! Four or five moments."

"What?"

"Four or five moments — That's all it takes to become a hero. Everyone thinks it's a full-time job. Wake up a hero. Brush your teeth a hero. Go to work a hero. Not true. Over a lifetime there are only four or five moments that really matter. Moments when you're offered a choice to make a sacrifice, conquer a flaw, save a friend..."

Now if you've seen the movie you know that quote immediately loses relevance not long after, but I think it maintains its relevance here today.

Okay Mustangs, go be a hero today. Live in the four or five moments of this game where you'll make a choice, play harder than you thought you could, or sacrifice a shot for a better one. Live in the moments where you'll be a hero.

Something I struggled with as a player and now as a coach is being told/telling kids to "leave it all on the floor." I understand the sentiment, but if you leave it all on the floor, where's "it" going to be for the next game?

Today, there is no next game. Today is the one day I agree with "leave it all on the floor."

I'll be in the stands hoping. I'll be in the stands believing. Thousands of us will.

In the moment of hope, there is no doubt. There is no room for doubt. So hope breeds confidence, and confidence breeds happiness. You've made the town of Okay and your families very happy. You've already accomplished something enormous that will never be forgotten.

Thank you for that.

Now finish the job.

"hope is the thing with feathers

that perches in the soul

and sings the tune without the words

and never stops at all."

- Emily Dickinson

You tell them we're coming...and we're bringing Okay with us

noreply@blogger.com (Travis Sloat) — Fri, 04 Mar 2016 13:33:00 +0000

It's just after 7 a.m.

Light is slowly filtering through the blinds of our hotel room—a hotel room that Hayden booked 400 miles away from the stadium—and I've already been down to have breakfast, which was crap.

I woke up excited.

My roommates, Hayden and Nathan, are still snoring softly in the bed behind me, which they are sharing because I told them I'm a cuddler.

I woke up excited because the Okay Mustangs made school history yesterday.

Yesterday wasn't a great day for our state or our nation. You see, schools took yet another budget cut. A budget cut that will mean the end for some. There's some small school in Oklahoma that will have to close its doors thanks to the idiocy we're seeing at the state level.

Hundreds of thousands of people were taken off Medicaid, something I don't quite understand, but expect to soon.

Last night during the presidential debate, politics were eschewed for penis measuring, which, I suppose, is really the basis of all politics anyway.

Yesterday wasn't a great day for our state or our nation.

But it was a great day to be a Mustang.

I wish I had a cool action shot to post here, a picture worth more than a thousand words, showing the hustle and effort our boys put forth into bringing home the first Okay State Playoff win in school history. I wish I had a picture of Darius shooting three pointers from the parking lot, or Paul Taylor checking into the game and in the first five seconds driving in for a layup. I wish I had a shot of Caleb or Austin shooting jump shots with the confidence that Donald Trump has in his hair, but I don't. I was busy in the stands updating my Facebook every three seconds for the folks back home.

I'm told the boys' bus ride back to the hotel yesterday was silent. They weren't celebrating their win. They realized that although they made school history, all they really won was the chance to fight another day.

Today. This day.

Most probably haven't even woken up yet. They probably haven't gone downstairs to gorge themselves on homemade omelettes and all-you-can-eat bacon (I'm looking at you, Hayden). Some of them might be up though, thinking about the game, doing the mental preparation that is oh so important in this game, yet so often overlooked.

Our opponent opposite the bracket found themselves in a close one yesterday. Everyone talked about how they hoped there would be an upset, and I joined in that conversation. But truthfully, I don't want an upset. I want 1 vs. 2 out there tomorrow. I don't want to see David and Goliath, because we all know how that goes, and sometimes Goliath wins anyway. I want to see Goliath vs. Goliath.

But they aren't there yet. They have to win today.

And you know what? Even if they don't, even if they lose today, one day they'll look back and say, "Remember that time we won a game at state? That hasn't been done since, has it? Remember how many points I scored? Remember how proud the town was?"

You're damn right I'm proud. This town, this Okay town, is my life. I will empty all I am into it until it shines or until I die, and I'm even prouder to say that I don't stand alone in that objective.

So go fight today, boys. Go win the chance to take on that other Goliath. You'll hear us in the stands, and if you don't, feel free to come over and remind us that we're not Okay.

We're freaking great.