Nov 27, 2010

Some Things Never Change

Yesterday, my grandma excitedly ushered me to a drawer in her spare bedroom and produced a letter addressed to her in my ten year old handwriting. I knew embarrassment was nigh.

I'd written the letter just before my family moved from Texas to Virginia. It was in two different colors of gel pen, written on the back of the notebook paper, and a few words were misspelled, but I could see my current self plain as day in the childish cursive handwriting.

It was written with weirdly adult phrasing. "They're shipping us out today," I began like the enlisted protagonist of a Tim O'Brian short story. I continued, "Sorry I didn't write earlyier (I'm ashamed, fifth grade me. Very ashamed.) as I was tied down with school work." I was tied down with school work. I was ten. Some things never change.

I said I had to pack up my stuff for our "diddy move." Eighteen year old me doesn't even know what a diddy move is, or why ten year old me put quotation marks around it. Dad explained it to me, and I did use the quotation marks correctly. That redeems some of the earlier spelling errors.

That letter is a perfect example of why I think writing is so important. I would never remember the mindset of myself eight years ago without it. The feelings that seem so monumental one moment are completely forgotten the next. I don't remember writing that letter at all, but while I was reading it, I was sucked back into that time of my life in a way I wouldn't do without that small reminder.

It also goes to show you that despite all the changes people undergo, there are parts of us that just stay the same. If I wrote those two paragraphs right now, I would probably phrase some of it the same. I'm proud of how mature I sounded, even if I don't remember it.

Grandma carefully tucked the letter back in her drawer, remembering the old me, hugging the current me. I'm glad both mes could bring her joy, and I'm glad that's something else that will never change.

Nov 25, 2010

Yep, It's the Thankful Post

I can't get behind the religious ideology behind Christmas and Easter. I'm too old for the festivities of Halloween. I'm not old enough to get smashed on New Year's. But if I ignore the historical complications that brought us Thanksgiving, I think I can celebrate this one with an appropriate amount of fervor.

First of all, as all of these things begin, I am thankful for my family. I'm thankful for loving and supportive parents, who are fun loving and hilarious. I'm thankful a little brother who probably loves me even if he'd never admit it, and the true friend he really is.

I'm thankful for that, as a family, we can stand in our front yard while mom triumphantly presses the button on the snazzy new remote that controls the Christmas lights like Clark Griswold. I'm thankful that my house looks like a display from the decoration section of Lowe's Hardware, and especially thankful for the random lit-up dolphin wearing a Santa hat that my parents proudly purchased for me last year.

I'm thankful for my slightly redneck but well-meaning extended family, and even more thankful that they're being thankful somewhere else.

I'm thankful that there are wonderful people taking care of my sick grandmother, and thankful that she is looking forward to us decorating her house for Christmas tomorrow and thankful that she felt good enough to go out and eat yesterday.

I'm thankful for my cat, even when he uses me as furniture. He enjoys Thanksgiving more than anyone.

I'm thankful for my dear friends, who hopefully know who they are. I'm thankful they put up with my when I'm annoying and embrace me when I'm not.

I'm thankful for my education, which I'm so grateful to be receiving, even when it annoys me to no end.

I'm thankful for my job, which is the perfect job for me and for my excellent co-workers there.

I'm thankful for all the great books I've read and will read and the amazing people who wrote them. I'm thankful for the music that puts melody in my life and the many devices I use to play it. I'm thankful for my silly car that always starts and keeps on chugging.

And finally, I'm thankful to anyone who reads this thing, and thankful for the opportunity to write things people may someday read. And most of all, I'm thankful that Mom is cooking a turkey downstairs because I'm freaking starving.

Nov 9, 2010

Becoming John Lennon and Other Semi-Related Ideas

People have been entirely frustrating as of late. I feel very judged. This might be because I feel I have been acting inadequately, and maybe it's because they're really being judgmental, but it really shouldn't be bothering me. People make assumptions about the intentions of others all the time, especially when they think they have some particular insight into the person's mind, and they're often wrong because they try to make the complexity of the human mind simple. And it's just not.

That's only vaguely related to what I wanted to write about, but these things just fall out of my head sometimes and have to land somewhere. Sometimes I think people shouldn't write about what they don't know. Actually, I think that most of the time. Amateur writers, including myself, often try to write about something they know nothing of--a short story about a kidnapped crack addict with a tragic past trying to beat the odds in Cancun. They, we, confuse art with complexity. The familiar doesn't seem complex to us because we're used to it.

Because of this, I end up writing about things I know for sure something about. My childhood experiences or personal observations cannot be disputed because they're mine and I'm the authority. But when writing begins to inch up on the margin of familiarity and leak out of the edges of the known plane, it gets dangerous. There is a risk of talking out of your proverbial hind end.

On the other hand, writing is how I figure out my thought process. I think things I'm unaware I'm thinking until I begin writing how I feel and it somehow organizes itself on the page. It's how I come to understand me. So if I don't write about things I don't know about, how will I ever form an opinion?

I was thinking about all of this during one of my classes. We were discussing a movie that dealt with a lot moral, ethical, and heavily religious themes. I do have opinions on these things, but for the same reasons I'm sometimes hesitant to write about them, I'm hesitant to speak of them in class. For one, my opinions are sure to be controversial for the setting; and two, I'm afraid of venturing into an area that I'm not capable of knowledgeably discussing.

But as the professor offered up valid and intriguing questions, I felt the familiar and usually squashed urge to answer. I kept squashing. But one other student kept offering up slightly-off-the-mark and thoughtless answers. The professor, not wanting to completely shut down his lone participant in the discussion, was helpless to correct his logical errors and simply asked "does anyone disagree?"

I disagreed. And I said so. And I prefaced my remark with, "not being a particularly religious person..." There was an uncomfortable shift in the room, but nobody said anything, and the professor ran with my actually-relevant-to-the-topic comments. I felt much better after I'd let my opinion be heard, and it was received positively.

I didn't think about this anymore until today, in another class with a different professor. He is an intelligent man and generally looked up to among my peers. But while I was first in his class a few years ago, some of my respect was withheld because he wore a cross around his neck. While I know I shouldn't judge people based on religious beliefs because the last thing I want is for people to judge me based on my lack of them, I can't help but think they are somehow deficient in logic and reason if they cling to a deity. This is especially the case if they are considered part of academia.

More recently, I noticed that his neck was now jewelry free. Assuming he'd abandoned his religion was a bit extreme, I figured, and I just guessed that the necklace had simply broken or gotten old or something.

But today in class, he made a statement that was music to my ears: "The older I get, the more I think like John Lennon: maybe we'd all be better off without religion."

There is something remarkably equalizing when an authority figure reveals that he had gone through a similar struggle you had, even much later in life than you had it. I felt like I had in class before when I spoke up--vindicated and relieved.

But that brought about a new worry. Why did I need the approval of these professors to feel vindicated, to be proud of my beliefs? I am sure they are what I believe in, so why do I always try to bury them? I will definitely defend them and admit to them if asked directly, but I never offer the information voluntarily. What good does it do to be ashamed? I'm just succumbing to the pressures I hate to think even exist.

Perhaps I should edit down this post into at least one coherent theme, since I have them running every which way. But I'm not going to. It demonstrates the very practice of my realizing my thoughts as I type them. All in the course of writing this blog post, I have complained about being judged, judged others, assumed others were judging me, and complained about the very idea of being judgmental. All in a day's work, I suppose.

I agree with my professor, as we all get older, we should all be more like John Lennon. John Lennon wasn't afraid to admit to his beliefs--he sang them over and over. Instead of being indignant, he tried to inspire change through his musical talents. Sure, he was judged so harshly somebody saw it fit to murder him. I still think we should all strive for that sort of confidence and peace and certainty.

You just might think I'm a dreamer, but I bet I'm not the only one.

Nov 8, 2010

Sex and Swings

I promised, more to myself than anybody unfortunate enough to read this, to tell the story of the rickety swing set behind my friend's house.

I was in forth grade, and he was in third. This, of course, meant that I was ever so much more worldly than he and could explain things he'd never fathomed. He looked up to me unquestionably, and I valued him highly as a dear friend and protegee of sorts on all things regarding neighborhood children politics.

Any serious discussions we had occurred in one of two places: the miniature-sized trampoline enclosed in the fence in his backyard (which is where he confessed what his parents called his "puppy love" for me and the first and definitely not the last place I disregarded honest affection for superficial and unattainable attention) or the swing set.

This afternoon, we had ventured to the swing set. Neither of our parents knew it existed and it was a few houses down from his place, so naturally we felt rebellious and isolated. In the safety of the weeds and rust, we were free to talk about the most taboo of subjects.

His sister had just called that morning to announce she was pregnant. This was her second child, after what I now realize was a deeply controversial teenage pregnancy that caused great rift in the family. My friend was deeply curious and deeply conflicted.

At first, his eyes were wide with pride at getting to be called "uncle," a grown-up title. He had been too young to fully enjoy the event the first time around. Then his thought process turned the idea over slowly and horror crept into his face, which he looked to me to absolve.

"How does it happen?"

Of course, he meant makin' babies.

Like an actual parent, a moment of panic struck me. Should I lie? All I knew I had gleaned from television and the forth grade version of sex ed and the "Alice" books from the school library, but it would probably be enough to satisfy his curiosity. I gathered my thoughts and answered deliberately. I was never good at sugar-coating.

"They had to have sex."

The word only garnered a small glint of recognition in his face. His parents were pretty over-protective, which explains his sister's adolescent behavior. He'd probably only heard the word in a negative context. A swear word, a forbidden action. Something that caused his parents and sisters to fight.

"Does it-- hurt her?"

Even at that young age, I remember being touched by his deep concern for his sister's welfare. "Maybe," I replied, "but it musn't be too bad if people keep doing it." I thought this was a good balance between honest and reassuring.

He contemplated this for a moment and then switched to new kind of possible damage. At this, the methodical pumping of his feet and the creaks of the rusty swing both halted, and the only sound was his voice and the ubiquitous Texas wind.

"Did she have to... be naked?"

I answered this question with odd clarity. I explained which parts essentially had to be uncovered, and that it didn't actually need to take that long for it to work. I left out, what I considered mercifully, that all the parts were probably uncovered and the length of their marriage suggested it probably took longer than he'd like to think.

I could almost hear his brain processing the information. All at once, his feet began pumping again. They scraped the bone dry ground and a plume of gritty sand enveloped him for a few minutes, and then he swung through it as if it were the confusion that clouded his brain moments before. The smile had returned to his face.

"Maybe they'll name him after me."

I ignored the assumption that the baby was to be a boy, and started my own swing back up. The thing rocked back and forth dangerously in the ground, but our innocent confidences ensured us that it would never tip over while we were sitting in it.

And it never did.

Nov 7, 2010

Barbie Jeeps

Maybe it's the weather. Something about this time of year, where it gets just a little bit colder every day, but not cold enough to warrant the full on Michelen-man winter coat, makes me think of the days I spent playing outside with all the neighborhood kids.

This weather was perfect because the combination of a light jacket and constant running kept your body temperature just perfect. The air was crisp and cold and felt good in your lungs. Gone was the dry hot Texas summer, replaced by the crunchy leaves of fall.

On my way home from school, I pass this little quaint house where two small children live. Many afternoons, they're playing in the limited but present backyard their middle-of-town location provides them. Their house is always decorated up for the holidays, currently displaying an array of pumpkins and turkeys.

My favorite playtime game to watch them engage in is the wonders of the electric Barbie jeep. Those little cars were the greatest thing ever when I was younger. Everybody wanted one. I never had one, but had friends who did, and their usefulness was never taken for granted. I watch the siblings squished into the seat, driving forward and then reversing in a slight semi-circle, laughing with pure joy. They couldn't be going more than seven feet, but their imaginations were taking them much further.

I miss those days when an electric powered Barbie Jeep and a fall afternoon were all I could've hoped for. Driving past them in my real life, gasoline powered car capable of traveling miles and miles, I envied their ability to go five feet and have great fun.

I miss playing on the jungle gym behind my house. On Base Housing, they installed random playground equipment in the grassy part between the houses on every block. Our block just happened to have an old, silvery steel jungle gym--my mom viewed it as public enemy number one. She was utterly convinced this jungle gym would cause us great bodily harm. Her favorite was "you will fall and get your mouth caught on one of those bolts and it'll rip your face clear in half!"

While that possibility was remote at best, one of my neighbors (a much older boy might I add) fell off and broke his arm. Of course, Mom was totally vindicated and we no longer had a good argument against her irrational prohibition of the beloved climbing apparatus. We still played many a game on it when she wasn't home, and it remained forever "home-base" during spirited games of tag. But eventually the powers that be over Base Housing also ruled the gym unsafe and had it removed.

We were forced to relocate to the rickety swing set behind my friend's house that Mom didn't know about. Oh, there's a good story on that swing set. I shall have to save that one!

I'm not sure how this went from talking about little neighborhood kids to the significant playgrounds in my life, but I do want to go outside and play now.