Word of the day: Trepidation, meaning: a feeling of alarm or dread. (A word I don't normally use)
There is nothing that eases my trepidation of exposing myself to public places more than doing so around midnight, just to find that most of the public that firmly establishes that place as a public place ceases to clog my path. For instance, shopping for things at midnight. It's a beautiful thing. Ever tried it? I'm sure most people have, but have they done it through the perception, or at least thought about it through the lens of somebody who hates most gatherings of people? Give THAT a shot. It's great. You'll look at it as a haven.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
Nevermore!
I wish to see a musical NEVERMORE! Most uninteresting and bipolar form of entertainment ever (obviously in my own opinion). Nothing against the actors of that play, if they were ever to read this by some chance.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The Disc Chain...
...would be the name of my magazine if I were to create one focusing on disc golf. I had to do an assignment yesterday for journalism thinking about a site/magazine idea of my own, and that's what I came up with. I actually don't think it would be much of a flop, considering there isn't a whole lot of coverage out there for disc golf as much as other "things." My idea centered around the usual stuff I found in other disc golf magazines (funny thing, I only found two) : course/gear/new disc reviews, tournament coverage, etc. But my big idea was covering one unique park in every issue, including a huge spread with full-page photos of every single hole on the course, detailing the hole number and what its general appeal is. This would give readers a chance to actually take a vivid look at courses they might not have access to from across the nation, which I think a lot of disc golf people would find extremely interesting. I know I would...I feel like I want to make this happen.
If I look back on this years from now, and the idea is a success...good fucking job dude. You have put your life to good use.
If I look back on this years from now, and the idea is a success...good fucking job dude. You have put your life to good use.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
So Maybe It Still Happens Here
I saw my old Psychology professor at the most random tire shop in Grand Rapids, and it was amusing to say the least. End.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Appendage
The new EP "Appendage" from Circa Survive is out today. After listening to it once, it might be one of those CD's where it needs to grow on the listener through several runs over, but so far, it sounds pretty decent. At the least, it's a complement to "Blue Sky Noise," which is probably one of my favorite albums of all time. People should give it a listen.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Finished Lyric Essay
Word of the day: Eicastic, meaning: imitative (courtesy of Savethewords.org)
WELL, here is my finished attempt at what is known as a lyric essay. Although I'll admit it's a bit eicastic in comparison to what's already out there, I guess it doesn't seem too bad when I read it over.
WELL, here is my finished attempt at what is known as a lyric essay. Although I'll admit it's a bit eicastic in comparison to what's already out there, I guess it doesn't seem too bad when I read it over.
Selective Hearing
I want to be deaf…
The words glare back at me. I can hear the anger in their tone in my head; my head that holds my eyes that sink down at the meaningless words I’ve read over and over again, with the same page repeating itself in the same distraught, questioned voice: “You’ve looked me over seven times. Doesn’t that mean you like me? Get that frown off of your face!” But I can’t smile. A college book is another assignment, another grudge that any distinct sound, any sudden shift of particles reminds me of a world outside this little white frame that I curse. I can’t smile with all the sounds. I reach into my white shelving unit and pull out a little baggie of earplugs. Six in total remain - bi-colored with half the end in neon yellow, the other half neon orange – and I take two out. I plop back down on my couch, knead the yellow side into an elongated worm, and stuff one into each ear. The sizzles and pops of foam fitting my ear canal are the exploding brain cells from the heroin the book must have gotten into while I was up. I look back down and all is calm. The words are mute, and the voice in my head is docile. The only sounds are through feeling and sight; the pages whisper softly as they are pulled up, tossed over, and flutter onto the “discard” pile.
The words glare back at me. I can hear the anger in their tone in my head; my head that holds my eyes that sink down at the meaningless words I’ve read over and over again, with the same page repeating itself in the same distraught, questioned voice: “You’ve looked me over seven times. Doesn’t that mean you like me? Get that frown off of your face!” But I can’t smile. A college book is another assignment, another grudge that any distinct sound, any sudden shift of particles reminds me of a world outside this little white frame that I curse. I can’t smile with all the sounds. I reach into my white shelving unit and pull out a little baggie of earplugs. Six in total remain - bi-colored with half the end in neon yellow, the other half neon orange – and I take two out. I plop back down on my couch, knead the yellow side into an elongated worm, and stuff one into each ear. The sizzles and pops of foam fitting my ear canal are the exploding brain cells from the heroin the book must have gotten into while I was up. I look back down and all is calm. The words are mute, and the voice in my head is docile. The only sounds are through feeling and sight; the pages whisper softly as they are pulled up, tossed over, and flutter onto the “discard” pile.
I want to be deaf…
It’s Saturday, November 20th, 2010, and I’m at St. Andrews Hall in Detroit, Michigan. My favorite band – Circa Survive – is playing a sold out show. They are the only band on the lineup I care about though. Animals as Leaders? Codeseven? Dredg? “Never listened to them before. No point in wasting what good hearing I have left on unfamiliar bands.” I take the bi-colored earplugs from my pockets between sets, cram them in my ears, and the gradual muffling of sound is led by a thump. I can hear the blood thumping through my ears, I can feel the bass drum thumping in my chest, but all sound comes from a foot below the water. “Is this what it’s like to be deaf at a concert? How long until Circa Survive plays? The next set? No point in wasting the quality of a good show.” I pluck the plugs from my ears and cram them back in my pocket. I rejoice in the uninhibited coat of loudness that the songs from my favorite Circa Survive album, Blue Sky Noise, are ejected through the venue speakers with. My sister and mom always warn me that I’m going to be deaf by the age of thirty from all of these concerts. “So what? It’s good music. I’d rather be deaf.”
It’s Saturday, November 20th, 2010, and I’m at St. Andrews Hall in Detroit, Michigan. My favorite band – Circa Survive – is playing a sold out show. They are the only band on the lineup I care about though. Animals as Leaders? Codeseven? Dredg? “Never listened to them before. No point in wasting what good hearing I have left on unfamiliar bands.” I take the bi-colored earplugs from my pockets between sets, cram them in my ears, and the gradual muffling of sound is led by a thump. I can hear the blood thumping through my ears, I can feel the bass drum thumping in my chest, but all sound comes from a foot below the water. “Is this what it’s like to be deaf at a concert? How long until Circa Survive plays? The next set? No point in wasting the quality of a good show.” I pluck the plugs from my ears and cram them back in my pocket. I rejoice in the uninhibited coat of loudness that the songs from my favorite Circa Survive album, Blue Sky Noise, are ejected through the venue speakers with. My sister and mom always warn me that I’m going to be deaf by the age of thirty from all of these concerts. “So what? It’s good music. I’d rather be deaf.”
I want to be deaf…
“Is this real? Do I have to listen to this?” The pile of fat, Sicilian ex-step-dad idles in my doorway, running his breath out with the woes and ill tidings both him and my mother suffer. They divorced in 2006, he moved to an apartment (though he frequently visits), yet he’s still in love with her, but the medical system has run their lives through. They are permanently separated, though spiritually united, in order to adequately pay for their medical bills. Thus, he still finds the energy to rant, rant, rant about her next surgery, her new expensive medicine, his planned stay at my house for the entire Spring of 2011 after his next surgery, my flux of responsibilities as the “man of the house,” and what I need to do, do, do. “I can’t change a damn thing about your health care system, I can’t do a damn thing about medicine prices, and I sure can’t do a damn thing about my own devotion to college. I’m still young! Let me worry about that when my time comes, but for now, let me get back to this book!” He was in my life since I was four years old; always told me to listen until somebody’s finished speaking. I bleakly stare back at him with the pads of my fingers depressing the two piles of “discard” and “to do” pages with urgency, watching the same muah-muah-muah scene of Charlie Brown over and over again before me, wishing horribly that I was just deaf.
“Is this real? Do I have to listen to this?” The pile of fat, Sicilian ex-step-dad idles in my doorway, running his breath out with the woes and ill tidings both him and my mother suffer. They divorced in 2006, he moved to an apartment (though he frequently visits), yet he’s still in love with her, but the medical system has run their lives through. They are permanently separated, though spiritually united, in order to adequately pay for their medical bills. Thus, he still finds the energy to rant, rant, rant about her next surgery, her new expensive medicine, his planned stay at my house for the entire Spring of 2011 after his next surgery, my flux of responsibilities as the “man of the house,” and what I need to do, do, do. “I can’t change a damn thing about your health care system, I can’t do a damn thing about medicine prices, and I sure can’t do a damn thing about my own devotion to college. I’m still young! Let me worry about that when my time comes, but for now, let me get back to this book!” He was in my life since I was four years old; always told me to listen until somebody’s finished speaking. I bleakly stare back at him with the pads of my fingers depressing the two piles of “discard” and “to do” pages with urgency, watching the same muah-muah-muah scene of Charlie Brown over and over again before me, wishing horribly that I was just deaf.
I want to be deaf…
Here I am, at the late end of October, 2010, hurriedly combing the leaves in my yard into a huge pile so that I may suck them up with the leaf vacuum and get the lawn mowed for the last time of the season. It’s a Monday; I had work from 8:00AM – 10:30PM, class from 10:50AM – 12:05PM, break time, class from 1:40PM – 2:55PM, smaller break, class from 3:05PM – 4:20PM, smallest break, class from 4:30PM – 5:45PM. It takes me half an hour to drive home to Caledonia, so ETA: 6:15PM. I’m tired, my legs are aching, I’m pissed because the lawn mower pull-cord just fell out of the handle loop and underneath the beast; the plastic handle was eaten up, leaving me with nothing but a flimsy string to start the engine. I’ve got shit tons of homework to do afterward and the days are getting shorter, but not short enough to stop me. I’ve gotta’ do, do, do this right. It’s called living life as a commuter, it’s called living life with a single mom who’s pilled out, it’s called pulling up my boot straps (whatever that means) and living in a crunch, one task at a time. “For now, let’s just think about these leaves and this grass.” The power-dial is turned, the pull-string is yanked, and the electric whir and gas-indulging churn of yard maintenance utilities fill my brain with incessant, droning, indistinguishable noise. They sound no different than the lectures I faced today. “On second thought, let’s not.” I sift through my pockets for the Skull Candy headphones, feed them under my shirt and plug the 3.5 mm driver into my iPod; the ear buds are plugged into my head. Volume’s up, and away I go, mowing the lawn at a brisk pace while After the Burial is blasted into my dome, deafening me ever so slightly. An elusive smile might be visible in the cracks of my mouth.
Here I am, at the late end of October, 2010, hurriedly combing the leaves in my yard into a huge pile so that I may suck them up with the leaf vacuum and get the lawn mowed for the last time of the season. It’s a Monday; I had work from 8:00AM – 10:30PM, class from 10:50AM – 12:05PM, break time, class from 1:40PM – 2:55PM, smaller break, class from 3:05PM – 4:20PM, smallest break, class from 4:30PM – 5:45PM. It takes me half an hour to drive home to Caledonia, so ETA: 6:15PM. I’m tired, my legs are aching, I’m pissed because the lawn mower pull-cord just fell out of the handle loop and underneath the beast; the plastic handle was eaten up, leaving me with nothing but a flimsy string to start the engine. I’ve got shit tons of homework to do afterward and the days are getting shorter, but not short enough to stop me. I’ve gotta’ do, do, do this right. It’s called living life as a commuter, it’s called living life with a single mom who’s pilled out, it’s called pulling up my boot straps (whatever that means) and living in a crunch, one task at a time. “For now, let’s just think about these leaves and this grass.” The power-dial is turned, the pull-string is yanked, and the electric whir and gas-indulging churn of yard maintenance utilities fill my brain with incessant, droning, indistinguishable noise. They sound no different than the lectures I faced today. “On second thought, let’s not.” I sift through my pockets for the Skull Candy headphones, feed them under my shirt and plug the 3.5 mm driver into my iPod; the ear buds are plugged into my head. Volume’s up, and away I go, mowing the lawn at a brisk pace while After the Burial is blasted into my dome, deafening me ever so slightly. An elusive smile might be visible in the cracks of my mouth.
I want to be deaf…
My grandpa is a beast, straight-up. A couple months ago, in September 2010, my mom told me a rather frightening story when I came home from college. My grandpa, who is now 86 or 87 years old, has the “workaholic bug.” No matter how old he is, nobody can tell him to stop working. Hard work flows through his veins, and the minute he is officially sentenced to stop doing anything physically tasking, he will probably shut down and die, voluntarily. In September, he was working on a boat in his private mechanic garage in preparation for fall fishing. He was underneath it, holding the boat up with jack stands, when I guess the boat fell off and landed directly on top of his head. Somehow, he scrambled out, went inside, and called for help from nearby friends, suffering only a minor concussion. I repeat: boat on head, minor concussion, 80-late years old. I recall my mom phoning him to check up on his status a few days after the incident, and when he didn’t pick up, she’d have to yell and slowly enunciate her words on the answering machine: “Dad! This is Susie. Pick up the phone if you’re there…….Dad? Please call me back if you can. I’ll be gone from home, so my cell phone number is #...#...#...#...#...#...#.” This wasn’t because she was too worried, of course. It was because he was hard of hearing and didn’t catch the phone too often, which for him, at 86 or 87, just came naturally. He wasn’t very fond of music, and whenever I’d ask him to take a look at something broken on my car, any advice pertaining to my trunk area was coupled with threats to send screwdrivers through the soft padding of my two twelve-inch subwoofers hiding in back. “You don’t need that shit! It’s uneconomical and just too damn loud. What do you need it that loud for? What do you even need the radio for? You’re just going to ruin your hearing.” Every time he scolds me for it, I fear he’s going to yell so loud he gives himself a heart attack. He isn’t entirely invincible after all, and heart problems have stricken him down before. In fact, he was recently offered to have a device surgically inserted to subdue any future heart ailments, but his response? “Fuck it. I don’t need it. If it’s my time to go, I’m not going to fight it.” He’s an all-natural kind of guy. My response to his screwdriver threats (or at least in my mind)? “Lay off my back, old man! It’s only making me closer in likeness to you: a beast. I’d rather be hard of hearing.”
My grandpa is a beast, straight-up. A couple months ago, in September 2010, my mom told me a rather frightening story when I came home from college. My grandpa, who is now 86 or 87 years old, has the “workaholic bug.” No matter how old he is, nobody can tell him to stop working. Hard work flows through his veins, and the minute he is officially sentenced to stop doing anything physically tasking, he will probably shut down and die, voluntarily. In September, he was working on a boat in his private mechanic garage in preparation for fall fishing. He was underneath it, holding the boat up with jack stands, when I guess the boat fell off and landed directly on top of his head. Somehow, he scrambled out, went inside, and called for help from nearby friends, suffering only a minor concussion. I repeat: boat on head, minor concussion, 80-late years old. I recall my mom phoning him to check up on his status a few days after the incident, and when he didn’t pick up, she’d have to yell and slowly enunciate her words on the answering machine: “Dad! This is Susie. Pick up the phone if you’re there…….Dad? Please call me back if you can. I’ll be gone from home, so my cell phone number is #...#...#...#...#...#...#.” This wasn’t because she was too worried, of course. It was because he was hard of hearing and didn’t catch the phone too often, which for him, at 86 or 87, just came naturally. He wasn’t very fond of music, and whenever I’d ask him to take a look at something broken on my car, any advice pertaining to my trunk area was coupled with threats to send screwdrivers through the soft padding of my two twelve-inch subwoofers hiding in back. “You don’t need that shit! It’s uneconomical and just too damn loud. What do you need it that loud for? What do you even need the radio for? You’re just going to ruin your hearing.” Every time he scolds me for it, I fear he’s going to yell so loud he gives himself a heart attack. He isn’t entirely invincible after all, and heart problems have stricken him down before. In fact, he was recently offered to have a device surgically inserted to subdue any future heart ailments, but his response? “Fuck it. I don’t need it. If it’s my time to go, I’m not going to fight it.” He’s an all-natural kind of guy. My response to his screwdriver threats (or at least in my mind)? “Lay off my back, old man! It’s only making me closer in likeness to you: a beast. I’d rather be hard of hearing.”
I want to be deaf…
When I was little, I had a best friend named Kyle Bishop. At the mere age of five or six, the differences between him and I never really made a difference in our friendship. To be terminologically correct, he was mentally retarded. More or less, he was in the special education classes at school, so my time at home away from school was rewarded with our friendship and the time we shared. Kyle was also a drummer. One time, when I was out riding my bike around my neighborhood, I rode by his house and heard his drum-playing permeate through the thin plaster-and-sheet-metal walls that compose our trailer-homes. It was good playing; in fact, it was a lot better (and louder) than I expected to hear from him. It made me wonder if those were the things they taught people in special education classes, that couldn’t learn normally. As Kyle and I advanced in age, it seemed like I matured and became interested in things he couldn’t grapple as a mentally impaired person. Our friendship eventually broke off and died out.
When I was a freshman in high school, I became friends with a kid named Jon Beaulieu (pronounced “Blue”) in gym class. Our friendship was created on the grounds of ceaselessly talking about an upcoming video game we were both awaiting: Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. He was in the same grade as me and he took all the same kinds of classes as I, except there was one thing about him: he had an impressively strong speech impediment. Jon couldn’t speak two sentences without stopping to stutter at the most random words, straining his throat for the right sound and harshly whispering out the faint windy vocals that completed his broken sentences. He literally could not speak for more than ten seconds before his diction was impaled with strain. I was patient with Jon though. I let him talk, never guessed his words, and I let him into my life as a completely “normal” person. He became a best friend to me, and I learned a lot about him that made him one of the most unique people of my life. For instance, because of his stuttering, Jon had to wear a hearing aid. His family and he called it “his ear.” I never fully understood how the hearing aid had anything to do with his speech, as he was usually short to discuss his ailment, but he was the only friend I had that wore a hearing aid. Also, Jon surprised me one day in his basement when he opened up a door to reveal a drum set stashed in a little cubby. Jon was a phenomenal drum player, and I had every intention to convince him to teach me how to do it. I was so jealous of him, and I was also jealous of his house. Compared to the sound-leak-prone housing of my one-leveled neighborhood, I was astonished that his ferocious skills were only halfway audible from upstairs. It was like listening to a private concert with ear plugs in. Unfortunately, my ideals for learning were cut a bit short. Jon was killed in a car accident in April of 2008, before we graduated.
If I became deaf, I wouldn’t lose. I would only gain. I would gain the insight of what it’s like to contend with a world that honors the ample-sensed and unimpeded lives. I would understand a fragment of what my lost friends dealt with; to deal with true ailments.
When I was little, I had a best friend named Kyle Bishop. At the mere age of five or six, the differences between him and I never really made a difference in our friendship. To be terminologically correct, he was mentally retarded. More or less, he was in the special education classes at school, so my time at home away from school was rewarded with our friendship and the time we shared. Kyle was also a drummer. One time, when I was out riding my bike around my neighborhood, I rode by his house and heard his drum-playing permeate through the thin plaster-and-sheet-metal walls that compose our trailer-homes. It was good playing; in fact, it was a lot better (and louder) than I expected to hear from him. It made me wonder if those were the things they taught people in special education classes, that couldn’t learn normally. As Kyle and I advanced in age, it seemed like I matured and became interested in things he couldn’t grapple as a mentally impaired person. Our friendship eventually broke off and died out.
When I was a freshman in high school, I became friends with a kid named Jon Beaulieu (pronounced “Blue”) in gym class. Our friendship was created on the grounds of ceaselessly talking about an upcoming video game we were both awaiting: Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. He was in the same grade as me and he took all the same kinds of classes as I, except there was one thing about him: he had an impressively strong speech impediment. Jon couldn’t speak two sentences without stopping to stutter at the most random words, straining his throat for the right sound and harshly whispering out the faint windy vocals that completed his broken sentences. He literally could not speak for more than ten seconds before his diction was impaled with strain. I was patient with Jon though. I let him talk, never guessed his words, and I let him into my life as a completely “normal” person. He became a best friend to me, and I learned a lot about him that made him one of the most unique people of my life. For instance, because of his stuttering, Jon had to wear a hearing aid. His family and he called it “his ear.” I never fully understood how the hearing aid had anything to do with his speech, as he was usually short to discuss his ailment, but he was the only friend I had that wore a hearing aid. Also, Jon surprised me one day in his basement when he opened up a door to reveal a drum set stashed in a little cubby. Jon was a phenomenal drum player, and I had every intention to convince him to teach me how to do it. I was so jealous of him, and I was also jealous of his house. Compared to the sound-leak-prone housing of my one-leveled neighborhood, I was astonished that his ferocious skills were only halfway audible from upstairs. It was like listening to a private concert with ear plugs in. Unfortunately, my ideals for learning were cut a bit short. Jon was killed in a car accident in April of 2008, before we graduated.
If I became deaf, I wouldn’t lose. I would only gain. I would gain the insight of what it’s like to contend with a world that honors the ample-sensed and unimpeded lives. I would understand a fragment of what my lost friends dealt with; to deal with true ailments.
I want to be deaf…
Third grade is when I remember it the most. I’m sure it happened in other grades too, but third grade was when I really despised hearing that noise. It would come twice a day: once in the morning and once in the afternoon. It was a horrible, gut-wrenching, ceaseless beep that held the air for only a second and a half, but that frame was the fastest conversion I felt from contentment to dread. Wherever I was in the classroom, whatever I was doing, I would have to stop by the command of the office assistant over the intercom: “Mrs. Zoerner (my third grade teacher), can you send Robby down for his pill?” It wasn’t a conspicuous call over a private phone, where the other kids in the room couldn’t hear what was going on. The assistant would just call the room, blurt it out without refrain, and call it suffice. It didn’t take too long before the students in my class were even quick enough to jump at the sudden beep and offer their own guidance before the assistant could chime, “Robby, go get your pill!” I’m sure that assistant lady, who I became so well acquainted with then but have now completely forgotten, did not want to call me every single day as much as I did not want to go. My parents made me take this medicine called Ritalin for this stuff the doctors said I had called ADHD. I wasn’t too sure how feeling like a monotone and mono-minded zombie/robot helped me “get better” when I took it, but I sure knew I hated that beep enough to wish I were deaf in those seconds it came.
Third grade is when I remember it the most. I’m sure it happened in other grades too, but third grade was when I really despised hearing that noise. It would come twice a day: once in the morning and once in the afternoon. It was a horrible, gut-wrenching, ceaseless beep that held the air for only a second and a half, but that frame was the fastest conversion I felt from contentment to dread. Wherever I was in the classroom, whatever I was doing, I would have to stop by the command of the office assistant over the intercom: “Mrs. Zoerner (my third grade teacher), can you send Robby down for his pill?” It wasn’t a conspicuous call over a private phone, where the other kids in the room couldn’t hear what was going on. The assistant would just call the room, blurt it out without refrain, and call it suffice. It didn’t take too long before the students in my class were even quick enough to jump at the sudden beep and offer their own guidance before the assistant could chime, “Robby, go get your pill!” I’m sure that assistant lady, who I became so well acquainted with then but have now completely forgotten, did not want to call me every single day as much as I did not want to go. My parents made me take this medicine called Ritalin for this stuff the doctors said I had called ADHD. I wasn’t too sure how feeling like a monotone and mono-minded zombie/robot helped me “get better” when I took it, but I sure knew I hated that beep enough to wish I were deaf in those seconds it came.
I want to be deaf…
November 16, 2010 was my nephew Sawyer’s seventh birthday. It landed on a Tuesday, so school the next morning refrained him from staying up too late. After the participants of his birthday party left the house, Joe Hill (Sawyer’s father, my ex-brother-in-law) let Sawyer and Joey (my other nine year-old nephew) stay up twenty extra minutes past their bedtime until 9:20PM. Those twenty extra minutes were spent amongst us four men in the living room, playing Halo: Reach around the TV. Sawyer and Joey are video game nuts. In particular, they are nuts over Halo. Sawyer was actually reported on by his school teacher a few weeks before because he was interrupting the class by humming and singing songs from Halo instead of paying attention. I was so proud when I found that out. When I was his age, my classic Nintendo was my lifeline.
Since it was Sawyer’s birthday, he got to choose the final game before 9:20 hit. His choice of game type was juggernaut, where one person has to hold onto a skull for a given amount of time (default is two minutes), and the other players try to kill the person holding the skull so they can carry it themselves to rack time. Suiting enough, Sawyer demolished us all (yes, seven year-olds CAN play video games well in this era), ending his birthday in rightly crowned victory. Joey, however, wasn’t too happy with the outcome. He hated playing juggernaut, and the level we played on was pretty much broken; it was custom created by Joey and Sawyer in their spare time, so he really didn’t have a lot to complain about. Joey started pouting and throwing a fit, tossing his arms about and thwacking them on the bongo drums spread around the living room. Joe was an avid drum player in his free time. He played well in high school, and he bought really expensive instruments such as bongos, guitars, wooden sticks – anything that would make rhythmic noise – in order to teach his kids when they got to the right age. Joe nearly had to hoist Joey up by the waist to carry his kicking and screaming son upstairs to calm him down. Sawyer, on the other hand, happily threw down his Xbox controller and picked up his new DSi, taking pictures of himself and laughing giddily. I decided it was a good idea to take Sawyer up myself and ready him for bed.
“Uncle Robby, are you staying the night at our house?” I was trailing behind Sawyer on the stairs when he asked, watching him crawl up the steps like a dog.
“No man, I don’t think tonight will be a good one for that. I have to work and go to class tomorrow.”
“Oh. Do you like school, Uncle Robby?”
Sawyer had turned and stopped on the stairs to ask me that question. I hesitated, but grinned before saying, “Not a whole lot, man. School is definitely not a fun time.”
“Yeah, I know. I don’t really like to be at school either.”
“How are you doing in it, anyways? What’s your favorite thing to do?” I asked as I sat down a couple steps lower than him. We had given up ascending any further. I figured I was in debt for some quality one-on-one with him, since I don’t get to see him as much as I’d like with my tasking work and school schedule.
“Umm, I like recess,” he said. I laughed at how typical the response was. I laughed when he told me he liked to hide near the only tree on the playground and say swear words with his friends. He laughed and seemed astonished when I told him it was absolutely fine to do that, as long as he didn’t do it around people he knew would tell on him or get him in trouble. He laughed when I told him I used swear up a storm when I was his age too.
“How about actual classes though? What’s your favorite subject to do?” He wasn’t so readily equipped with that answer. He was short to tell me what his least favorite subject was: math. I laughed and told him I was studying math at the school I went to. He looked at me like I was an idiot.
“Are classes getting kind of hard for you though? I heard you were having some problems with reading and whatnot.” I already knew the answer was yes, but my stiff and condescending communication with children always bleeds out when I try the hardest. Sawyer was quite a bit behind for most children his age in terms of reading skills. It’s hard to say whether it was lackadaisical parenting or his lack of interest in books that made him stray. In fact, my sister Jennie (his mother) said he might have to take special education classes in order to catch up with the rest of the kids in his grade.
“You see, man, there’s two different kinds of kids that go to school. They have the normal type who take the regular classes there, and then there are kids who have special needs or have sicknesses in their brains that cause them to not learn well. They go to special education classes.”
“Like me?” He asked with such a perplexed countenance. “There are kids my age that already read. There are even kids who are three that can read!”
His question stunned me. The way he said it, I could tell it was information fed to him by another source. That wasn’t anything he would have said without being told otherwise. I wasn’t certain, but I knew my mother was prone to focusing on the bad in life, and blatantly telling her grandchildren what was wrong with their lives, right to their faces. I could hear somebody else’s voice speaking for him. I could hear him misrepresenting his own life. I could hear how confused he probably felt inside, but didn’t take the time to ask many questions and accepted things how they came. I could hear the Halo tunes in his brain silencing and ciphering out the bad. When he asked, I wished I didn’t hear it. I wished I didn’t have to hear his vulnerability as a seven year-old to the ideas and opinions of other people. I wished both he and I were deaf, so I didn’t have to hear the question and he didn’t have to deal with further intrusions on his sense of self.
“Not in the least bit, man. Don’t you ever let anybody tell you that you have a bad brain. It’s okay to not do so well in school, as long as you give it a try. You have to do things you don’t want to do sometimes, but if you deal with it, you will find yourself in an okay spot. Just don’t ever let anybody tell you who you are.”
Our conversation broke from there. I walked Sawyer to his bedroom and let Joe take care of the sleepy-time prayers.
November 16, 2010 was my nephew Sawyer’s seventh birthday. It landed on a Tuesday, so school the next morning refrained him from staying up too late. After the participants of his birthday party left the house, Joe Hill (Sawyer’s father, my ex-brother-in-law) let Sawyer and Joey (my other nine year-old nephew) stay up twenty extra minutes past their bedtime until 9:20PM. Those twenty extra minutes were spent amongst us four men in the living room, playing Halo: Reach around the TV. Sawyer and Joey are video game nuts. In particular, they are nuts over Halo. Sawyer was actually reported on by his school teacher a few weeks before because he was interrupting the class by humming and singing songs from Halo instead of paying attention. I was so proud when I found that out. When I was his age, my classic Nintendo was my lifeline.
Since it was Sawyer’s birthday, he got to choose the final game before 9:20 hit. His choice of game type was juggernaut, where one person has to hold onto a skull for a given amount of time (default is two minutes), and the other players try to kill the person holding the skull so they can carry it themselves to rack time. Suiting enough, Sawyer demolished us all (yes, seven year-olds CAN play video games well in this era), ending his birthday in rightly crowned victory. Joey, however, wasn’t too happy with the outcome. He hated playing juggernaut, and the level we played on was pretty much broken; it was custom created by Joey and Sawyer in their spare time, so he really didn’t have a lot to complain about. Joey started pouting and throwing a fit, tossing his arms about and thwacking them on the bongo drums spread around the living room. Joe was an avid drum player in his free time. He played well in high school, and he bought really expensive instruments such as bongos, guitars, wooden sticks – anything that would make rhythmic noise – in order to teach his kids when they got to the right age. Joe nearly had to hoist Joey up by the waist to carry his kicking and screaming son upstairs to calm him down. Sawyer, on the other hand, happily threw down his Xbox controller and picked up his new DSi, taking pictures of himself and laughing giddily. I decided it was a good idea to take Sawyer up myself and ready him for bed.
“Uncle Robby, are you staying the night at our house?” I was trailing behind Sawyer on the stairs when he asked, watching him crawl up the steps like a dog.
“No man, I don’t think tonight will be a good one for that. I have to work and go to class tomorrow.”
“Oh. Do you like school, Uncle Robby?”
Sawyer had turned and stopped on the stairs to ask me that question. I hesitated, but grinned before saying, “Not a whole lot, man. School is definitely not a fun time.”
“Yeah, I know. I don’t really like to be at school either.”
“How are you doing in it, anyways? What’s your favorite thing to do?” I asked as I sat down a couple steps lower than him. We had given up ascending any further. I figured I was in debt for some quality one-on-one with him, since I don’t get to see him as much as I’d like with my tasking work and school schedule.
“Umm, I like recess,” he said. I laughed at how typical the response was. I laughed when he told me he liked to hide near the only tree on the playground and say swear words with his friends. He laughed and seemed astonished when I told him it was absolutely fine to do that, as long as he didn’t do it around people he knew would tell on him or get him in trouble. He laughed when I told him I used swear up a storm when I was his age too.
“How about actual classes though? What’s your favorite subject to do?” He wasn’t so readily equipped with that answer. He was short to tell me what his least favorite subject was: math. I laughed and told him I was studying math at the school I went to. He looked at me like I was an idiot.
“Are classes getting kind of hard for you though? I heard you were having some problems with reading and whatnot.” I already knew the answer was yes, but my stiff and condescending communication with children always bleeds out when I try the hardest. Sawyer was quite a bit behind for most children his age in terms of reading skills. It’s hard to say whether it was lackadaisical parenting or his lack of interest in books that made him stray. In fact, my sister Jennie (his mother) said he might have to take special education classes in order to catch up with the rest of the kids in his grade.
“You see, man, there’s two different kinds of kids that go to school. They have the normal type who take the regular classes there, and then there are kids who have special needs or have sicknesses in their brains that cause them to not learn well. They go to special education classes.”
“Like me?” He asked with such a perplexed countenance. “There are kids my age that already read. There are even kids who are three that can read!”
His question stunned me. The way he said it, I could tell it was information fed to him by another source. That wasn’t anything he would have said without being told otherwise. I wasn’t certain, but I knew my mother was prone to focusing on the bad in life, and blatantly telling her grandchildren what was wrong with their lives, right to their faces. I could hear somebody else’s voice speaking for him. I could hear him misrepresenting his own life. I could hear how confused he probably felt inside, but didn’t take the time to ask many questions and accepted things how they came. I could hear the Halo tunes in his brain silencing and ciphering out the bad. When he asked, I wished I didn’t hear it. I wished I didn’t have to hear his vulnerability as a seven year-old to the ideas and opinions of other people. I wished both he and I were deaf, so I didn’t have to hear the question and he didn’t have to deal with further intrusions on his sense of self.
“Not in the least bit, man. Don’t you ever let anybody tell you that you have a bad brain. It’s okay to not do so well in school, as long as you give it a try. You have to do things you don’t want to do sometimes, but if you deal with it, you will find yourself in an okay spot. Just don’t ever let anybody tell you who you are.”
Our conversation broke from there. I walked Sawyer to his bedroom and let Joe take care of the sleepy-time prayers.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
BEST SITE
EVER. EVER EVER EVER. You could spend all your years allocated for proper parenting wasted away in front of this. SCREW IT! SCREW THE KIDS! DO IT! It's worth it. The kids will love it too. It'll teach them a lot about science. GO NOW!
http://alexonsager.net/pokemon/?one=68&two=80
http://alexonsager.net/pokemon/?one=68&two=80
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)