The Muffled Sound of Laughing Asian Children

Dedicated to the laughter of those little Asian children running on the lawn of Anderson... not so much the children... just their laughter.

I woke up in a real bed this morning... the first time I've actually slept in a real bed in nearly a month, and it was such a beautiful feeling. But as my eyes flittered awake this morning and buzzed about the room, I felt like there was something missing; it was a perfectly beautiful Saturday morning with sun streaming through the curtains. Everything seemed to be as it was the night before, but I couldn't put my finger on it. What. Was. Missing... and then it hit me. Saturday morning. There was no muffled sound of Asian children; I had become so accustomed, so spoiled, to the sweet sound of Asian laughter that I almost felt robbed when I realized it wasn't there this morning. And after I had come to this revelation, I made a decision: I don't want to be here anymore. I don't want to be an adult. I just want my Asian children.
But alas, there were things that needed to be done. I had to go and fill out paperwork to make sure I could start work this week, and I had to make arrangements with my other job so that it would all work. There's homework in PR Ethics and preparation for my writing class. Rent is due today, and the light and cable are surely going to follow soon enough. And still, all that I could think about were those Asian children. For those of you who don't understand, Maryville College would turn Anderson Hall into what I imagine was a preparatory program for the local Asian children on Saturdays. You would never actually see the children around the city of Maryville throughout the week, but on Saturday, they would pour out of the woodwork and take classes, followed by some version of recess on the Anderson lawn. As a Maryville College student, it's not something you come to just accept; it's something you come to embrace.
And it's not like we had any sentimental attachment other than the fact that when I would stir on Saturday mornings, the volume and quantity of the laughter would alert me as to what time it was. If I heard full blown screaming and cheering, I knew that it was about eleven o'clock. If it was just a couple of giggles and the occasional burst of childlike Japanese, then I had definitely overslept. They would gather outside of my window, and their sweet little voices would carry up through the cracks in the window sill like an alarm clock... but the children themselves... they were mean. Kind of like a polar bear or a honey badger, the Asian children were to be admired from afar: get too close and you could bet that you would be mauled or at minimum, have a kickball shot at your person.
And you know, as I closed my eyes and ran through them as quickly as I could to make it to Pearson's to get breakfast/lunch/salad bar/chewy pizza/yesterday's barbecue chicken, I never really thought to stop and ask someone What are they actually doing at this Saturday school? and I suppose that would have been the logical thing to do instead of treating the Asian children like some harmonic monsters that lived under the bed as I ran to get a glass of water at night, but I never asked. I sometimes hope that I run into at least one of them again later on in life for a number of reasons... a) to ask them to laugh just once more b) to explain how mean they were as children and c) I guess to eventually get to the heart of the matter and find out what they were doing up in Anderson.
It goes to show that when you end up getting further and further distanced from the familiar, the things that you miss start becoming more and more obscure. As I left campus for the last time, taking one (or seven) victory laps, I thought about how much I would miss my friends and professors, the bosses I had, and the overall familiarity of the campus. Then, as I started having to pay for my own food, I realized how much I missed meal plans and furthermore, the spectacular people that made food for me. And as I traverse the street of the District of Columbia in a traffic jam of people very obviously hopped up on speed and bath salts (concluded by their chosen method of operating a vehicle), I start to miss the super inconvenient four minute walk I had to take from the "far" parking spot back over to whatever building I was going to, but I think you really have some reconsidering to do about how much you miss a place you have left when you start to miss the stifled laughter of small Asian children, and with the typical "want it now" Generation Y attitude, I looked on Craigslist to see if anyone had any Asian children, or children in general, for sale, but I don't think that's been legal since circa 1978.
Reflecting back on a place you've come from seems to follow a similar timeline to the grieving process. Everything seems to have a parallel: specifically the anger stage and that one time at a Virginia Target when I contemplated ramming a woman's minivan Fried Green Tomatoes style when she took my parking spot, and I would imagine that this somewhat empty, yet understanding feeling I have sans-Asian children is my way of accepting that it's time to find something to fill the void. It's time to move forward.
I'll never forget you Asian child laughter. You'll always have a special place in my heart, and no matter where in the world I am, nor how old I get, there will always be an echo of your loving, yet intimidating, giggles lingering in the back of my mind.

The Opposite of Oprah's Favorite Things

Andrew informed me a couple of nights ago that I may have an issue with hiding my emotional reactions to things. As he was talking about something that I wasn't really paying attention to/didn't care about, I turned around once the sound of his voice had went away and responded, Neat. At first, when I started using the word, it was a very obvious way of showing distaste toward something that I obviously didn't care for, but now it has almost become a way to passively say I want you to be quiet now. It's not like I mean to be so blatantly obvious with my emotions; I suppose it's a blessing and a curse. No one in a relationship with me will ever feel like they're not loved, but it also means that they'll never not know when I'm super annoyed or pissed off. Needless to say, I never play poker, couldn't play any game that involved lying, and probably wouldn't fare too well in a game of Survivor. I'm just kind of an open book in that way.
And today on the way home from work, I may or may not have been wiping tears away as I'm ranting on the phone to my dad about how my life is eventually going to fall apart and I'm either A) going to be a vagrant or B) work in food service for the rest of my life, and he stopped me in the middle of my emotional tirade to say Justin, you talk a lot. I mean, more than anyone I've ever heard. You should try listening to me sometimes. I apologized and immediately tried to follow up with an explanation and he responded, You're still not listening. Touche, Wendell. Touche, indeed. And he's right. I'm self-admittedly not a good listener, and the ironic part of it is that I get personal gratification when people open up to me, but because I'm so horrible at listening, I rarely ever catch when people do. In my first week here, Andrew was trying to open up to me about his life back home, and I was casually texting one of my friends about something that was surely completely irrelevant at the time. Andrew, being kind of blunt when he wants to be, turns around and said, I'm trying to be open with you right now, and you're not paying attention. And what I should take from that is that I need to focus on other people in a more sincere way, but I think the major message that I usually leave with is that I have too many words for everyone's own good. When you pair less than discrete emotional reactions with not listening, it makes me wonder why I would ever choose to go into public relations.
But there are very few times that I'm left without words; speechless times for Justin are few and far between, but with Wednesday being the year anniversary of my own Senior Convocation, I was reminded of one of the most speechless times I've ever had in my entire life. Convocation is kind of a giant deal at Maryville College because you know that when you hear the bagpipes, the end is near. All of a sudden, you are attached with everyone else in your class, regardless of who had slept with whom, who had defecated under the stairwell and caused the entire building to get fined, or what kind of crazy roommate you had. Under the sound of Scottish music, everyone becomes officially one.
We filed into the Clayton Center, waiting on the speech that was surely going to have an impact that would shake us all. And of course, like Convocation usually works, you find your friends and you cling to them. It's one of the last times you can be together before the real world tears you apart from each other. My friends and I all sat together, waiting for the words of Dr. Bogart to inspire us throughout the rest of our senior year, and for the most part, it was inspiring. Like any other convocation, his words spoke of beginnings and endings, how everything at Maryville College was improving (despite the harsh faculty cuts and budget deficits), and how the future was ours for the taking. Convocation is a time to welcome the new freshman because they're tiny and frail and kind of silly, and for the seniors, it's a time of recognition and for saying goodbye. But then it happened: the moment.
While we were sitting there, appreciating all the kind words that were being said, everything was okay. And of course there was me, without my emotional filter, taking pride in all the kind things that were being said. Then there was a sudden shift in conversation; if it weren't already completely obvious from previous posts, there were those of us in fraternities/sororities/secret societies on campus, and then there were those of us who weren't. Most of the time, the issue was not spoken about... kind of like an inconvenient mole on someone's face or an affair in someone's marriage. So it was quite a surprise when Dr. Bogart abruptly shifted in the middle of Convocation to the topic of secret societies: I challenge today's students to do something different by choosing not to join the secret societies. First, they are illegal... second, they are divisive, creating artificial differences among students rather than looking to create community. He then went on to compare the choir to fraternities and sororities, which is largely true and maybe even a bit more exclusive, but by that time, he had lost the crowd. He tried to bring us back by name dropping the Gay Straight Alliance, followed by some Bible verses (an odd combination for a Southern college), but it was just too late. Dr. Bogart had broken the number one rule of Fight Club: don't talk about Fight Club.
There was an obvious divide in the crowd: some students couldn't bare but to reveal their devilish grins, feeling as if the words had somehow brought us all to justice. It was as if we were practicing witchcraft and had been called out in front of the school... but not Salem Witch Trial witches... more like The Craft. And then for the rest of us, we all just kind of sat there with our mouths gaped open, in a style that I believe mimics the exact opposite reaction that most middle aged women have during the "Oprah's Favorite Things" episode. And then, in the middle of all that is me with a slightly debilitated expression, glancing from side to side to see if there was some mechanism in our seats that would explode if we attempted to escape, you know, Hunger Games style. I'm surprised my tongue didn't fall out of my mouth, and if Dr. Bogart had caught a glimpse of my face during his speech, he probably would have burst out laughing. Ellison, who for all intensive purposes was on the side of the administration (from here forth referred to as "The Capitol"), leaned over and said Sorry, brah. But no words at that point could shake my expression, which is best equated to a hybrid of Meryl Streep from The Devil Wears Prada and Sean Penn from I Am Sam.
I honestly can't remember much of what was said at Convocation other than that. There was something about the Bible and a neat (damn it, there went the sincerity) story from it, but I can't seem to recall what it was. I hear Bible and my mind shifts to Christian, which goes to Baptist, which goes to New Hopewell Baptist church, which goes to how the youth group used to raise their hands in the air when we'd sing Lord, I Lift Your Name on High, and then I start humming the song in a really enthusiastic tone. But unless there was something about how to get a PR firm to call you back after you've submitted three resumes to them or how to pay rent without actually giving anyone money, I don't think I missed out on too much. I try to listen when it's most important, and when I am listening, you'll know exactly how I'm feeling about what is being said.

Things You Can Be Doing in Florida Other Than Going to The Republican National Convention

Sadly, I am sitting in my mid-Atlantic apartment watching the Republican National Convention instead of actually being in Florida for the Republican National Convention. It's disappointing for a number of reasons, namely my avid dedication for Mitt Romney, the advocation for life in situations of rape, and consideration that pregnancy can begin before sperm even gets involved (like on Baby Mama)... jay kay, I just think it's funny when a whole bunch of closeted gay men get together and wear appropriately colored ties (fun fact: back in the day, gay men would wear red ties and pinky rings to signify they were gay in a subtle way... watch Mad Men, Salvador says it all). Anyway, I suppose that choosing Florida for the national convention was an obvious choice, but I'll let you assume why. However, if you are so lucky to be in Florida right now, I want to remind you that you have options. Instead of sitting in a sparsely populated arena listening to a black person who was brainwashed by Mitt Romney to add a little ethnic flair to an otherwise white man's campaign, I'm here to offer you some travel suggestions.
I once went to Florida, and it's a pretty neat place. Mind you, that was during Spring Break 2011, so my perspective may be a little blurred, but it's whatevs. I'm pretty sure that I remember enough that I can tell you some hot spots in and around Florida that may pique your interest and sway you away from this Republican business going on.
First and foremost, before we start, I would just like to remind you of all the reasons that going to the national convention just isn't as fun as it was four years ago. I think the number one reason is that Sarah Palin isn't there. Let's be honest: you either loved her (like me, seriously) or you loved to hate her. Either way, it was really exciting to have her around because she was always good for a laugh. She made the convention fun, sexy, and a little bit naughty... and we liked that. Second of all, there was that tiny little John McCain who we appreciated because he had the face of a teddy bear and the valor of a legend. Even if he ended up in office doing crazy business for four years, at least he was lovable. I'm sure that after a while, we could have maybe gotten used to it. Kind of. But now we have two white men... again... and isn't that just kind of boring? It all feels kind of dangerous now; it's hard to laugh at the issues they stand behind because there's nothing that makes them kind of laughable. Maybe it's not too late to get Christine O'Donnell back with some of that witchcraft. Hermoine for President!
But I digress, let's get back to Florida. Tampa is kind of a funny place because it's in such an inconvenient location, but if you happen to stumble up toward the border of Florida and Georgia, there's this really cool place that sells oranges and puka shell necklaces. I also found a coffee cup with the name Carol on it, but if none of that appeals to you, they also have a thirteen foot gator! You read that correctly the first time: thirteen. foot. gator. And yeah, you'll probably have to pay to see it, but instead of listening to Republicans talk about small business development that they may or may not have anything to do with (ahem, tax cuts for the wealthy and corporations, sniff cough), you can give your money to actual small businesses that aren't being represented by some woman from Delaware talking about her autistic son's personal growth because of her self-made business. I mean, snaps to you emotionally trained Republican woman with Sarah Palin glasses, but seriously... I don't think you have a thirteen foot gator.
Also, if discussing the underlying characteristics of birth control that are tearing the sanctity of our country apart isn't intoxicating enough, Florida is one of the last states in the country to sell 4Loko's with 12% alcohol. Yes, they have been linked with heart attacks and some of the most devastating physical ramifications that 24 ounces can offer a person, but you only live once or YOLO as the kids say these days. And for those of you who turn into that girl when you drink your trashy, malt beverages from the gas station, then what better way to celebrate what could be the final days of availability to birth control by starting your night off with a 4Loko... that is, unless you're gay, in which case, there is obviously no need for birth control since you're going to split Hell wide open anyways. Sigh.

Though this is probably one of the most important topics at this year's convention, along with one of the most depressing, we need to briefly discuss the economy. In short, it kind of sucks, and if you go to the convention and you are in that middle to lower class bracket, you're going to hear something along the lines of "sucks to suck." So, instead, you can visit one of Florida's many Burger Kings. I know that on Spring Break, Burger King was kind of like my safe haven, and if you want the skinny, the best deal that you can get is that BK Stacker. So cheap, but quaintly delicious.
And lastly, since you're in Florida and because things aren't looking too fantastic for America either way, there really could be a chance that Mitt Romney will get elected, and in that case, this could be the last time you're ever in Florida... not so much because you won't have the money to get there but more because the increase in drilling oil will cause global warming to escalate at a rate that would cause Florida to be underwater as early as 2016. I'm not joshing you guys, go to the beach. Skip the convention and just hang out on the sand while it's still available in an oxygenated environment. Oh yeah, go to Disney World, too. That'll be gone as well. And when I assume that Florida will be gone, I'm going to go ahead and say that it will definitely be gone. Trust me, I took an environmental studies class a couple years ago; we talked about stuff like this.
I'm going to be honest, maybe I'm a little biased in this debate. Yep, I'm going to admit it... I'm probably sounding a little left-winged for your taste, and I apologize for that. This has always been a safe place for all of us; a place where we could leave our political woes at the door and laugh about things that weren't so intensely topical. But I'm sorry, I have to stand up and say something when our next first lady bears a striking resemblance to Ann Coulter. You remember what that woman said about 9/11... I don't think any of us liked it that much. I'm not saying that Ann Romney is Ann Coulter (whoa... they have the same name), but I am saying that I like Michelle Obama more. She's fierce, she knows how to rock a pencil skirt, and she takes her kids to popular concerts.
And if I haven't won you over yet, they played God Bless the USA by Lee Greenwood and Kid Rock was scheduled to perform at the RNC. Scene.

Mommies Get Tired, Too

When I was younger, there was always something that I wanted my mom to do for/with me. There was a television show or some kind of homework or a shirt that absolutely had to be washed before the next day or even worse, I wanted her to do something physical. I'm not exactly sure why I wanted her to jump on the trampoline or walk down the road or practice soccer with me, but it seemed logical at the time. My mom's energy was limitless, and as far as I was concerned, it all belonged to me. It wasn't as if she worked or cooked dinner or did all of our laundry... the rest of her time was supposed to belong to me, or that's what I thought until I had my first weekend as a Mommy myself.
I guess my entry to mommyhood started on Friday. I knew as soon as I woke up, I felt different and not because of some excruciating labor or anything like that... I decided to skip that step of mommyhood. I walked into the kitchen of our apartment and looked at the leftover pasta with homemade creamy feta sauce that I had made the night before. I like trying new recipes; it's my time to remember who I was when I was younger: creative, hopeful. But of course, when Andrew came home from work, he rudely overlooked the dinner I made, the dinner that he was two hours late for. Didn't it matter that I had cooked that evening? Wasn't it good enough? No. He opted for a sandwich instead, and as I looked at the pasta, I realized just how unappreciated I was. But because of my unrelenting spirit, I decided to sweep the apartment, but no one cared. Eleanor and Marsha would have been so proud of me because the entire floor was spotless, but alas, no one noted it. And then when we went out for "happy hour" that night, I drank more drinks than anyone else. I could feel their judgment. I could visibly see the terrible vibes heading my way, but when a mommy works as hard as I do cooking and sweeping and watching half of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows 2 and the last fifteen minutes of No Strings Attached, I feel like I deserved all three of those margaritas.
And then on Saturday, I did the most mommy thing I could think of: I spent the day going off to antique stores and thrift stores by myself. Sure, I left Ben at the apartment sleeping, but he's stayed by himself before; he could find something to eat for lunch. It was "me time;" a moment for me to go and enjoy the things that old people had once owned, then left to someone in their will, only to be market at a completely unaffordable price. I enjoyed looking through old newspapers and furniture, measuring cups marked for 45 dollars and the occasional affordable, but completely impractical, cigar tin. And then after that, I made friends with an old woman and met her and her life partner at their house to pick up a free record player. I then swung by the Goodwill to pick up a Carole King album to test on my record player-- my favorite one, Tapestry. And as I carried it to the register, I had realized that maybe this mommy metaphor had gotten out of control. I was standing in a secondhand store, running my finger along a Carole King album and reflecting on how I had fallen in love with the distressed wood armoire that was completely out of my price range. The whole day had been consumed with mingling with old people and befriending old lesbians. I was just excited that after two weeks of a new city and new people and a new apartment, I was finally getting some time to myself. I had suddenly become the hybrid of a gay man and a 45 year old divorcee, and I had no idea how I had gotten there.
So today I decided to go back to being a twenty-two year old man; I had every intention of doing so, but as soon as I got up, that all changed. Andrew and I took off at a completely unreasonable hour on a Sunday to go pick up an old plastic Christmas tree; once we got there, we found a blue wing backed chair, a piece of wall art, and a KitchenAid blender. We spent a bit loading it all into the car, but then I felt accomplished all over again, in the way that I imagine only mommies feel accomplished. Then, we returned and they asked me to go play basketball, but all I wanted to do was pour myself a morning drink and read yesterday's Washington Post that someone conveniently throws away everyday without reading. Apparently, we played a game called "21," which I thought involved a deck of cards, a fold out table, and a visor, but then I found myself out on a basketball court running around (which is honestly the furthest thing from the truth). After meandering around the court for a while, I made a legitimate attempt to score, made 2 points, and then sat down. I had accomplished what I set out to do: be involved long enough to feel like I had done something, then quit... kind of like what I do with every sport I've been involved in. Then I spent the rest of our time watching Ben argue with the Mexican children at the court, as Andrew was being called "big boy," by the other child. I wanted to run out on to the court and explain to Andrew that he is perfect the way God made him, and he probably just looks "big boned" to the other kids, but sometimes, you have to let them grow up on their own. Instead, I sat on the bench and talked to a friend from home.
We decided to go to the mall, which concluded with Ben yelling in the car and pressing on my knee to make the car go faster. I almost threatened to pull over and let him walk home, but seriously, what kind of parent does that? If I'm stuck in mommy-mode indefinitely, I will not be the kind of parent that ends up getting visited from DHS. Not at my home; not on my time. Eventually, we came back, and Andrew wanted me to teach him how to iron. After the first shirt, he offered a trade: if I would iron all his shirts for him each week, he would give me a preset amount of cuddle time in return. Yes, cuddling. Even though I'm a pretty huge fan of some recreational cuddling, I barely have the ambition to iron my own shirts during the week, let alone Andrew's. Plus, I don't know what I'll be doing when Andrew needs his shirts ironed. It might be TV time, and it's just a sin to cross housework with syndicated television.
I honestly don't know how my mom did it. I can't cut being a mom, and I hate feeling like I've somehow let myself fall into mommy mentality. I miss being a 22 year old, and I can only hope that maybe this is some weird phase that I'm going through, kind of like how I treated the majority of last week like I was on a reality television show. Andrew and Ben are not children by any means... correction: Andrew and Ben are not children any more than I am. We're all still kind of children, I guess. But if randomly going through a mommy phase is any kind of reflection on how being an actual parent is, I don't know if I want a part in that for a while. Buying things for myself is expensive, let alone things for people that don't have the ability to buy things themselves. Sometimes, like this morning, I don't want to even get out of bed to do things that I've chosen to do myself, so the prospect of waking up to take care of someone else just isn't something that appeals to me right now. All I can hope is that this weird mommy feeling will be over before I know it because there's only so much red wine I can drink out of a Redskins cup; that's the problem you have when two cultures collide.

Will You Still Love Me Today?

A couple nights ago, I was talking to Nam about some boy she was talking to... Nam and I had a conversation about finding that special person and about how fate and circumstance has to work in your favor: the right time along with the right place along with the right person. It's a lot of alongs, and it doesn't really seem fair to anybody in the world who would ever want to leave one place and go to the other. The whole thing is so chancy, and it always seems so... pointless. I guess if you talked to a cynic, it probably is because how often can we ever expect to find someone at all the right "things." Nam and I have been taking turns battling back and forth with her theory; less about the logistics and more about the struggle of dealing with such intimidating circumstances.
After a three year hiatus, I dated someone my senior year--a freshman, the cardinal sin of a college senior. Multiple times, I was told that the relationship was pointless and in the aftermath, I probably would have agreed. At times, I still find myself holding that sentiment. However, I did it. I dated a freshman, and when it was great, it was great, and when I got into grad school... well... it wasn't. Now, with me being in DC and her heading ever so quickly into the Peace Corps, she's met this boy and it could be something, but with Nam being Nam, she makes it a logical puzzle. There's obviously no reason why she would ever go through with anymore than a brief make out before calling it quits. And as I texted her, nearly falling asleep because it was so late, I sent her this message,

We never really know what our futures look like, or if we have one, so I say enjoy it while you can. end it when you absolutely have to, and never regret that you took a moment out to care for someone. there may never be a good time for potential love or even companionship... so you have to take it when it arrives.

And, like most things that I internally contemplate, I asked myself as I was falling asleep that night A) Who the hell is the person that just said that to her? and B) Did you give someone a complete sense of false hope only to be let down? It's human nature I guess to err on the side of cynicism, but it really was too late to correct any possible mistake I made. Soon after our conversation I fell asleep and had one of the most startling dreams I've ever had in my life.
Patrice was the first person I saw in my dream; she ran up to a police officer standing at the edge of a taped off intersection. Smoke could be seen rising from the ground, and she asked him What's going on? He turned around and said There was a bomb in the metro; we're trying to get down there. Patrice pulled out her phone and began to text someone while saying to the officer My friends are on the metro. I'm guessing that the timeline went backwards from there, only on the basis that you just kind of understand what's going on in your dreams without any kind of explanation.
I could see everything that was going on--the day was as average as any other day in DC has been so far, and I remember looking up at the sky, blue and bright, the kind of sky that almost hurts to look at it because nothing is standing between you and the rest of the universe. Andrew, my roommate, had just called me to tell me that he had some issues going on at home with his girlfriend and that he was going down into the metro. I, however, was walking with someone I had never met before... hand in hand, as if I had done it for months and months leading up to the dream. Sure, I had never met the person walking with me in my dreams, but at one point, I turned around and leaned forward for a kiss. The kiss was nothing extraordinary, just a moment in the middle of a city that I barely know anything about. I said that we would meet up later to tell everyone about our news, and then I let the other hand go, leaned in for one more kiss and got on the escalator leading down to my own metro.
The last thing I remember before I woke up was watching the doors of the metro close behind me as I boarded at the last second, and then I woke up. Waking up from dreams like that usually send me into a panic, as if I have some ability to channel premonitions. But, the whole scenario didn't actually imply anything for certain, at least in the premonition world. I don't know if it was my train that had the bomb in it, nor did I know if it was Andrew's. But in the back of my mind, I had this gut feeling that it was mine. It was as if I knew that those doors were closing behind me for a reason, and that I didn't need to finish the dream to know what had happened. In dream world, as far as I was concerned, I had died that day on the metro... and in an odd way, I was okay with it.
The only reason that I wasn't in some kind of dream-induced panic attack is because, whether it was a dream or a premonition... or if I died or lived... that version of me that lived in that dream was happy. I could feel that happiness as I boarded the dream metro. I could feel that happiness as I leaned it for a kiss from the stranger that I obviously was about to bring further into my world. Somehow, in a world full of people that shoot up public places and a world full of war and disease, I had found some semblance of happiness lurking on the outside of a metro, and even if my world were to end directly after such a simple kiss, it would have been okay because for that moment I was happy.
And not by any means am I saying that I'm not happy now, but I think it's so easy at this point in our twenty-something lives to forget that there might be things to be happy about right now. And we spend all this time trying to fool proof our lives: we try our best to make relationships work that just aren't working anymore and in doing so, we ruin any chance of being able to look back upon it with a favorable perspective. We are hoping that by doing this or that we will solidify our futures to a point that we can ensure comfortability without knowing if we even have a future to be comfortable in. We hope for money and possessions, and we sometimes attempt to turn intangible things into something that we can see or feel because it's a better way to gauge our futures. If life were done on paper, it would be so much easier, but it's not.
After days of not posting and feeling completely blocked as to what I should write about, it came to me. I spent the day touring thrift stores and antique shops looking at furniture that I couldn't come close to buying. In my pursuits, I met an old woman who was giving away a record player. She gave me her address, and when I got there, she invited me into her house introducing me to her partner and her dog. She gave me the record player and told me that if someone didn't come pick up her records, I was free to come back by and get them. I thought about all the antiques and the record player and the life that woman and her partner had developed in their beautiful home. And though some of those things came from homes that were wealthy, surely, there were at least a couple things that came from someone who didn't have much. They live on through these people who purposefully go and buy their possessions in an attempt to own a part of someone's life that has already been lived out. The idea seems so comforting to me, that even after death, our lives could continue on through the things that we've left behind.
And I'm sure that all that I've been thinking about is a lot to process for one twenty-two year old boy in just a couple days, but while in search for the preliminary album to test out my new record player, I came across Carol King's Tapestry, which could be one of my favorite albums of all time. Going over the songs on the back to refresh myself, I came across "Will You Love Me Tomorrow?" I found the whole concept to be a little farfetched... why ask someone to love you tomorrow when you have the opportunity to love them wholeheartedly today?

Six Miles Up, Six Miles Down

I think it's human nature for people to say things about themselves that make them sound more refined or perfect than we really are. It's the reason that we stand in line at Starbucks, muttering venti bold Columbian espresso no whip over and over, so when we actually get to the counter, we're able to say it as if we actually order something so complicated every day. Then we turn around and tell the person behind us who is whispering their own semi-Italian phrases in practice, that we opted out of the whipped cream because you read in some magazine that it is bad for you. No we didn't. We heard that from the last person standing in front of us at Starbucks. We're a crazy population of people that love to come across as something that we really want to be, and dare I say, sometimes think we are. But there's always an issue--a pothole that stops us dead in our tracks. Some people turn to money or status, but for me, I would say that my weakness is trying to come off as healthier or more active than I really am.

Wine: A hobby worth having.

And it's so funny because when I tell people the things that I'm interested in, there's a part of me that actually believes that I'm into "cross country running," but the only time that I've ever been anything close to cross country running was on the way out of the woods from a hunting trip with my dad because I knew we were going to stop at Subway on the way back. My real hobbies include: writing, drinking wine, quoting obscure moments from popular culture, talking to people, doing stuff related to public relations or writing, reading, drinking wine, driving places, canoeing, and drinking wine.
My most recent error was telling my roommate that I really "wanted to start running again." The most successful venture I ever had with running is when I was borderline obese and kind of accidentally started working out. I somehow block out the times when my vision would start to waver and I would use three paper towels to get rid of all the sweat on my head alone... I just remember that, for a time, I think I might have enjoyed running. So, it's always a giant surprise to me when I try to run recreationally how much I actually hate it, and what I hate even more than running is when people stop and wait for me to catch up. I want them to leave me so that I can wallow in my own misery. I want to power walk without the athletic pressure of those around me, and if I get lucky enough, I'll drown in my own body fluid and never have to run again. To prove to myself that I wasn't ever going to make the mistake of recommending a run again, I had us walk down the big hill next to my house so that I would have to run up it. I listened to a song that reminds me of someone I loathe from my senior year of college just so that I could muster enough energy to haul ass up the hill. I wanted to associate as many bad things with running as possible so that I'll never forget that the ramifications of acting active will always outweigh the image boost that comes with it.
But there's never been a more devastating error that I've made than the dangerous, dangerous phrase: Oh you like hiking? I LOVE hiking. No you don't, Justin. You like that you got Chacos on sale, and you love snacks. You like the things that come with hiking. You do not like hiking. And the reason that I don't like hiking always becomes apparent pretty early into the hike. You have to climb up things, and not only that, there are all these things in your way... like rocks or roots or children. The whole thing is such a burden, and you're never prepared for it.
But when Dixie asked me to go hike Mt. LeConte (as if that's just a normal thing to do), it must have been a couple years since I had hiked. But I loved Dixie and I thought I loved hiking, so I agreed. We woke up at a totally unreasonable hour and met to adventure up this mountainside. And as always, when I go packing, I pack the most ridiculous assortment of things: a camera, a complete inadequately sized water bottle, nothing to eat at all, and a jacket that I am sure that I will never use. I'm terrible at hiking, but I'm even worse at preparing for it.

This is obviously very early into the trip, as
I am still smiling and am not totally drenched
in sweat.

Another common factor is the mood that comes with hiking Justin. I always start out feeling fantastic, usually setting an unrealistic pace and then I talk about how I always go that fast; I guess it's just my thing. Then, much like my running style, about a mile in I slow to the pace of an elephant taking sips of my water every seven feet. And by the time that we get about a third of the way into the hike, I begin asking how close we are... would it be okay if I stopped to tie my shoe... let's just sit for a minute and take in the scenery... pretty much anything that would keep us from having to go any farther. Dixie told me the night before we were to hike Mt. LeConte that the hike was "six miles," and as great of a person as I think Dixie is, if we were to have a conversation about it right now, I would call her a liar to her face. I know exactly what she did: she very inquisitively asked me things on the way up the mountain, like: wow, don't you think we should be near the top? haven't you seen this before?... but I know what she was doing... she was making some wiggle room for herself when I realized at about mile four up the mountain that it was six miles up, six miles down. I looked up toward the top of the mountain and turned around to Dixie, one of the nicest and most moral people I've ever met and pointed to the top of the mountain, announcing Dixie, what the hell is that? Why the hell is the mountain up there? She looked at me with a worried face, as if I might actually throw her off the ledge we were on. The truth was out there now: Justin is obviously not a hiker. She turned her map upside down, then right side up, look inquisitively as if there might be some kind of error, but Dixie knows how to read a map. Dixie knew exactly what she had done... she had me trapped in God's country, and as much as I love me some Jesus, I think God and I both know that's not where I belong.
I eventually convinced Dixie that a mile from the top of the mountain was a pretty stellar personal best for me, as long as I would eventually go back to hike Mt. LeConte one day. And one day, I would love nothing more than to stand at the top of Mt. LeConte with her, providing there's a trolley service to the top, or that winking business from I Dream of Jeanie becomes an actual human function. When we finally reached the car, I had developed two giant blisters on each foot and had somehow burst them in the process of getting down. I was frazzled and nasty and tired and even so disoriented that I offered a hitch hiker named "Leaf" a ride down the road, but I believe that's probably a different story for a different day.
But it's these stories that remind me to stick with what I'm good at and just try to capitalize on those experiences the most. Canoeing is like water hiking, and arguably even better because you get to sit down the whole time. Actually, all of my favorite hobbies involve sitting down, which might be an indicator of a common goal I try to aim for... do as much as possible without getting up. And you know what, if you can't dig what I'm doing when I'm sitting down, then I'll just have to see you when you get off the mountain.

Appa Bahp

If I've ever been good at anything, it's talking. All my elementary school teachers told me so. I guess I was also good at taking a compliment because when Mrs. Henderson would shoot me eyes across the classroom and say, "You're getting a little too good at talking," I would immediately become filled with pride and consider my communication skills superior to the other second graders around me. It wasn't until I set an unprecedented record for yellow lights (an even split between talking excessively and my inability to stop crying) that I determined that my gift for gab may not be the best thing in the entire world.
However, coming from Tennessee, I never considered that my voice was any different from anyone else's. Sure, I talk a little louder than other people, but that's because so many people ignored my very important things I wanted to contribute to conversation as a child. Naturally, I spoke louder so that they could hear me. It wasn't until I was older that I realized that the way I say things may not be the way that other people say them. What I have never understood is the reaction that people have when there is a communication barrier. It's the same kind of lapse in judgment that people have when there's a bad connection on a cell phone; walking around a circle with a three feet radius repeating Can you hear me? is not going to give your phone any more bars than it had before. Holding it up fourteen inches above your ear won't do anything either.
When I visited a high school teacher after graduation, we sat down for dinner and began to talk about how life was in college. I told her and her husband about joining a fraternity, making Dean's List... all the basic things that people recap when you talk about your college life. She told me about things that were happening at school and all the things privvy to everyone except the students that actually go there. As we approached the end of the night, I collected my pea coat from the closet, fixed my scarf around my neck and said the fatal word: Goodnight.
In unison, they responded: Good knot?
I retorted: Goodnight.
Again: Good knot?
This literally went on for at least forty-five seconds. I explained how, for some reason, my teachers had not beaten the Southern accent out of me as a child, and when I use certain vowels, the drawl comes out a little more than it would regularly. As if I hadn't picked up on the hint, they went on to explain to me how odd my accent was. It sounded so... rustic, which is a politically correct way of saying podunk. Then it usually follows with someone saying how endearing my voice is, which is a politically correct way of saying, Hey, I'm really entertained by your voice. Let's draw some attention to it. It's a burden and a curse I suppose, but I've never really been bothered by it. That is... until appa bahp.
Last summer, a couple of friends and I decided to escape campus for a while and go grab a bite to eat. Smokey Mountain Brewery was a new restaurant in the area, so naturally, it seemed like a good option. We had decided that with it being a brewery and restaurant that focused specifically on Southern favorites, it only made sense to order something that would be specifically Southern. When our waitress approached the table she seemed nice enough: young, pregnant, and without a wedding ring... something not too uncommon for a waitress in the greater East Tennessee area. I find myself immediately attracted to people like this. She said she would have married her boyfriend, but she hadn't seen him since she told him that she was pregnant. She asked us for our drink orders, and I thought we had a connection. I thought she cared. I thought she wasn't obnoxious, but when I said that I wanted the "Apple Pie Moonshine," she put her hands on her hips and announced "APPA BAHP?!" Like I usually do, I repeated myself Um, the apple pie moonshine. And like clockwork, she responded APPA BAHP?! My friends couldn't get enough; what a funny joke it must have been. Completely unamused, I responded I don't understand. Like someone who can't quite find appropriate things humorous or who just has to tell everyone the last black joke they heard, she responded yet again APPA BAHP?! It literally went on and on for three minutes, the longest that I've ever seen anyone choose to be so blissfully obnoxious. I wasn't sure what to do because it seemed as if I was at that point in Mario where you don't really care enough to actually go into the green PVC pipe that takes you to the next level... you'd rather just throw your controller out the window. I didn't even want to get a drink anymore; I just wanted her to deliver the baby inside of her so I could shamelessly toss her through the window, then steal the baby and raise it as my own so that it would have a chance for an okay life.

Oh Meredith, what have you
done with your hair?

And I guess that my voice is no Dan Rather, but calling upon the distinctness of someone's voice, particularly someone from the South that could be deemed as "stupid," is kind of unfruitful if you make yourself sound like an idiot in the process. Unless you're in a debate with strategic facts and figures in between your statements, repeating yourself is something that kind of makes you look like a, well... a dumbass. To this day my vowels haunt me; some would say that it's my Achilles Heel--my weakness and my strength. My hope was to come to DC and use my accent as a distraction, making any "competitors" think that I am some dumb hillbilly and then skating past them when they're not looking. I think the plan has worked halfway so far, but without any opportunities to skate yet, it's more just people thinking I'm kind of dumb.
But at the end of the day, you should be proud of who you are and where you come from. Everyone in the world is so plain, so ordinary, so uninspiring. That's why Meredith's mom on Grey's Anatomy never loved her enough. She doesn't have an accent, her scrubs are never ironed, and she has a frumpy haircut. And that's a frustrating thing to see in your child, let alone another person. You honestly need something to make you distinctive from everyone else in the world because who wants to go through the world being just another person with a non-distinct personality/accent/face/haircut? Look at Matthew McConaughey; he can't act or do anything helpful for the human race, but he still gets hired for movies because of his voice... or his body. Whatevs. Surely you can't be that worthless; imagine the possibilities.