To beer or not to beer; that is the question.
Whether ‘tis noble in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous anxiety, or to take a deep breath against an at sea feeling, and, by centering, end it.
To drink, to buzz - no more, and by a buzz to say we end the heartburn and the thousand unnatural shocks that testing is heir to - 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished!
To drink, to buzz. To buzz perchance to fuzz?
Ay, there's the rub, for in that buzz of drink, what errors may come when we are feeling loosey goosey must give us pause. There's a respect that makes calamity of 24 hour liquor stores,
For who would bear the pressure of time limits, the teachers wrong, the A students contumely, the pangs of indecision, the insolence of admin and the tuition fees that seem unmerited but the unworthy takes, when he could himself oblivious make with a shot of bourbon?
Who would these finals bear, to grunt and swear under a weary study schedule but that the dread of something after school, the unemployment line from whose bourn no prospect returns, puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others we (hopefully) know not of.
Thus the economy doth make cowards of us all. And thus the native rosy hue of intoxication is sicklied over with the pale cast of thought and enterprises of being pissed and happy with this regard, their current wines runs dry, and lose their satisfaction.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
My Apocalypse
Okay, I've been gone a while. Thing is I have been writing, its just its been really boring school stuff. I mean, I don't find it boring but I'm pretty sure you would. Anyway, in one of my classes (History of Apocalyptic Thought) I had to write out my own apocalyptic prohecy which incorporated all the elements of the genre. I thought maybe you readers might find it interesting.
So, here it is, my own personal end times scenario written in the prophetic style:
In times past when our people were among many and lived in peace and prosperity on the great Earth, the chief Iron Jacket, he who it was said had the power to blow bullets away with his very breath, had a vision. This vision he cherished for many seasons and, when his end drew near, shared with his son Peta Nocona.
Peta Nocona, when he saw his father’s vision of the future come to be, shared it with his sons Quanah and Pecos. In the tradition of our people, they shared this vision with their children and so it has been entrusted to me, the son of their sons. Yet, these are the final days. I see the signs spoken of in the visions of Iron Jacket. The time has come for me to write down in the tradition of the white man.
Be still and attend to me, all who are of noble heart and blood. Seek wisdom and peace that you may be spared the great wrath that is soon to fall upon us. Hear the words of chief Iron Jacket, spoken at the time of his passing. Thus he spoke to his son, the wanderer:
My son, on the day of your birth the night fell before your mother’s struggles ceased. I held you in my arms as she named you, then, as the sun rose and you slept in her arms I was filled with wonder and restlessness. Fearing I would disturb my dear ones, I arose and went out to greet the sun that shone on the first morning of your walk.
I turned to fetch water from the stream and beheld with wonder a great sight. I am not a medicine man, privileged to glimpse the spirit world. Yet as I stood wondering, the medicine man of my childhood, he who had passed into the spirit world long ago, appeared. He smiled and I feared suddenly that I had passed into the spirit world.
My heart was sick within me, for I loved your mother. And you, though you had scarce drawn breath a few short hours, were already precious to me. My heart ached at the thought of being torn from you and I wept bitterly into the dust.
But the spirit spoke and said, “Iron Jacket, why should so great a warrior weep at the sight of an old friend?”
And I told him my fear but he smiled again and said, “You are not passed from this world but there are things that must be known on Earth that are known now only to the spirits. The time is coming when the world will need to hear these words. I bring them to you that you may pass them down. When the time comes, your children’s children will bring these words to a waiting world.”
I marveled at this but the Spirit warned me his time was short and to watch and listen carefully to all I saw and heard.
Then the Spirit cried out: “Behold, a thorn is placed in our side and we have been men of strength and plucked it out. Many there are that have plucked the thorn from their sides but many there are also who have feared the pain and allowed the thorn to take root.
The thorns have taken root in the land. They rise up from the very earth we tread and sink into our flesh spreading poison as they go. They creep along the earth, encircling the trees and choking the good, green life from them. Then fall the trees and the people and the beasts, yeah the very spirits rise up in terror and flee the thorns and their destruction.”
And behold I looked and the tears I had cried that fell on the Earth were multiplied until they flowed into the stream and the stream grew until it was a mighty river that rushed with fierce and crushing speed.
The spirit cried, “The people will run to safe havens. They will hew at the thorns and have victory, yet even in victory they will be defeated. For look you, the thorns will diminish. They will rise up as flowers, coated with tears of soft dew. The people will see the tears of compassion the flowers weep and send the young out to the flowers for their caring. The flowers will care for the young. They will grow fruits, pleasing to the eye that they will offer the starving child. The fruits will look pleasing to the eye and offer peace from the great hunger suffered by the young.
Meanwhile, Look you! The tears of the people will flow like a mighty river. The people will be caught up in a river of their own tears, pulled by its current into strange lands.
The young will take the fruits of the thorns and eat of them until they can eat no more. Only when they have been consumed will the fruits of the thorns reveal themselves. They will devour the young from within, not consuming them but filling them with death.”
As he said this I heard a cry and turned from the river of tears. I saw a small man-child and my heart thought of you, my hours-old son. I went to the child to ask him his name but he did not turn to me. And, behold, I looked and flowers filled his ears and his eyes were shut. I turned him to me and when his eyes were opened they were full of the sickly tears of the flowers. When the child opened his mouth his tongue was a dry and dead thorn speaking the death of our people.
I turned in terror from the fearsome child and beat at my chest and screamed:
“I will fight these thorns when they rise up. They shall not do thus to my child.”
The Spirit wept then and said. “Yea, Iron Jacket, you already fight them. For, look you, the thorns are the strangers from over the land and over the sea and all strange places. You fight them and are strong but many there are in these lands that allow the thorns to take root. You and your seed will fight the thorns for the first of seven seasons marked by seven great wars. The first season has ended and the thorns have made their place. You and your children’s children will fight the thorns for a season. Then, in the second season will your people take a thorn into your tribe and it shall become one of you.”
I scoffed and swore this would not be, but the Spirit rebuked me saying:
“Yea, Iron Jacket, your people will do this. The thorn will be among you and one of you and it will give birth to a child who will be a great leader in the third age. This child shall fight the thorns for a time but, being of the people and of the thorns, he will be the man who will lead the people to a safe haven among the thorns. He will seem to take on their ways but he will never be defeated by them and will keep his heart and the people’s hearts safe from the thorns and the flowers.
For in this 2nd season shall come a great serpent, dry and hard and strong as an old tree. He shall glide among the thorns and whisper to them. The thorns will encircle the people. The people will seek a place to rest and find no relief. They shall wander in search of surcease and find the thorns on every side. The great trees and beasts shall fall to the thorns; yea, even the very mountains shall open up their deep places and be laid bare before them.
And so it shall be, for five seasons the thorns shall take root so deep, they shall grow their flowers, leaves and fruit. They shall multiply ever as before and the people shall live as captives in their own land, surrounded at every side.
The thorns shall grow in beauty and the flowers shall weep their tears of sickly dew. And still the people will suffer grief and hardship; hunger and thirst and the flowers that were once the thorns will weep.
The thorns will be crushed by the flowers. Yet, I say unto you, the flowers will share the roots of the thorns and their roots will never be pulled. The flowers will live on and say in that last age, “We are none of these thorns. Can you not see? We are flowers.” But the people will know the truth and be wary.
The people will be overcome with grief for the fields, and the trees, the great beasts and the mountains. They will despair and cry their tears into the night and the night will not answer.
And so it shall be that near the end of the sixth great war, a girl child will stand like a bright feather before the flowers of the roots and show their thorns to them. Many will say in that day, “We are none of these thorns. We are flowers!” But many will believe and will be struck with sadness at the suffering they have caused and the Earth will be wet with their tears.
Then will the flowers look at their thorns and show them to the people and to the world and many will seek to repent. When the flowers see that they are thorns, then will the ears of the children of the people be emptied and the dew of the flowers be taken from their eyes and the dry thorn be taken from their mouths and they shall begin to be healed.
This is the mark of the end times. The seventh season will be marked by the last great war, a war fought in the parched land. In this last age the children of your children will take these words of mine and spread them to the people and, yea, even unto the flowers. They will warn the people of the judgment to come at the end of the seventh season.
When the judgment comes, the land will be filled with sickness. The young will be taken up first, for they were born of the people and of the flowers in the blessed truth and have nothing to fear. Then the old, those who were brought up in the lies of the thorns and the flowers of the sixth age will face fire and torments and through this tribulation their hearts will be judged whether they are still poisoned by the thorns.
The righteous shall be taken by the sickness in mercy and swiftness to await the end of the judgment. This shall be known by the birth of many suns on the Earth. They will scorch the surface of the Earth and the Earth will open up and devour the unrighteous and they will hide 1000 years in the belly of the Earth.
Then the land will be still and no man, woman or child will tread the Earth for 1000 years. The land will take back the scarred earth. The beasts and vegetation will break down and reclaim the Earth that was poisoned by the thorns.
Then, when the 1000 years have passed, the people will be returned to the Earth and there will be no more thorns and no more flowers. For, look you, all those who return will be the people and there will be peace between the spirits and the people and the land again and this kingdom of peace will last for all of time, yea, even to the end of the Earth.”
I am Iron Jacket of the Comanche people and I speak these words to my son, Peta Nocona as the Spirit so instructed me, that they may pass through generations to the people of the sixth and seventh age.
Hear these words, oh you people of the land and of the thorn that you may be found pure of spirit in the great judgment and live forever in the kingdom of peace.
So, here it is, my own personal end times scenario written in the prophetic style:
In times past when our people were among many and lived in peace and prosperity on the great Earth, the chief Iron Jacket, he who it was said had the power to blow bullets away with his very breath, had a vision. This vision he cherished for many seasons and, when his end drew near, shared with his son Peta Nocona.
Peta Nocona, when he saw his father’s vision of the future come to be, shared it with his sons Quanah and Pecos. In the tradition of our people, they shared this vision with their children and so it has been entrusted to me, the son of their sons. Yet, these are the final days. I see the signs spoken of in the visions of Iron Jacket. The time has come for me to write down in the tradition of the white man.
Be still and attend to me, all who are of noble heart and blood. Seek wisdom and peace that you may be spared the great wrath that is soon to fall upon us. Hear the words of chief Iron Jacket, spoken at the time of his passing. Thus he spoke to his son, the wanderer:
My son, on the day of your birth the night fell before your mother’s struggles ceased. I held you in my arms as she named you, then, as the sun rose and you slept in her arms I was filled with wonder and restlessness. Fearing I would disturb my dear ones, I arose and went out to greet the sun that shone on the first morning of your walk.
I turned to fetch water from the stream and beheld with wonder a great sight. I am not a medicine man, privileged to glimpse the spirit world. Yet as I stood wondering, the medicine man of my childhood, he who had passed into the spirit world long ago, appeared. He smiled and I feared suddenly that I had passed into the spirit world.
My heart was sick within me, for I loved your mother. And you, though you had scarce drawn breath a few short hours, were already precious to me. My heart ached at the thought of being torn from you and I wept bitterly into the dust.
But the spirit spoke and said, “Iron Jacket, why should so great a warrior weep at the sight of an old friend?”
And I told him my fear but he smiled again and said, “You are not passed from this world but there are things that must be known on Earth that are known now only to the spirits. The time is coming when the world will need to hear these words. I bring them to you that you may pass them down. When the time comes, your children’s children will bring these words to a waiting world.”
I marveled at this but the Spirit warned me his time was short and to watch and listen carefully to all I saw and heard.
Then the Spirit cried out: “Behold, a thorn is placed in our side and we have been men of strength and plucked it out. Many there are that have plucked the thorn from their sides but many there are also who have feared the pain and allowed the thorn to take root.
The thorns have taken root in the land. They rise up from the very earth we tread and sink into our flesh spreading poison as they go. They creep along the earth, encircling the trees and choking the good, green life from them. Then fall the trees and the people and the beasts, yeah the very spirits rise up in terror and flee the thorns and their destruction.”
And behold I looked and the tears I had cried that fell on the Earth were multiplied until they flowed into the stream and the stream grew until it was a mighty river that rushed with fierce and crushing speed.
The spirit cried, “The people will run to safe havens. They will hew at the thorns and have victory, yet even in victory they will be defeated. For look you, the thorns will diminish. They will rise up as flowers, coated with tears of soft dew. The people will see the tears of compassion the flowers weep and send the young out to the flowers for their caring. The flowers will care for the young. They will grow fruits, pleasing to the eye that they will offer the starving child. The fruits will look pleasing to the eye and offer peace from the great hunger suffered by the young.
Meanwhile, Look you! The tears of the people will flow like a mighty river. The people will be caught up in a river of their own tears, pulled by its current into strange lands.
The young will take the fruits of the thorns and eat of them until they can eat no more. Only when they have been consumed will the fruits of the thorns reveal themselves. They will devour the young from within, not consuming them but filling them with death.”
As he said this I heard a cry and turned from the river of tears. I saw a small man-child and my heart thought of you, my hours-old son. I went to the child to ask him his name but he did not turn to me. And, behold, I looked and flowers filled his ears and his eyes were shut. I turned him to me and when his eyes were opened they were full of the sickly tears of the flowers. When the child opened his mouth his tongue was a dry and dead thorn speaking the death of our people.
I turned in terror from the fearsome child and beat at my chest and screamed:
“I will fight these thorns when they rise up. They shall not do thus to my child.”
The Spirit wept then and said. “Yea, Iron Jacket, you already fight them. For, look you, the thorns are the strangers from over the land and over the sea and all strange places. You fight them and are strong but many there are in these lands that allow the thorns to take root. You and your seed will fight the thorns for the first of seven seasons marked by seven great wars. The first season has ended and the thorns have made their place. You and your children’s children will fight the thorns for a season. Then, in the second season will your people take a thorn into your tribe and it shall become one of you.”
I scoffed and swore this would not be, but the Spirit rebuked me saying:
“Yea, Iron Jacket, your people will do this. The thorn will be among you and one of you and it will give birth to a child who will be a great leader in the third age. This child shall fight the thorns for a time but, being of the people and of the thorns, he will be the man who will lead the people to a safe haven among the thorns. He will seem to take on their ways but he will never be defeated by them and will keep his heart and the people’s hearts safe from the thorns and the flowers.
For in this 2nd season shall come a great serpent, dry and hard and strong as an old tree. He shall glide among the thorns and whisper to them. The thorns will encircle the people. The people will seek a place to rest and find no relief. They shall wander in search of surcease and find the thorns on every side. The great trees and beasts shall fall to the thorns; yea, even the very mountains shall open up their deep places and be laid bare before them.
And so it shall be, for five seasons the thorns shall take root so deep, they shall grow their flowers, leaves and fruit. They shall multiply ever as before and the people shall live as captives in their own land, surrounded at every side.
The thorns shall grow in beauty and the flowers shall weep their tears of sickly dew. And still the people will suffer grief and hardship; hunger and thirst and the flowers that were once the thorns will weep.
The thorns will be crushed by the flowers. Yet, I say unto you, the flowers will share the roots of the thorns and their roots will never be pulled. The flowers will live on and say in that last age, “We are none of these thorns. Can you not see? We are flowers.” But the people will know the truth and be wary.
The people will be overcome with grief for the fields, and the trees, the great beasts and the mountains. They will despair and cry their tears into the night and the night will not answer.
And so it shall be that near the end of the sixth great war, a girl child will stand like a bright feather before the flowers of the roots and show their thorns to them. Many will say in that day, “We are none of these thorns. We are flowers!” But many will believe and will be struck with sadness at the suffering they have caused and the Earth will be wet with their tears.
Then will the flowers look at their thorns and show them to the people and to the world and many will seek to repent. When the flowers see that they are thorns, then will the ears of the children of the people be emptied and the dew of the flowers be taken from their eyes and the dry thorn be taken from their mouths and they shall begin to be healed.
This is the mark of the end times. The seventh season will be marked by the last great war, a war fought in the parched land. In this last age the children of your children will take these words of mine and spread them to the people and, yea, even unto the flowers. They will warn the people of the judgment to come at the end of the seventh season.
When the judgment comes, the land will be filled with sickness. The young will be taken up first, for they were born of the people and of the flowers in the blessed truth and have nothing to fear. Then the old, those who were brought up in the lies of the thorns and the flowers of the sixth age will face fire and torments and through this tribulation their hearts will be judged whether they are still poisoned by the thorns.
The righteous shall be taken by the sickness in mercy and swiftness to await the end of the judgment. This shall be known by the birth of many suns on the Earth. They will scorch the surface of the Earth and the Earth will open up and devour the unrighteous and they will hide 1000 years in the belly of the Earth.
Then the land will be still and no man, woman or child will tread the Earth for 1000 years. The land will take back the scarred earth. The beasts and vegetation will break down and reclaim the Earth that was poisoned by the thorns.
Then, when the 1000 years have passed, the people will be returned to the Earth and there will be no more thorns and no more flowers. For, look you, all those who return will be the people and there will be peace between the spirits and the people and the land again and this kingdom of peace will last for all of time, yea, even to the end of the Earth.”
I am Iron Jacket of the Comanche people and I speak these words to my son, Peta Nocona as the Spirit so instructed me, that they may pass through generations to the people of the sixth and seventh age.
Hear these words, oh you people of the land and of the thorn that you may be found pure of spirit in the great judgment and live forever in the kingdom of peace.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Not Just Un-Famous Fan Letters
I write fan letters but I've never written one to anyone famous. Does that make sense?
Lemme explain.
I never wrote a fan letter to an actor or singer because I thought, "Well, plenty of people are writing those people. What about everyone else?"
So, I wrote letters to people like the customer service representative who took care of a problem for me, or my insurance agent (which reminds me, I need to send a letter to the adjuster that looked at our car). I even wrote a fan letter to a police officer who gave me a ticket for having a busted headlight.
I think that's a good example of a good un-famous fan letter.
In that letter I wrote something along the lines that she had a pretty thankless job, especially that part of it. That I was sure most people thought along the lines that she was just being a pill issuing the ticket and she might get comments like, "Why are you out here messing with me? Shouldn't you be catching real criminals and actually protecting people like me?" But the truth is she was protecting me. If I have a headlight out, I need to be told about it. Unfortunately, however, loads of people aren't motivated to fix things like that unless there is a penalty for not having done so. The ticket makes us fix the problem right away because we're afraid of getting another ticket. If I didn't fix that headlight and the other failed, I'd be in really big trouble. So, even though it didn't seem like it, she was protecting me and I appreciated her doing her job so well.
I try to send out letters like this on a regular basis, especially to people like that police officer because they really do important work and they really don't get much in the way of recognition for it. Sometimes you have to hunt for a person or team to thank them but I'm sure people have to hunt down addresses to which they send their fan letters for actors, etc. So, it can't be that different.
Now, I love movies. Comedies, dramas, action movies, sci-fi, whatever, I'm just a huge film fan and I get what I call star crushes. I'll find an actor or actress that impresses me and I'll pretty much go through their body of work and also find out quite a bit about their background.
I watch their films and, if I can find them, even episodes of TV series in which they've appeared. I just like watching them play different roles and am generally pleased to see them wearing these different skins so effortlessly.
For some strange reason, reading about their lives prior to their careers is interesting to me and not creepy so I do it. I have no explanation really.
Maybe I think that before they became professional actors, they were out there living without a script. They weren't pretending, they were doing and I think that the doing part of their lives can sometimes be seen in the way they act later on.
I'm not sure that's logical or makes any sense at all but it's just how I feel about it.
Anyway, I recently developed a star crush on Jonathan Rhys Meyers and it has shifted my world view. I was reading about his past, which is very colorful, but also read a few quotes attributed to him. One of which was:
"It's not about money, fame, people knowing you. It's not even about enjoying yourself and being happy. It's about achieving something that's brilliant, creating something that's brilliant, for other people. For yourself, you're always going to be unsatisfied, but if somebody comes up to me and says, 'That was a brilliant part, and I really, really got it'. That's essentially it."
I thought about that. I also thought about another Jonathan: Jonathan Brandis.
I'm going to seemingly veer off topic right now but, trust me, it's related. Please bear with me.
Ahem.
I have asthma and have had asthma since childhood. Very early on I became disgruntled with how the media portrays asthma. For example: The Goonies. It's a brilliant film and I loved it but I cried at the end and here's why.
Goonies Ending
The end of that movie showed something that made me so angry. I've put a youtube clip here. It's in German and cuts off right as it gets to the part about which I'm speaking but I'm hoping it'll still remind people. Skip to the end of the little clip and you'll see Sean Astin's character fumble for his inhaler. The part that's cut out is him pausing, looking at it for a moment and then throwing it over his shoulder in a sort of, "I don't need this crutch anymore." way.
That's generally the way I saw asthma portrayed in the movies. I remember getting upset once that my asthma was bothering me and deciding that I would just get over it, like the kids in the movies did. It was all in my head, right? I had a very bad day that day because, like an idiot, I threw away my medicine.
Then I watched Sidekicks, starring Chuck Norris and Jonathan Brandis. It was a pretty typical karate kid clone with an asthmatic kid as the main character. However, the main character had asthma the way I had asthma. He didn't wheeze as he was breathing in, he coughed and struggled to expel air. The portrayal of asthma caught me with the first attack as his teacher says something like, "Don't fight it, Barry. Just let it happen." (Which sounds oddly pervy out of context....hmm.) Anyway...
That movie also made me cry but not out of anger and frustration at having someone, once again, show me a caricature of myself. I cried because after watching the scene I plugged in below I felt like someone else understood.
Sidekicks Scene
Just in case you can't view it, it essentially shows the main character going into an attack and throwing away his inhaler in frustration and anger. He yells, "I will beat you!" I'd felt that. Like the movies and shows I'd seen were telling me that I was supposed to be able to overcome my asthma somehow.
Then Barry, the main character, has a daydream/hallucination about being tortured by an evil man who uses twisting chains to crush his lungs. Barry says at one point I think, "I can't breathe!" and the torturer replies, "What do you care, Shrimp? You sound like a bagpipe when you do anyway."
Asthma isn't a joke or a punch line. It's a potentially fatal disease that makes it difficult if not impossible to breathe and these incredibly frightening attacks can occur without notice. I live with the fact that someone could dump some kind of cleaning solution into the vents of my office building (that's happened) or step onto an elevator with a perfume to which I'm allergic (also happened) and send me into an asthmatic attack that will land me in the hospital (um, yeah, the end result of both of those scenarios).
Consistently kids with asthma in movies are portrayed as nerds who really aren't sick but hide behind inhalers rather than get involved in anything too dangerous or scary. The opposite is true.
An asthma attack impairs your ability to breathe. Water boarding is considered torture because the fear of drowning, of not being able to breathe, is so very primal. Kids with asthma face this terrifying situation knowing the best way to get through it is to remain calm and "let it happen". Yet entertainers continue to portray kids with asthma as dorky, nervous, and even cowardly.
Watching Sidekicks, which showed a kid struggling with the disease, and with the isolation and inactivity having the disease had created, was incredible. I loved the fact that in the final scenes, when Barry is at the martial arts competition and Chuck Norris miraculously joins his team (it's a cheese fest of a movie) one of those scenes begins with him sitting on the sidelines and taking a hit off his inhaler. His asthma didn't magically go away. His medicine was treated like a crutch but not one behind which Barry hid, rather one that he had to learn to use properly in order to allow him to accomplish the things his disease made difficult.
I know the acting is dodgy and the storyline cheesy but I still love that movie because it made me feel good about myself. It made me feel like it was okay that I had asthma and that my asthma wasn't just in my head. As long as I believed it was just something in my head, I felt like every time I had trouble breathing or had to use my inhaler or had an attack that I was somehow failing.
I would love to write Jonathan Brandis a letter and tell him that. I would really love to let him know how important a movie he probably only thought of as dodgy and cheesy, was to me as a kid. I can't though.
Jonathan Brandis committed suicide in late 2003 at the age of 27. Thing was, I've seen films he did as an older actor. He was good. I mean, really good.
He had a decent sized role in Ride With The Devil, one of my favorite films of all time. If you watch that movie now you see it's an all around who's who of current 'it' actors and he was incredible in it.
He stood up with then less well-known or completely un-known actors: Tobey Maguire, Jeffrey Wright, Skeet Ulrich, James Caviezel, Simon Baker, Mark Ruffalo, & Tom Wilkinson, all of them being directed by Ang-freaking-Lee (I think that's officially how you're supposed to say his name) and there was Jonathan Brandis being fan-freaking-tastic.
Oh yeah, and Jonathan Rhys Meyers (you thought I forgot about him, didn't you?) he was in that movie as well.
Jonathan Brandis was, without question, a talented actor. I knew that but I never told him.
I mean, he has a line in that movie: "Yeah, sounds like real good dirt to me." You'd think that line would be funny but he managed to make it downright poignant.
I don't presume to think that if I'd written Jonathan Brandis a fan letter as a child or later as an adult it would have somehow given him an added incentive to live. I have no idea what might have caused him to make that decision. But after reading what Jonathan Rhys Meyers had to say, I think his one time co-star, Jonathan Brandis, deserved to know how his work affected me. I thought he was a great actor and I now know that I shouldn't have assumed someone else would tell him that.
To that end, I hereby officially remove my fan letter restrictions and will start sending letters to the famous as well as the un-famous (not infamous). I think that I'll start with Mr. Jonathan Rhys Meyers.
Hmmm.
Anyone have an address for the man?
Lemme explain.
I never wrote a fan letter to an actor or singer because I thought, "Well, plenty of people are writing those people. What about everyone else?"
So, I wrote letters to people like the customer service representative who took care of a problem for me, or my insurance agent (which reminds me, I need to send a letter to the adjuster that looked at our car). I even wrote a fan letter to a police officer who gave me a ticket for having a busted headlight.
I think that's a good example of a good un-famous fan letter.
In that letter I wrote something along the lines that she had a pretty thankless job, especially that part of it. That I was sure most people thought along the lines that she was just being a pill issuing the ticket and she might get comments like, "Why are you out here messing with me? Shouldn't you be catching real criminals and actually protecting people like me?" But the truth is she was protecting me. If I have a headlight out, I need to be told about it. Unfortunately, however, loads of people aren't motivated to fix things like that unless there is a penalty for not having done so. The ticket makes us fix the problem right away because we're afraid of getting another ticket. If I didn't fix that headlight and the other failed, I'd be in really big trouble. So, even though it didn't seem like it, she was protecting me and I appreciated her doing her job so well.
I try to send out letters like this on a regular basis, especially to people like that police officer because they really do important work and they really don't get much in the way of recognition for it. Sometimes you have to hunt for a person or team to thank them but I'm sure people have to hunt down addresses to which they send their fan letters for actors, etc. So, it can't be that different.
Now, I love movies. Comedies, dramas, action movies, sci-fi, whatever, I'm just a huge film fan and I get what I call star crushes. I'll find an actor or actress that impresses me and I'll pretty much go through their body of work and also find out quite a bit about their background.
I watch their films and, if I can find them, even episodes of TV series in which they've appeared. I just like watching them play different roles and am generally pleased to see them wearing these different skins so effortlessly.
For some strange reason, reading about their lives prior to their careers is interesting to me and not creepy so I do it. I have no explanation really.
Maybe I think that before they became professional actors, they were out there living without a script. They weren't pretending, they were doing and I think that the doing part of their lives can sometimes be seen in the way they act later on.
I'm not sure that's logical or makes any sense at all but it's just how I feel about it.
Anyway, I recently developed a star crush on Jonathan Rhys Meyers and it has shifted my world view. I was reading about his past, which is very colorful, but also read a few quotes attributed to him. One of which was:
"It's not about money, fame, people knowing you. It's not even about enjoying yourself and being happy. It's about achieving something that's brilliant, creating something that's brilliant, for other people. For yourself, you're always going to be unsatisfied, but if somebody comes up to me and says, 'That was a brilliant part, and I really, really got it'. That's essentially it."
I thought about that. I also thought about another Jonathan: Jonathan Brandis.
I'm going to seemingly veer off topic right now but, trust me, it's related. Please bear with me.
Ahem.
I have asthma and have had asthma since childhood. Very early on I became disgruntled with how the media portrays asthma. For example: The Goonies. It's a brilliant film and I loved it but I cried at the end and here's why.
Goonies Ending
The end of that movie showed something that made me so angry. I've put a youtube clip here. It's in German and cuts off right as it gets to the part about which I'm speaking but I'm hoping it'll still remind people. Skip to the end of the little clip and you'll see Sean Astin's character fumble for his inhaler. The part that's cut out is him pausing, looking at it for a moment and then throwing it over his shoulder in a sort of, "I don't need this crutch anymore." way.
That's generally the way I saw asthma portrayed in the movies. I remember getting upset once that my asthma was bothering me and deciding that I would just get over it, like the kids in the movies did. It was all in my head, right? I had a very bad day that day because, like an idiot, I threw away my medicine.
Then I watched Sidekicks, starring Chuck Norris and Jonathan Brandis. It was a pretty typical karate kid clone with an asthmatic kid as the main character. However, the main character had asthma the way I had asthma. He didn't wheeze as he was breathing in, he coughed and struggled to expel air. The portrayal of asthma caught me with the first attack as his teacher says something like, "Don't fight it, Barry. Just let it happen." (Which sounds oddly pervy out of context....hmm.) Anyway...
That movie also made me cry but not out of anger and frustration at having someone, once again, show me a caricature of myself. I cried because after watching the scene I plugged in below I felt like someone else understood.
Sidekicks Scene
Just in case you can't view it, it essentially shows the main character going into an attack and throwing away his inhaler in frustration and anger. He yells, "I will beat you!" I'd felt that. Like the movies and shows I'd seen were telling me that I was supposed to be able to overcome my asthma somehow.
Then Barry, the main character, has a daydream/hallucination about being tortured by an evil man who uses twisting chains to crush his lungs. Barry says at one point I think, "I can't breathe!" and the torturer replies, "What do you care, Shrimp? You sound like a bagpipe when you do anyway."
Asthma isn't a joke or a punch line. It's a potentially fatal disease that makes it difficult if not impossible to breathe and these incredibly frightening attacks can occur without notice. I live with the fact that someone could dump some kind of cleaning solution into the vents of my office building (that's happened) or step onto an elevator with a perfume to which I'm allergic (also happened) and send me into an asthmatic attack that will land me in the hospital (um, yeah, the end result of both of those scenarios).
Consistently kids with asthma in movies are portrayed as nerds who really aren't sick but hide behind inhalers rather than get involved in anything too dangerous or scary. The opposite is true.
An asthma attack impairs your ability to breathe. Water boarding is considered torture because the fear of drowning, of not being able to breathe, is so very primal. Kids with asthma face this terrifying situation knowing the best way to get through it is to remain calm and "let it happen". Yet entertainers continue to portray kids with asthma as dorky, nervous, and even cowardly.
Watching Sidekicks, which showed a kid struggling with the disease, and with the isolation and inactivity having the disease had created, was incredible. I loved the fact that in the final scenes, when Barry is at the martial arts competition and Chuck Norris miraculously joins his team (it's a cheese fest of a movie) one of those scenes begins with him sitting on the sidelines and taking a hit off his inhaler. His asthma didn't magically go away. His medicine was treated like a crutch but not one behind which Barry hid, rather one that he had to learn to use properly in order to allow him to accomplish the things his disease made difficult.
I know the acting is dodgy and the storyline cheesy but I still love that movie because it made me feel good about myself. It made me feel like it was okay that I had asthma and that my asthma wasn't just in my head. As long as I believed it was just something in my head, I felt like every time I had trouble breathing or had to use my inhaler or had an attack that I was somehow failing.
I would love to write Jonathan Brandis a letter and tell him that. I would really love to let him know how important a movie he probably only thought of as dodgy and cheesy, was to me as a kid. I can't though.
Jonathan Brandis committed suicide in late 2003 at the age of 27. Thing was, I've seen films he did as an older actor. He was good. I mean, really good.
He had a decent sized role in Ride With The Devil, one of my favorite films of all time. If you watch that movie now you see it's an all around who's who of current 'it' actors and he was incredible in it.
He stood up with then less well-known or completely un-known actors: Tobey Maguire, Jeffrey Wright, Skeet Ulrich, James Caviezel, Simon Baker, Mark Ruffalo, & Tom Wilkinson, all of them being directed by Ang-freaking-Lee (I think that's officially how you're supposed to say his name) and there was Jonathan Brandis being fan-freaking-tastic.
Oh yeah, and Jonathan Rhys Meyers (you thought I forgot about him, didn't you?) he was in that movie as well.
Jonathan Brandis was, without question, a talented actor. I knew that but I never told him.
I mean, he has a line in that movie: "Yeah, sounds like real good dirt to me." You'd think that line would be funny but he managed to make it downright poignant.
I don't presume to think that if I'd written Jonathan Brandis a fan letter as a child or later as an adult it would have somehow given him an added incentive to live. I have no idea what might have caused him to make that decision. But after reading what Jonathan Rhys Meyers had to say, I think his one time co-star, Jonathan Brandis, deserved to know how his work affected me. I thought he was a great actor and I now know that I shouldn't have assumed someone else would tell him that.
To that end, I hereby officially remove my fan letter restrictions and will start sending letters to the famous as well as the un-famous (not infamous). I think that I'll start with Mr. Jonathan Rhys Meyers.
Hmmm.
Anyone have an address for the man?
Monday, August 10, 2009
How Hillary Clinton Ruined My Life
When I was 15 I was a finalist in an "oral essay" competition. It was one of the strangest competitions in which I have ever been involved.
It was essentially a speech competition, except you didn't perform the speech. You recorded it on tape and sent it off. The end result was you would get these unexpected phone calls. "Hi. You've won at such-and-such level and are progressing to the next round." It was oddly disconnected and didn't seem real.
Then one day, someone calls up and says, "You're a finalist in the State Championship. Please be at such-and-such hotel in Alexandria at such-and-such time on such-and-such date." If you're me, you hang up feeling a bit dazed and shouting, "Ma!"
I also clearly remember the paperwork that arrived later saying to bring "formal attire". I borrowed a dress from a friend that didn't fit well and still turned out to look hopelessly shabby next to the other girls. I also remember telling myself I was kind of like Meg from Little Women and that actually making me feel better.
I had no hope at all of winning. They started reading off the top six places and I remember chanting in my head, "Please let me place. Please." I lost hope when they got to second place and it wasn't me. I started consoling myself. "At least you made it to State. It doesn't matter that you didn't place. You made it to State. Cat never made it to State." (Cat was my older sister who also did Speech & with whom I had a younger sibling's borderline obsessive need to beat.)
They announced the winner and I tried very hard to plaster a genuine smile on my face as I clapped politely for whoever it was. No one moved at the finalists' table. I remember looking up and down the table and wondering why whoever it was didn't get up already. Then District Four grabbed my hands and said, "They're waiting for you. Get up!"
The audience laughed. My Dad said that the surprise on my face made it really obvious that I hadn't known I'd won. I got up and nearly screamed because there was a freaking marine standing behind me to escort me to the stage. I got to the stage and realized I'd forgotten my speech and ran back to get it. When I arrived at the podium the plan had been to give me something and THEN have me give my speech but I marched right up and gave the speech immediately.
I was so nervous my hand was shaking violently. I mean, up and down a few inches each time. The stage was pretty make-shift and my shaking actually set things vibrating along the table but I gave the speech and the longer I spoke the less I shook. My voice, amazingly, didn't shake but came out clear and strong just like I'd rehearsed. That has always amazed me.
As soon as I'd finished the speech I tried to get off the stage and back to my seat. The presenter made a joke about not running away and then gave me a trophy so large; if I still had it I'd probably be using it for a hat wrack. I tried to get down again. Nope. They had a plaque for me.
Then there was some kind of memorial award for my school. Then I finally thought I was going to get to sit down and they handed me the best and most mind blowing award of the night: A trip to the finals in Washington D.C.
Wow.
That night I couldn't sleep. My Dad was preaching the next morning and we had made no plans to stay. That fact alone really hammers in that, not only did I not think it was possible I'd win, but neither did my parents. The winner was supposed to attend an event the next morning but we had no plans for that eventuality. It was decided that I would hitch a ride with a couple there who were also from my home town and Dad left me alone in the hotel room.
I remember that night so clearly. As I said, I couldn't sleep. I'd never been in a hotel room by myself, and I'd never been in one so very nice. The floor I was on was two stories higher than the tallest building in my entire hometown. I had two windows and one had a window seat. I had a coffee maker and a desk and STATIONARY. I turned on VH1 on the TV and I remember that Bang and Blame by REM and Take A Bow by Madonna played extremely often that night. To this day, either of those songs has the ability to transport me back in time to that sleepless night.
I just sat in the window seat, drinking coffee and watching the twinkling lights along the river trying to figure out what had just happened. I had the packet they'd given me at the ceremony with the information about the trip and I kept looking over the tickets and the itinerary wondering when it would hit. I just couldn't believe it.
The trip was a bit of a whirlwind. I felt an instant connection with the guy from Kentucky who, because I was from Louisiana, I was always seated near. We went to dinners, speeches, museums... This is the trip during which I met President Clinton.
The contest was run by the Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) and held during some kind of National get-together of theirs. President Clinton was giving a speech at one of the events and was understandably nervous. This was before the intern and the lying and one of his biggest black marks was still the accusation of draft dodging. He wasn't exactly popular with the Veterans of Foreign Wars.
I remember we kids, one from each state and territory so 54 of us in all, were sent to this large banquet room area. There were security people everywhere and a secret service agent gave a little speech about what to do and how to act so as not to appear a threat to the President. Nerve wracking.
Kentucky and I were talking when I swear a piece of the wall near the ceiling just opened up. I could see the vague outline of a head and shoulders and was a little freaked out.
I finally decided to approach one of the guys in suits. I think I said something like, "Um, hi. Can I ask you a question real quick?" He said yes, so I continued with, "The guy up there? (I pointed) He's with you right?"
The suit chuckled and said yes. I sighed and went back to the group my mind freed of visions of assassination attempts.
President Clinton arrived.
Tada!
I wasn't exactly a fan of his. It had nothing to do with him running for or being President but something to do with some stuff that went down in his Arkansas administration that adversely affected members of my extended family.
So, when everyone crushed in to shake hands, I didn't fight to get close enough. I didn't walk away or anything but I let myself get sort of bumped back. It didn't matter to me so why struggle. But then he said, "Okay, did I miss anyone."
And there was Kentucky, being all nice. "You missed Louisiana."
Clinton smiled at me. The man really is charming.
"Well, that's not very neighborly of me is it?" He said and stepped over and shook my hand.
He said a few more things and then talked about how kids like us were the future of America. Yada yada yada. We'd heard variations of that speech all week.
I'm sure America is very grateful that I am an analyst for a software company and Kentucky is a rowing coach. I mean, we're happy with our lives but that stuff about us being the future of America seems to have been overkill in my humble opinion. I mean, sheesh. All we did was write a nice speech. Anyway, doesn't matter.
Clinton went off to give his speech.
Mr. Gordon, the guy with the unenviable job of leading us kids around D.C. by the nose, took us to a place where we could watch.
I don't remember what the speech was about. I remember that several members of the audience booed when he took the stage and I remember feeling indignant that they had. I am still a firm believer in showing respect for the elected President of the country, apparently even when I think he cheated my family. It's not about respecting the man so much as respecting the office he holds.
Anyway, I was distracted from the speech by spotting another person standing off in the sidelines listening to it. Hilary Clinton. I didn't meet her. I didn't get within ten feet of her but I watched her all through that speech. People had at that time told me and continue to tell me that she didn't and doesn't care about her husband: That theirs is a marriage that is more akin to a political alliance than anything else. I don't believe it.
She never appeared before that crowd. They never saw her. There was no point in her being there other than to do what she did, lend moral support. She watched from the sidelines with obvious concern for her husband, not her meal ticket.
I think that both of these political figures, "Bill & Hillary", are real people. I saw it. I saw a wife nervous about a husband facing a difficult task. I remember the strained nervous look on her face and then the smile with which she greeted him when it was over. My fifteen year old self had a little epiphany then. I thought, "They're just people." They could have been my parents.
I lost something precious that day: The ability to demonize politicians.
It's really unfair, you know. I should be able to look at some policy or another and just rant and rave about conspiracies and how evil this or that person is. Now, instead, I have to approach politics rationally and with an even temper.
Darn you Hillary Clinton and your obviously genuine affection and concern. You ruined EVERYTHING!!!
It was essentially a speech competition, except you didn't perform the speech. You recorded it on tape and sent it off. The end result was you would get these unexpected phone calls. "Hi. You've won at such-and-such level and are progressing to the next round." It was oddly disconnected and didn't seem real.
Then one day, someone calls up and says, "You're a finalist in the State Championship. Please be at such-and-such hotel in Alexandria at such-and-such time on such-and-such date." If you're me, you hang up feeling a bit dazed and shouting, "Ma!"
I also clearly remember the paperwork that arrived later saying to bring "formal attire". I borrowed a dress from a friend that didn't fit well and still turned out to look hopelessly shabby next to the other girls. I also remember telling myself I was kind of like Meg from Little Women and that actually making me feel better.
I had no hope at all of winning. They started reading off the top six places and I remember chanting in my head, "Please let me place. Please." I lost hope when they got to second place and it wasn't me. I started consoling myself. "At least you made it to State. It doesn't matter that you didn't place. You made it to State. Cat never made it to State." (Cat was my older sister who also did Speech & with whom I had a younger sibling's borderline obsessive need to beat.)
They announced the winner and I tried very hard to plaster a genuine smile on my face as I clapped politely for whoever it was. No one moved at the finalists' table. I remember looking up and down the table and wondering why whoever it was didn't get up already. Then District Four grabbed my hands and said, "They're waiting for you. Get up!"
The audience laughed. My Dad said that the surprise on my face made it really obvious that I hadn't known I'd won. I got up and nearly screamed because there was a freaking marine standing behind me to escort me to the stage. I got to the stage and realized I'd forgotten my speech and ran back to get it. When I arrived at the podium the plan had been to give me something and THEN have me give my speech but I marched right up and gave the speech immediately.
I was so nervous my hand was shaking violently. I mean, up and down a few inches each time. The stage was pretty make-shift and my shaking actually set things vibrating along the table but I gave the speech and the longer I spoke the less I shook. My voice, amazingly, didn't shake but came out clear and strong just like I'd rehearsed. That has always amazed me.
As soon as I'd finished the speech I tried to get off the stage and back to my seat. The presenter made a joke about not running away and then gave me a trophy so large; if I still had it I'd probably be using it for a hat wrack. I tried to get down again. Nope. They had a plaque for me.
Then there was some kind of memorial award for my school. Then I finally thought I was going to get to sit down and they handed me the best and most mind blowing award of the night: A trip to the finals in Washington D.C.
Wow.
That night I couldn't sleep. My Dad was preaching the next morning and we had made no plans to stay. That fact alone really hammers in that, not only did I not think it was possible I'd win, but neither did my parents. The winner was supposed to attend an event the next morning but we had no plans for that eventuality. It was decided that I would hitch a ride with a couple there who were also from my home town and Dad left me alone in the hotel room.
I remember that night so clearly. As I said, I couldn't sleep. I'd never been in a hotel room by myself, and I'd never been in one so very nice. The floor I was on was two stories higher than the tallest building in my entire hometown. I had two windows and one had a window seat. I had a coffee maker and a desk and STATIONARY. I turned on VH1 on the TV and I remember that Bang and Blame by REM and Take A Bow by Madonna played extremely often that night. To this day, either of those songs has the ability to transport me back in time to that sleepless night.
I just sat in the window seat, drinking coffee and watching the twinkling lights along the river trying to figure out what had just happened. I had the packet they'd given me at the ceremony with the information about the trip and I kept looking over the tickets and the itinerary wondering when it would hit. I just couldn't believe it.
The trip was a bit of a whirlwind. I felt an instant connection with the guy from Kentucky who, because I was from Louisiana, I was always seated near. We went to dinners, speeches, museums... This is the trip during which I met President Clinton.
The contest was run by the Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) and held during some kind of National get-together of theirs. President Clinton was giving a speech at one of the events and was understandably nervous. This was before the intern and the lying and one of his biggest black marks was still the accusation of draft dodging. He wasn't exactly popular with the Veterans of Foreign Wars.
I remember we kids, one from each state and territory so 54 of us in all, were sent to this large banquet room area. There were security people everywhere and a secret service agent gave a little speech about what to do and how to act so as not to appear a threat to the President. Nerve wracking.
Kentucky and I were talking when I swear a piece of the wall near the ceiling just opened up. I could see the vague outline of a head and shoulders and was a little freaked out.
I finally decided to approach one of the guys in suits. I think I said something like, "Um, hi. Can I ask you a question real quick?" He said yes, so I continued with, "The guy up there? (I pointed) He's with you right?"
The suit chuckled and said yes. I sighed and went back to the group my mind freed of visions of assassination attempts.
President Clinton arrived.
Tada!
I wasn't exactly a fan of his. It had nothing to do with him running for or being President but something to do with some stuff that went down in his Arkansas administration that adversely affected members of my extended family.
So, when everyone crushed in to shake hands, I didn't fight to get close enough. I didn't walk away or anything but I let myself get sort of bumped back. It didn't matter to me so why struggle. But then he said, "Okay, did I miss anyone."
And there was Kentucky, being all nice. "You missed Louisiana."
Clinton smiled at me. The man really is charming.
"Well, that's not very neighborly of me is it?" He said and stepped over and shook my hand.
He said a few more things and then talked about how kids like us were the future of America. Yada yada yada. We'd heard variations of that speech all week.
I'm sure America is very grateful that I am an analyst for a software company and Kentucky is a rowing coach. I mean, we're happy with our lives but that stuff about us being the future of America seems to have been overkill in my humble opinion. I mean, sheesh. All we did was write a nice speech. Anyway, doesn't matter.
Clinton went off to give his speech.
Mr. Gordon, the guy with the unenviable job of leading us kids around D.C. by the nose, took us to a place where we could watch.
I don't remember what the speech was about. I remember that several members of the audience booed when he took the stage and I remember feeling indignant that they had. I am still a firm believer in showing respect for the elected President of the country, apparently even when I think he cheated my family. It's not about respecting the man so much as respecting the office he holds.
Anyway, I was distracted from the speech by spotting another person standing off in the sidelines listening to it. Hilary Clinton. I didn't meet her. I didn't get within ten feet of her but I watched her all through that speech. People had at that time told me and continue to tell me that she didn't and doesn't care about her husband: That theirs is a marriage that is more akin to a political alliance than anything else. I don't believe it.
She never appeared before that crowd. They never saw her. There was no point in her being there other than to do what she did, lend moral support. She watched from the sidelines with obvious concern for her husband, not her meal ticket.
I think that both of these political figures, "Bill & Hillary", are real people. I saw it. I saw a wife nervous about a husband facing a difficult task. I remember the strained nervous look on her face and then the smile with which she greeted him when it was over. My fifteen year old self had a little epiphany then. I thought, "They're just people." They could have been my parents.
I lost something precious that day: The ability to demonize politicians.
It's really unfair, you know. I should be able to look at some policy or another and just rant and rave about conspiracies and how evil this or that person is. Now, instead, I have to approach politics rationally and with an even temper.
Darn you Hillary Clinton and your obviously genuine affection and concern. You ruined EVERYTHING!!!
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Fight Club
I was tweeting earlier today about fights. Thing is, I've a temper. I'm told that as a person of predominantly Irish decent, this is expected. I think that's stereotyping and in an unflattering way but I can't ever say anything because then I'm just proving their point about having an "Irish temper". Grrr.
Anyway, I've learned to control it.
No, really. I have.
Okay, so a coworker when she saw I was assigned as tester to a certain programmer with whom I'd never worked felt obligated to come over and warn me that he could be a prick because, as she put it, "You've got a temper and he'll push your buttons." Maybe I've said a few choice things here and there but I haven't smacked anybody, not in years.
I haven't been involved in an actual physical altercation in a decade. *pat pat*
However, I'll admit, at one time it was a little easy to goad me to blows, especially on the soccer field. I still have a scar under my left eye from a fight on the soccer field, though it is now so faint that if I wear any make up at all it's pretty much undetectable. I lost that fight. It wasn't my worst though.
The worst fight I ever had has to be the one I had with my sister the night before we went on vacation.
Shine and I shared a room and the age eleven at the time and absolutely no one could get on our respective nerves like each other. I had done something that had angered her. I can't remember what it was but I remember that she'd been nursing the grudge for days.
Shine had a smoldering temper. I had a hot temper. I'd get mad about something; scream, punch or rant and then be over it. Shine would just sit there and stew; ignoring me or giving me smoldering glares, or both.
I was a flash bang grenade. She was a crock pot.
I don't remember what I'd done to piss her off but pissed she was. She tried to get me with her psychological warfare that night. I was trying to sleep and she started making these clicking noises with her tongue. I tried to ignore her. I did.
I stuffed my pillow over my head and as far into my ears as I could manage but she just amped up the volume. She was driving me CRAZY!
I just lost it. I leaped directly from my bed on one side of the room to hers. I landed on top of her, grabbed her night shirt in my fists, pulled up her shoulders and screamed, "Just STOP IT!" directly in her face.
Shine's eyebrows went up for a second, then they went down. I went down too.
She socked me on the side of the head, mainly in the ear: her knuckles pinching the cartilage between them and the thick stony hardness of my skull. I fell off the bed and onto the floor and she was on me in seconds.
She straddled me and started punching at my face. I managed to block her pretty effectively but she got a few low velocity hits in, nothing too terrible. I hit her in the side with as much force as I could manage from flat on my back and then hit the bottom of her jaw with the heel of my palm. She bit her tongue and jerked back in reaction. It gave me just enough wiggle room to plant my right foot and roll us over with me on top.
I chose to place one knee in her gut rather than straddle. It left me more open to being rolled again but Shine had about 20 pounds on me and I was trying to inflict as much damage as fast as possible. I knew from experience that the only way I'd win was through a quick submission and retreat to mutual corners.
I tried a few blows to the face but knew her guard would be up. It was more for effect to keep her busy. Then I punched her in the breast. Shine already had small ones and though I was still flat chested, I knew they were a sensitive area. Her defenses lowered to her chest and I got a great punch into her face aiming at her nose but landing more alongside it.
Shine grabbed my long hair (always a key weakness) in a great handfull and used it in much the same way a bit is used on a horse, to pull back my head and blind me. I reached out a hand blindly toward her face hoping to aim my left fist by feel and got my right middle finger in her mouth somehow.
She bit.
HARD.
I shouted in pain which was the first noise we'd really made besides grunting after my initial eruption. Shine kept my finger locked firmly in her teeth and rolled over. She now had two hands to my one but I was still able to keep her from doing much damage. So, she grabbed my left hand with hers, sort of twisted above my head and started pounding on me with her free right. Thankfully, just having my right hand in her mouth diffused some of her momentum and the blows weren't as hard as they could have been.
That's when our Dad walked in. My poor Dad. He so very much wanted little girls with ribbons in their hair who wore pretty dresses and, I don't know, played with Barbies? Whatever it is that girly girls do, that's what he wanted.
I imagine what we must have looked like to him. Shine on top of me with my finger locked between her teeth. I had a busted lip and was bleeding slightly but she had dripped quite a bit of my and her blood onto me. Two bloody faced little girls trying to beat the ever loving crap out of each other.
My poor Dad.
He was horrified. I still remember that blank stare of utter confusion on his face when he opened the door. We had frozen in place much like cartoon characters when the open door spilled light from the hallway onto our shenanigans.
Dad yelled, "What are you DOING!?!"
We didn't have an answer. In fact, Shine hadn't even stopped biting my finger at that time.
"Get. Up!" Dad yelled in that strange 'you-are-in-so-much-trouble' punctuated way.
And she finally let go. I could feel her teeth pulling out of my skin and couldn't hold back a little yelp.
Dad took us to the bathroom and cleaned us up, threatening the whole time to find a way to leave us behind when the family left on our trip the next day.
He super glued my finger, something he and Mom had done before with small but deep cuts, and also cleaned up our mutual split lips.
I think that still ranks as my worst fight. No one, absolutely no one, has ever gone for the kill like Shine and I also found that in every other fight I've shown more restraint. For some reason, you just go for the cheap shots with siblings.
Funny thing is, years later I found a picture from that trip. It's the very next day, Shine and I have matching scabs on our lower lips, and you can see the bandage on my finger but, here's the thing, the only reason you can see it is because I've got my arm slug over her shoulder in a mutual half hug.
My Mom and Dad talk about us as kids and our crazy fights but we always got over it. Without exception, the next day it was all forgotten. Fighting never solved a problem, but somehow it still made us feel better, which makes no sense whatsoever but is absolutely 100% true.
Sometimes I think that if we could all just land a few restrained blows every once in a while we might feel a little better about losing. You know? You lost the fight but you still walked away saying, "At least I landed that sweet shot to her boob."
Anyway, I've learned to control it.
No, really. I have.
Okay, so a coworker when she saw I was assigned as tester to a certain programmer with whom I'd never worked felt obligated to come over and warn me that he could be a prick because, as she put it, "You've got a temper and he'll push your buttons." Maybe I've said a few choice things here and there but I haven't smacked anybody, not in years.
I haven't been involved in an actual physical altercation in a decade. *pat pat*
However, I'll admit, at one time it was a little easy to goad me to blows, especially on the soccer field. I still have a scar under my left eye from a fight on the soccer field, though it is now so faint that if I wear any make up at all it's pretty much undetectable. I lost that fight. It wasn't my worst though.
The worst fight I ever had has to be the one I had with my sister the night before we went on vacation.
Shine and I shared a room and the age eleven at the time and absolutely no one could get on our respective nerves like each other. I had done something that had angered her. I can't remember what it was but I remember that she'd been nursing the grudge for days.
Shine had a smoldering temper. I had a hot temper. I'd get mad about something; scream, punch or rant and then be over it. Shine would just sit there and stew; ignoring me or giving me smoldering glares, or both.
I was a flash bang grenade. She was a crock pot.
I don't remember what I'd done to piss her off but pissed she was. She tried to get me with her psychological warfare that night. I was trying to sleep and she started making these clicking noises with her tongue. I tried to ignore her. I did.
I stuffed my pillow over my head and as far into my ears as I could manage but she just amped up the volume. She was driving me CRAZY!
I just lost it. I leaped directly from my bed on one side of the room to hers. I landed on top of her, grabbed her night shirt in my fists, pulled up her shoulders and screamed, "Just STOP IT!" directly in her face.
Shine's eyebrows went up for a second, then they went down. I went down too.
She socked me on the side of the head, mainly in the ear: her knuckles pinching the cartilage between them and the thick stony hardness of my skull. I fell off the bed and onto the floor and she was on me in seconds.
She straddled me and started punching at my face. I managed to block her pretty effectively but she got a few low velocity hits in, nothing too terrible. I hit her in the side with as much force as I could manage from flat on my back and then hit the bottom of her jaw with the heel of my palm. She bit her tongue and jerked back in reaction. It gave me just enough wiggle room to plant my right foot and roll us over with me on top.
I chose to place one knee in her gut rather than straddle. It left me more open to being rolled again but Shine had about 20 pounds on me and I was trying to inflict as much damage as fast as possible. I knew from experience that the only way I'd win was through a quick submission and retreat to mutual corners.
I tried a few blows to the face but knew her guard would be up. It was more for effect to keep her busy. Then I punched her in the breast. Shine already had small ones and though I was still flat chested, I knew they were a sensitive area. Her defenses lowered to her chest and I got a great punch into her face aiming at her nose but landing more alongside it.
Shine grabbed my long hair (always a key weakness) in a great handfull and used it in much the same way a bit is used on a horse, to pull back my head and blind me. I reached out a hand blindly toward her face hoping to aim my left fist by feel and got my right middle finger in her mouth somehow.
She bit.
HARD.
I shouted in pain which was the first noise we'd really made besides grunting after my initial eruption. Shine kept my finger locked firmly in her teeth and rolled over. She now had two hands to my one but I was still able to keep her from doing much damage. So, she grabbed my left hand with hers, sort of twisted above my head and started pounding on me with her free right. Thankfully, just having my right hand in her mouth diffused some of her momentum and the blows weren't as hard as they could have been.
That's when our Dad walked in. My poor Dad. He so very much wanted little girls with ribbons in their hair who wore pretty dresses and, I don't know, played with Barbies? Whatever it is that girly girls do, that's what he wanted.
I imagine what we must have looked like to him. Shine on top of me with my finger locked between her teeth. I had a busted lip and was bleeding slightly but she had dripped quite a bit of my and her blood onto me. Two bloody faced little girls trying to beat the ever loving crap out of each other.
My poor Dad.
He was horrified. I still remember that blank stare of utter confusion on his face when he opened the door. We had frozen in place much like cartoon characters when the open door spilled light from the hallway onto our shenanigans.
Dad yelled, "What are you DOING!?!"
We didn't have an answer. In fact, Shine hadn't even stopped biting my finger at that time.
"Get. Up!" Dad yelled in that strange 'you-are-in-so-much-trouble' punctuated way.
And she finally let go. I could feel her teeth pulling out of my skin and couldn't hold back a little yelp.
Dad took us to the bathroom and cleaned us up, threatening the whole time to find a way to leave us behind when the family left on our trip the next day.
He super glued my finger, something he and Mom had done before with small but deep cuts, and also cleaned up our mutual split lips.
I think that still ranks as my worst fight. No one, absolutely no one, has ever gone for the kill like Shine and I also found that in every other fight I've shown more restraint. For some reason, you just go for the cheap shots with siblings.
Funny thing is, years later I found a picture from that trip. It's the very next day, Shine and I have matching scabs on our lower lips, and you can see the bandage on my finger but, here's the thing, the only reason you can see it is because I've got my arm slug over her shoulder in a mutual half hug.
My Mom and Dad talk about us as kids and our crazy fights but we always got over it. Without exception, the next day it was all forgotten. Fighting never solved a problem, but somehow it still made us feel better, which makes no sense whatsoever but is absolutely 100% true.
Sometimes I think that if we could all just land a few restrained blows every once in a while we might feel a little better about losing. You know? You lost the fight but you still walked away saying, "At least I landed that sweet shot to her boob."
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Your Real Sister
Yesterday was Emmy's first day at daycare. No, I didn't cry when I dropped her off.
I was a bit concerned and nervous that she might be scared or upset, though I tried not to show it.
I tried to be very animated and excited. I made my eyes get big as I talked about the playground equipment and all the cool kids she was going to meet. I even tried to make nap time sound exciting. Epic fail, by the way.
Emmy seemed a little apprehensive as we dropped her off but Jonathan grabbed her hand and immediately began running through the building with her securely in tow yelling about this, that and the other Emmy needed to go see.
Emmy actually turned her head to me and shook her head at me as if to say, "Kids." or "Can you believe this?"
I left feeling pretty confident that things would go well. After all, Emmy had her brother with her.
When we got the kids home, they were running around talking a mile a minute about this, that and the other and I was so relieved that things seemed to have gone well.
As I was cooking dinner however, I noticed both the kids standing near the short stairs leading into the kitchen. They were whispering and eyeing me in what I'm sure they thought was a surreptitious manner.
I finally turned around and asked them what was up.
Jonathan nudged Emmy forward and she began speaking though she was looking at just about anything in the kitchen but my face.
"Mommy. Um. This boy, um, there was this boy at school and he, um, he told me, he said that, um...he said that Jonathan wasn't my brother."
Now the Monkey chimed in:
"Yeah, Mommy. He said Emmy's not my sister."
And both sets of big eyes, one a deep creamy brown and one a crackling blue are staring intently at me.
It was time to put down the spoon and just pray the food survived a few minutes pause.
I sat down on the stairs for easy eye contact and explained.
"Well, that boy was wrong. You know how sometimes you really think something? Like you see a toy and you think it's going to be really fun but it turns out it isn't? Or you see a food and you think it's going to be sweet and yummy and it isn't?"
Sage nods in reply.
"Well, I'm sure that boy might think Jonathan's not your brother and Emmy's not your sister, but he's wrong. I don't think you should fight with him about it though. One day, he might get the chance to understand that he's wrong but that doesn't matter, does it? You know that Jonathan's your brother, Emmy. Jonathan, you know that Emmy's your sister. That's all that matters, right?"
Two little faces filled with relieved smiles and Emmy immediately turned with the typical elder sibling reaction:
Emmy: See, I TOLD you.
Jonathan: Nu, uh! I told YOU.
I gave them hugs. They ran to the living room to play and dinner miraculously survived its temporary abandonment.
I haven't been able to shake a tugging brought on by the situation and the obviously deep reaction it evoked in the kids. They asked their Daddy about it at dinner, seemingly looking for more reassurance.
My hubby was surprised by how deeply the accusation seemed to have affected them. We talked about it after the munchkins were abed.
Hubby: Why does it matter what one kid thinks? Why does that little thing make them doubt they're brother and sister?
I could feel the answer but had trouble expressing it. I'm still not sure what I said made sense.
See, I've been there. I've been hanging out with my sisters and had some kid or group of kids state with utter conviction that we weren't sisters, at least, not REAL sisters.
That word real always made me so mad. Kids weren't the only ones to use it either.
Adults would often ask the hated question:
"Which are your real kids?"
Okay, ow. Sorry, sibs, you're not real.
My Dad always made a joke out of it. He'd say something like, "Well, they're all real. None of them are plastic."
Mom would just quietly fume, which is her being on her best behavior. I can still see Mom's special smile. It was more like a closed lip grimace and it's the expression she always had when someone asked that question.
Sometimes, Dad's gentle attempt to point out the hurtful nature of the inquiry would fall on deaf ears.
"No, I mean, which ones are really yours and which ones did you adopt?"
Um, Mr. Sensitivity, we're all 'really' theirs. Eventually, Dad adopted the policy of answering the question after tactfully pointing out that we were all real.
Something like this: "They're all real. None of them are plastic but (pointing) that one and that one are our only biological children."
Dad told us he was going to start saying this because he was afraid that Mom might hit someone if they kept asking the even less tactful and more hurtful follow up questions.
We had all sort of learned to smile and nod at the seemingly inevitable question but it never really lost its sting.
So, why does it bother my kids and why did it bother me and my sibs when people would imply or flatly state that adopted siblings aren't "real" siblings?
I'm not really sure, to be honest.
I've been trying to figure it out. I guess you could try to imagine what it would be like if someone said that you weren't really married. Or why most people go through the ceremony and paperwork involved in becoming married. I mean, why do gay people want the right to be married? Because that title makes you family and being family is important. Having someone threaten that relationship or the legitimacy of that relationship is hurtful.
The simple statement is an attack, really. It's attacking your relationship or the legitimacy of the relationship. It's attacking the love you have for each other.
It might have something to do with the nature of foster care and adoption. When we were in the process of adopting we attended functions and met kids. I remember at one summer picnic I met a "potential".
Parents don't go to an orphanage or group home and pick out a kid to take home. The state somehow decides what kids might be appropriate for potential parents. Then they arrange for those parents to spend time with those kids at events. I'd heard that Wanda was a potential and she had somehow heard that we were a potential family for her as well.
We met each other, as I said, at the summer picnic. I think we were six at the time. It was odd. I mean, we were almost literally circling each other, sizing each other up and asking questions. Then, click! We decided we liked each other and spent every second of the rest of the picnic together. We made plans that remind me of the parent trap on how we were going to make sure that Wanda would be my new sister.
It didn't happen. Wanda and her brother were adopted by another couple before my family made our first adoption. I cried into my pillow for days after I found out. I doubt Wanda suffered the same dejection because, of course, she had a new family to think about. Her family and mine ran in the same 'adopt older kids' (A-OK) circles, so we remained friends for a few years until we got older and developed very different interests.
On the other side of it my siblings, of course, had been placed in many foster homes before being placed with us. They had developed attachments and had them severed by the system. It was a painful thing and, even though you know the adoption is final and no one is coming to take them away, it's scary. Somewhere in the dark recesses of your brain is the idea that at one time this person you love wasn't here and maybe at one time they won't be here again.
So, when some mindless adult asks a tactless question, that little fear sends a little jolt through your system, usually resulting in a bit of a stomach ache and some compensatory brash behavior: Laughing a little too loud at something that honestly wasn't that funny, that kind of thing.
It's scary to be a kid and love someone so absolutely but at the same time have this lingering fear, no matter how tiny, that you'll lose that person. Kids shouldn't have to deal with that kind of apprehension and fear. They shouldn't go to bed at night and feel the need to ask their new Mommy, "Will you and Daddy be here when I wake up?" It breaks my heart that Emmy feels the need to ask that.
It breaks my heart that still, the first thing out of Jonathan's mouth in the morning is, "Where's Emmy?" or "Emmy's in her room?"
They love each other so much. They love being brother and sister.
So, I guess that's why someone telling them they're not "real" siblings had such an affect on them....and on me.
I was a bit concerned and nervous that she might be scared or upset, though I tried not to show it.
I tried to be very animated and excited. I made my eyes get big as I talked about the playground equipment and all the cool kids she was going to meet. I even tried to make nap time sound exciting. Epic fail, by the way.
Emmy seemed a little apprehensive as we dropped her off but Jonathan grabbed her hand and immediately began running through the building with her securely in tow yelling about this, that and the other Emmy needed to go see.
Emmy actually turned her head to me and shook her head at me as if to say, "Kids." or "Can you believe this?"
I left feeling pretty confident that things would go well. After all, Emmy had her brother with her.
When we got the kids home, they were running around talking a mile a minute about this, that and the other and I was so relieved that things seemed to have gone well.
As I was cooking dinner however, I noticed both the kids standing near the short stairs leading into the kitchen. They were whispering and eyeing me in what I'm sure they thought was a surreptitious manner.
I finally turned around and asked them what was up.
Jonathan nudged Emmy forward and she began speaking though she was looking at just about anything in the kitchen but my face.
"Mommy. Um. This boy, um, there was this boy at school and he, um, he told me, he said that, um...he said that Jonathan wasn't my brother."
Now the Monkey chimed in:
"Yeah, Mommy. He said Emmy's not my sister."
And both sets of big eyes, one a deep creamy brown and one a crackling blue are staring intently at me.
It was time to put down the spoon and just pray the food survived a few minutes pause.
I sat down on the stairs for easy eye contact and explained.
"Well, that boy was wrong. You know how sometimes you really think something? Like you see a toy and you think it's going to be really fun but it turns out it isn't? Or you see a food and you think it's going to be sweet and yummy and it isn't?"
Sage nods in reply.
"Well, I'm sure that boy might think Jonathan's not your brother and Emmy's not your sister, but he's wrong. I don't think you should fight with him about it though. One day, he might get the chance to understand that he's wrong but that doesn't matter, does it? You know that Jonathan's your brother, Emmy. Jonathan, you know that Emmy's your sister. That's all that matters, right?"
Two little faces filled with relieved smiles and Emmy immediately turned with the typical elder sibling reaction:
Emmy: See, I TOLD you.
Jonathan: Nu, uh! I told YOU.
I gave them hugs. They ran to the living room to play and dinner miraculously survived its temporary abandonment.
I haven't been able to shake a tugging brought on by the situation and the obviously deep reaction it evoked in the kids. They asked their Daddy about it at dinner, seemingly looking for more reassurance.
My hubby was surprised by how deeply the accusation seemed to have affected them. We talked about it after the munchkins were abed.
Hubby: Why does it matter what one kid thinks? Why does that little thing make them doubt they're brother and sister?
I could feel the answer but had trouble expressing it. I'm still not sure what I said made sense.
See, I've been there. I've been hanging out with my sisters and had some kid or group of kids state with utter conviction that we weren't sisters, at least, not REAL sisters.
That word real always made me so mad. Kids weren't the only ones to use it either.
Adults would often ask the hated question:
"Which are your real kids?"
Okay, ow. Sorry, sibs, you're not real.
My Dad always made a joke out of it. He'd say something like, "Well, they're all real. None of them are plastic."
Mom would just quietly fume, which is her being on her best behavior. I can still see Mom's special smile. It was more like a closed lip grimace and it's the expression she always had when someone asked that question.
Sometimes, Dad's gentle attempt to point out the hurtful nature of the inquiry would fall on deaf ears.
"No, I mean, which ones are really yours and which ones did you adopt?"
Um, Mr. Sensitivity, we're all 'really' theirs. Eventually, Dad adopted the policy of answering the question after tactfully pointing out that we were all real.
Something like this: "They're all real. None of them are plastic but (pointing) that one and that one are our only biological children."
Dad told us he was going to start saying this because he was afraid that Mom might hit someone if they kept asking the even less tactful and more hurtful follow up questions.
We had all sort of learned to smile and nod at the seemingly inevitable question but it never really lost its sting.
So, why does it bother my kids and why did it bother me and my sibs when people would imply or flatly state that adopted siblings aren't "real" siblings?
I'm not really sure, to be honest.
I've been trying to figure it out. I guess you could try to imagine what it would be like if someone said that you weren't really married. Or why most people go through the ceremony and paperwork involved in becoming married. I mean, why do gay people want the right to be married? Because that title makes you family and being family is important. Having someone threaten that relationship or the legitimacy of that relationship is hurtful.
The simple statement is an attack, really. It's attacking your relationship or the legitimacy of the relationship. It's attacking the love you have for each other.
It might have something to do with the nature of foster care and adoption. When we were in the process of adopting we attended functions and met kids. I remember at one summer picnic I met a "potential".
Parents don't go to an orphanage or group home and pick out a kid to take home. The state somehow decides what kids might be appropriate for potential parents. Then they arrange for those parents to spend time with those kids at events. I'd heard that Wanda was a potential and she had somehow heard that we were a potential family for her as well.
We met each other, as I said, at the summer picnic. I think we were six at the time. It was odd. I mean, we were almost literally circling each other, sizing each other up and asking questions. Then, click! We decided we liked each other and spent every second of the rest of the picnic together. We made plans that remind me of the parent trap on how we were going to make sure that Wanda would be my new sister.
It didn't happen. Wanda and her brother were adopted by another couple before my family made our first adoption. I cried into my pillow for days after I found out. I doubt Wanda suffered the same dejection because, of course, she had a new family to think about. Her family and mine ran in the same 'adopt older kids' (A-OK) circles, so we remained friends for a few years until we got older and developed very different interests.
On the other side of it my siblings, of course, had been placed in many foster homes before being placed with us. They had developed attachments and had them severed by the system. It was a painful thing and, even though you know the adoption is final and no one is coming to take them away, it's scary. Somewhere in the dark recesses of your brain is the idea that at one time this person you love wasn't here and maybe at one time they won't be here again.
So, when some mindless adult asks a tactless question, that little fear sends a little jolt through your system, usually resulting in a bit of a stomach ache and some compensatory brash behavior: Laughing a little too loud at something that honestly wasn't that funny, that kind of thing.
It's scary to be a kid and love someone so absolutely but at the same time have this lingering fear, no matter how tiny, that you'll lose that person. Kids shouldn't have to deal with that kind of apprehension and fear. They shouldn't go to bed at night and feel the need to ask their new Mommy, "Will you and Daddy be here when I wake up?" It breaks my heart that Emmy feels the need to ask that.
It breaks my heart that still, the first thing out of Jonathan's mouth in the morning is, "Where's Emmy?" or "Emmy's in her room?"
They love each other so much. They love being brother and sister.
So, I guess that's why someone telling them they're not "real" siblings had such an affect on them....and on me.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Culture Shock, Journal Letters & SPAM
Journal Letters
Some people who read this know I have lived many places. I seem to have finally landed in Arkansas. I've lived here seven years, a record bested only by my childhood stay in South Louisiana (14 years).
There are definite perks to being a bouncy ball type person. For one, more often than not, you're flying! You also get to meet new and interesting people and get to know new and interesting things about new and interesting places.
There are down sides to the bouncing bit and that's the rebound. Culture shock sucks. Counter culture shock sucks even more because you don't allow yourself any rope.
When I first got back from Europe I had loads of counter culture shock.
For example, I'm riding in a car with some friends down a street in Lubbock, Texas. I see a street sign that says Utica St. and I start laughing and saying, "Utica Ulica!" I think it hilarious. No one else is laughing. So, I start trying to explain why it's funny.
Never a good sign.
See, I was pronouncing the name Utica in Slovak like this, "Ooo-tea-tsuh". Utica pronounced like that sounds very, very similar to the Slovak word for street, "Ooo-lee-tsuh", which is funny, or was to me anyway.
My friends blinked in that "you're not funny" way and one of them said, "It's pronounced 'You-ti-kuh".
Oh.
So, not that funny after all.
Then we're still driving and the Backstreet Boys song "Quit Playing Games With My Heart" comes on. I groan and say something along the lines of why are they playing that old song? It's been played to death.
Again with the blinking.
Friend: "What are you talking about? This song is brand new."
That's right folks. I changed continents with the just the right timing to get a double dose of backstreet boys. It's not that they're bad. They can sing and they're music really isn't awful but both in Europe and in the States they were played to death and I got a double dose of overexposure. What is that? Double over exposure or is it over over exposure?
Over exposure. Northern exposure. Who cares? Blah! The point is, it was just too much Backstreet Boys.
Then there were the doors.
No, not The Doors (how old do you think I am?).
I guess I should say, door handles.
In Europe there are a lot of lever like door handles. In fact, where I lived in Kosice, Slovakia that was pretty much all they had.
I developed this habit of slapping the handle down and then pushing the door open with my shoulder.
Slap. Slam.
It worked quite well.
Now imagine me returning to the United States, or as I like to call it, The Land of Doorknobs.
When you slap a doorknob, nothing happens. It does not magically retract the spring-loaded latch. It just gets slapped.
So, when you slam your shoulder into the door the only thing that happens is you bruise your shoulder...again...and again...and again.
It took me f-o-r-e-v-e-r to break that habit despite the painful incentive to cut it out. It had somehow been burned into my brain.
Slap. Slam. Slap. Slam
So, yeah. Culture shock is a definite downside and it's not limited to different countries either.
Moving from South Louisiana to West Texas is a pretty huge adjustment as well.
Cajuns are very friendly, touchy feely, huggy people. We went for a visit recently and, I'm not kidding, our waitress gave me a hug at the end of our meal. My hubby was confused.
Hubby: Do you know her?
Me: Well, sort of. She's Jessie, our waitress.
Hubby: But you don't know her from somewhere else?
Me: No, why?
Hubby: She hugged you.
Me: So?
Hubby: (rolling eyes) Cajuns.
Texans aren't huggy people. I guess with all those wide open spaces, they adopted very wide open personal spaces as well. You hug them and they get all stiff. It was a HUGE adjustment for me. Then there was the water.
If you poured water from the tap the first thing it did was get all cloudy and fizzy. I'm serious. There was some distinct fizzing going on. Then, once everything settled down, this filmy stuff formed on the top not unlike the stuff that forms on the top of warm milk when it's been left out to cool.
Ew.
You did not drink from the tap. Everyone kept these huge five gallon bottles of water in their houses or those water coolers you usually only see in offices. There were little kiosks everywhere that sold water. You'd put in your money, pick the number of gallons and then hold your bottles underneath while it spewed drinking water.
For someone raised in a place where you could practically drink the air, moving to a desert involved serious adjustments. Dust storms. Ugh. Don't get me started on dust storms. I'd come home, open the door to my apartment and there would be a line of dusty dirt that the wind had managed to blow through even the miniscule spaces left by the weather proofing.
The horizon was also just way too big. I was used to the sky being hugged by giant trees strung with Spanish moss like freaking Christmas tensile and I got huge, gigantic, down-right intimidating horizons and these poor tiny wind stunted trees that look like overgrown bushes.
Everything hugs you in SoLa (South Louisiana). The air is heavy with humidity that seems to hold you there in an ever-present hug, for crying out loud.
Texas was space, space and more space. You know why the cowboy is always riding toward the sunset in Westerns? Because it's the only freaking thing there he CAN ride toward! There is nothing else!
Like Red Skelton said. "In Texas they got miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles."
Now, don't get me wrong, once I got used to Texas I loved it. The prairie dogs were cute. The stars, oh my freaking goodness me, the STARS! You've never seen stars until you've seen them from the middle of a West Texas field.
Okay, rattlesnakes? You can keep 'em. Not a fan.
And Texans are friendly in their own special way. The friendliness is different and harder to understand when you're an outsider but it's there.
Cajuns are a touchy friendly. Texans are a wordy friendly.
The affection and friendliness is there in the y'alls and yes'ems. These almost coded messages of not just love but respect for each other. The gesture of the tipped hat (even when they're not actually wearing a hat) and "Y'all come back now, y'hear?" is the Texas version of a hug. Once you figure it out, it's just amazing.
Why am I writing about this? Because I was thinking about it. I was writing in my journal letter to a friend from Slovakia and thinking about friendships and the past and culture shock.
BTW, a journal letter is when you take a small notebook or journal and write a little bit in it everyday. You send one of these little journals once a month to a friend who is very far away and for whom mailing a daily letter or even weekly letter is cumbersome.
This is something I came up with back in the days when email wasn't quite as commonplace as it is nowadays. I, actually, only exchange journal letters with one person at this point. It can't be beat for long distance relationships and, if you have a long distance friend, I highly recommend journal letters. They take a certain amount of discipline but are totally worth it, in my humble opinion.
There is no real conclusion to this blog. Its just a blog of random reminiscing and so I will end it with random trivia.
Spam was invented by Hormel because he was tired of throwing shoulder pork away after packaging his hams. Because it had to be pulled in small pieces from the bone, no one wanted to buy it and he just thought it was wasteful.
So, he had the meat cooked pulled, ground like beef and then canned.
When it came to naming this new product though, Hormel was stumped. So, he didn't name it.
It was actually named by a friend at a party he threw to introduce it. He had a chef prepare several dishes from the ground shoulder pork product and asked his friends to come over, sample it and help him name it.
One of his friends finally said, "It's a shoulder pork ham, right? What about SPAM?"
And that is how SPAM got it's name.
Hey, I said it was random trivia.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)