I was so nervous I couldn't even walk in. Also, I didn't want to have one of those weird moments where you're walking from the plane and you see the person who's come to pick you up from like 12 miles away and then you have the weird sustained eye-contact thing...
Okay, I was nervous. Could you blame me? I hadn't seen the girl in forever and yet here she comes -after driving to St. Louis to get on a plane and taking that plane to Houston and sitting through a 2-hour lay-over waiting for her flight to Waco... I was a little... "Willie McWiggins."
But then, finally, her plane shows up and taxi's in. I walk into the small airport and wait in front of the gate. My eyes dart around for possible places to position myself. Should I lean up against this post? -Too James Dean. I could hide behind this corner and jump out at her... stupid. Should I sit on this airport bench, lean back and act nonchalant (as if girls on which I've had a crush for 5+ years fly 900 miles to see me on my birthday all the time)? Maybe I should start up a conversation with the lady next to me so I'll look popular... D'oh! Something on my shirt. Why did I wear these khaki's? I look like I'm freaking rushing FIJI... I should-
And then I see her... in her jeans and white, sleeveless shirt with her hair all blowing in the wind that seems to always surround airports (what's the deal with that, anyway?) and I feel those blue eyes lock with mine; I watch her lips curl into a smile... I might as well have been naked. -That's how I felt. Erin has always had a way of seeing right into me. Yeah, yeah I know it's cliche' but it really is true. It's like with her, not only is my inner monologue not so "inner" but she got an advance copy of it a couple days ago.
We greet with an embrace and a "hey babe" and then we close our eyes, lean in and kiss our first kiss right there in the middle of Waco Regional Airport for all the Texans to see. I could have sworn it was my first ever.
I open my eyes it's three days later and she's wearing glasses and my favorite Baylor hoodie that I gave her. As our embrace relaxes and she backs away from me toward the security checkpoint, our hands slide down each others arms and our fingertips catch. First she lets go of my right hand with her left and we linger on what will be our last contact for who knows how long. When we let let thos last few fingers relax, our hands fall to our sides as if they've failed their only purpose.
I say a prayer under my breath beseeching the Lord to watch over her and keep her safe; to bless his prettiest --and best smelling-- blessing to me.
As she is walking down the promenade to board her plane, she slows and looks over her shoulder. I mouth the words "I love you" and she mouths them back through watery eyes. I wink, the corner of her mouth curls upward and she walks through the door taking my heart with her.
It was a weekend of "firsts." Our first kiss. First time to Texas. First time to eat Thai. First Big Time (Big12) football game. Second time doing the "Sic 'em Bears" claw. First time meeting my friends. First time making out while watching The Lord of The Rings. (Ahh J.R.R., will your gifts to me never cease?) First time I've ever felt completely myself in front of someone with whom I don't share genes.
Now I only hope for a "last." I don't look forward to watching her walk away again.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Older and Wiser
One great expectation of being in Grad School that has completely come true is that of professor performance. In only my first semester, I've already been exposed to three excellent teachers. Martha Lou is great and completely disarming with her east-Texas accent. Also, she bleeds Green and Gold, just like me. Dr. Shushok is awesome, as expected. This week he facilitated what might have been the best classroom "workshop" and interactive-roleplaying experience I've ever experienced on Monday.
Then there's Dr. Robert C. Cloud. And he says his middle name, as if he were a General of old. Robert C. Cloud -- or RCC for short-- is the master of the dramatic teaching form; the commander of the 3-second pause. He has a way of literally reminding our class how smart and good looking we are at every meeting. He will take us from tears to laughs in the "flick of a cricket's leg."
I don't remember my grandfather. One died years before I was even conceived and the other, my namesake, died when I was very young. I remember tiny bits, I guess. I remember looking at a cartoon in a Sesame Street book and seeing a portrait on the wall of Bert's father and thinking I was reminded of Grandpa Veith. (He kind of had a pointy head). I remember after he died of a heart-attack giving my Grandma "hug-attacks". I remember Pipe smoke, but I don't really remember him in the flesh.
I guess I've had other Grandfather types. There was PeeWee Hestilow, the Brooks Hall night monitor for 14 years-dammit. PeeWee was the kind of person I thought I'd meet when I moved to Texas. From his silver handle-bar mustache to his Bryl-creamed hair, the man fit the part. He wore "cowboy shirts" adorned with the occasional longhorns or cow skull that were so starched with such vehemence that many of the S.P. Brooks staff were sure that's what kept him up right at times. He wore the Wranglers, tight and cowboy style. With that cramped of an environment, its a surprise he had 4 kids. Funny story- PeeWee had a set of keys he always kept locked up in the office locker. And on those keys he had a wooden peg attached to the keyring. For the life of us, we had a hell of a time trying to figure out its purpose. And then one night we saw him walk his rounds. PeeWee's Wranglers were so tight, that he couldn't fit his keys in his pocket, so he would just stick the peg in. To us, it was like watching two Pandas mate in the wild, you knew it happened, but you just never thought you'd see it. Seriously, I know how Jacques Cousteau must have felt.
I'm not a big sleeper, so many a late-night hour was spent hearing how good we rich "kids have it" and playing dominoes with the Baylor DPS officers as they'd stop by to "stretch their legs". I miss PeeWee a lot. He had a particular kind of wisdom one can only procure through a divorce, four boys, "tank-bustin' in Korea" and a wife named "Kitty". I remember the night PeeWee tried to talk Andrew Telep and myself into buying $800 Ostritch-skin Boots using the logic that if we spend $100 a year on "tenny-sneakers" --which I haven't spent in 2 years-- and his boots have lasted 20 years then it must be a good deal! Ahh, PeeWee. The world needs more of you.
But now I have RCC. RCC challenges us in a way we'd never thought he could. He has a way of engaging each and every one of us in class with every word he speaks. His clear-blue eyes have a way of finding every other set in the room when he speaks, demanding their attention -no- fixation. And every time he says "now listen to RCC on this one..." We are all rapt in concentration, fixed upon his every word.
Lately he's been reading to us at the end of every class and I can't help but feel as I might have felt --could I better remember-- when my Grandfather read to me. Last night, when I felt his raspy voice wash over me, I was taken to a different place:the bookbag sitting in my lap became my teddy bear, "chipmunk", and my jeans and Doc's were "footsie pajamas." For only a moment, I was little again and my life lay completely ahead of me. RCC made me feel as though I had all the potential in the world and that my life is but a book yet to be written. One can imagine my shock when I realized it was all true.
I cannot wait for Tuesday next.
Then there's Dr. Robert C. Cloud. And he says his middle name, as if he were a General of old. Robert C. Cloud -- or RCC for short-- is the master of the dramatic teaching form; the commander of the 3-second pause. He has a way of literally reminding our class how smart and good looking we are at every meeting. He will take us from tears to laughs in the "flick of a cricket's leg."
I don't remember my grandfather. One died years before I was even conceived and the other, my namesake, died when I was very young. I remember tiny bits, I guess. I remember looking at a cartoon in a Sesame Street book and seeing a portrait on the wall of Bert's father and thinking I was reminded of Grandpa Veith. (He kind of had a pointy head). I remember after he died of a heart-attack giving my Grandma "hug-attacks". I remember Pipe smoke, but I don't really remember him in the flesh.
I guess I've had other Grandfather types. There was PeeWee Hestilow, the Brooks Hall night monitor for 14 years-dammit. PeeWee was the kind of person I thought I'd meet when I moved to Texas. From his silver handle-bar mustache to his Bryl-creamed hair, the man fit the part. He wore "cowboy shirts" adorned with the occasional longhorns or cow skull that were so starched with such vehemence that many of the S.P. Brooks staff were sure that's what kept him up right at times. He wore the Wranglers, tight and cowboy style. With that cramped of an environment, its a surprise he had 4 kids. Funny story- PeeWee had a set of keys he always kept locked up in the office locker. And on those keys he had a wooden peg attached to the keyring. For the life of us, we had a hell of a time trying to figure out its purpose. And then one night we saw him walk his rounds. PeeWee's Wranglers were so tight, that he couldn't fit his keys in his pocket, so he would just stick the peg in. To us, it was like watching two Pandas mate in the wild, you knew it happened, but you just never thought you'd see it. Seriously, I know how Jacques Cousteau must have felt.
I'm not a big sleeper, so many a late-night hour was spent hearing how good we rich "kids have it" and playing dominoes with the Baylor DPS officers as they'd stop by to "stretch their legs". I miss PeeWee a lot. He had a particular kind of wisdom one can only procure through a divorce, four boys, "tank-bustin' in Korea" and a wife named "Kitty". I remember the night PeeWee tried to talk Andrew Telep and myself into buying $800 Ostritch-skin Boots using the logic that if we spend $100 a year on "tenny-sneakers" --which I haven't spent in 2 years-- and his boots have lasted 20 years then it must be a good deal! Ahh, PeeWee. The world needs more of you.
But now I have RCC. RCC challenges us in a way we'd never thought he could. He has a way of engaging each and every one of us in class with every word he speaks. His clear-blue eyes have a way of finding every other set in the room when he speaks, demanding their attention -no- fixation. And every time he says "now listen to RCC on this one..." We are all rapt in concentration, fixed upon his every word.
Lately he's been reading to us at the end of every class and I can't help but feel as I might have felt --could I better remember-- when my Grandfather read to me. Last night, when I felt his raspy voice wash over me, I was taken to a different place:the bookbag sitting in my lap became my teddy bear, "chipmunk", and my jeans and Doc's were "footsie pajamas." For only a moment, I was little again and my life lay completely ahead of me. RCC made me feel as though I had all the potential in the world and that my life is but a book yet to be written. One can imagine my shock when I realized it was all true.
I cannot wait for Tuesday next.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Keepin' it "on lock"
"Whatever you do, don't tell 'em to 'shut up'."
This is my mantra as I walk down the hallway from a comfortable office with a big, leather chair towards towards the sound of laughter and mirth. As I hear a high-pitched laugh, I start to cringe. I must put an end to this. No one is going to have a good time. Not on my watch.
As The Graduate Assistant for Student-Athlete Services working in the Study Hall, I am the stamp-outer of fun --or at least any fun that requires or produces noise. I am a Nazi. "Surfing the net" will get you removed from the computer lab. Using a cell phone will get you signed out and sent home and talking back will get a note to the coaches. I don't play.
When I hear people enjoying themselves, it is my job to put an end to it. I am paid to be unpopular.
Such was not always the case. Once it was my job --nay, my vocation-- to not only allow people to have fun, but to contribute to it. At one point in time, my job was composed nearly completely of talking, "dialogues of difference" and discussions about spirituality, socialism, racism or communism. Name an "ism" and I've discussed it.
But no longer is that the case for this wanderer of the academy. Mine is now to stop the buck. And though I do it, at times, with a heavy heart, I have to remember that it is a heart that's getting free tuition and $750 a month.
If that's what heavy is, then pile it on.
This is my mantra as I walk down the hallway from a comfortable office with a big, leather chair towards towards the sound of laughter and mirth. As I hear a high-pitched laugh, I start to cringe. I must put an end to this. No one is going to have a good time. Not on my watch.
As The Graduate Assistant for Student-Athlete Services working in the Study Hall, I am the stamp-outer of fun --or at least any fun that requires or produces noise. I am a Nazi. "Surfing the net" will get you removed from the computer lab. Using a cell phone will get you signed out and sent home and talking back will get a note to the coaches. I don't play.
When I hear people enjoying themselves, it is my job to put an end to it. I am paid to be unpopular.
Such was not always the case. Once it was my job --nay, my vocation-- to not only allow people to have fun, but to contribute to it. At one point in time, my job was composed nearly completely of talking, "dialogues of difference" and discussions about spirituality, socialism, racism or communism. Name an "ism" and I've discussed it.
But no longer is that the case for this wanderer of the academy. Mine is now to stop the buck. And though I do it, at times, with a heavy heart, I have to remember that it is a heart that's getting free tuition and $750 a month.
If that's what heavy is, then pile it on.
Sunday, September 05, 2004
Older brothers we've never had
I was having a tough time with life last summer. I was stressed from having, for the first time in my life, done mediocre work. An emotionally draining relationship had taken its toll on me and it was showing.
Coming into my senior year, I was supposed to be somewhat relaxed. As it was my last year as a CL, I was supposed to leading our staff. But as it was, I was shit. I had no stamina for drawn out discussions. I had no patience for difficult people. And worse of all, I had begun to get tunnel vision when being able to see outside the box had always been my greatest asset.
We all need a big brother. No matter how great a relationship may be with your parents, no matter how close you are with an older sister; there is something about a relationship with an older brother that simply can't be synthesized.
A big brother is like a father whose authority is derived completely from respect. It depends not at all upon the societal constructs that so strengthen the idea that we should trust our parents; "father knows best". A good older brother combines the wisdom of a more experienced man with the familiarity of a peer and the trust that can only be shared between family members.
I've always needed a big brother, but it just so happened that I was the oldest male to spring forth from Gregg and Milly's loins. I'll give you a minute to catch your breath.
As a result, I've been collecting older brother figures my entire life. My first was my cousin, Nick Short. I'll never forget the time when I was six...
"quit hitting yourself!" my cousin, Zach, would say as he slugged me in the jaw with my own fist as he lay atop me, straddling any escape I might make.
"Zach, that hurts!" I'd say through an already swelling lip.
"That's the point, 'Neeeeeeeeilly'" he'd sneer as he abandoned my fists for his own.
"Zach!!!", my cousin, Nick would roar as he rounded the corner to discover me in my predicament.
Instantly, Zach would roll over and start to sob and scream: "Get off me, Neil!" as if I were the one beating him up. The next couple moments almost always went the same as Nick would do something crude and gross to Zach as a penance for winning a fight against me. Often it would be a wedgie, a killer Indian burn, or my personal favorite: a lugey to the mouth.
Nick was, and in many ways still is, an older brother to me. But as we grew older I was forced to find other surrogate elder siblings. There was Joe & Steve in High School and then Spencer when I went to college. After Spencer there came Andrew and Chad.
Perhaps more than any other older-brother figures I've ever had, Chad and Andrew changed and affected me. I'll spare you the exact details, but it was they who helped me to see my tunnel vision. It was Chad and Andrew who took my hand and used it to slap myself in the face so that I would open my eyes to see the error of my ways. They didn't lead me out of my dark place, they dragged me kicking and screaming. They helped me to know that I was something more than a broken heart. They made me see that I was bigger than so much trash that one could cast aside.
As I was sitting across the table from Myles, and listing intently to whatever Zen-like wisdom Myles sometimes likes to dole out, I couldn't help but say a silent prayer to the Lord who has always blessed me with the older brothers I never had.
Coming into my senior year, I was supposed to be somewhat relaxed. As it was my last year as a CL, I was supposed to leading our staff. But as it was, I was shit. I had no stamina for drawn out discussions. I had no patience for difficult people. And worse of all, I had begun to get tunnel vision when being able to see outside the box had always been my greatest asset.
We all need a big brother. No matter how great a relationship may be with your parents, no matter how close you are with an older sister; there is something about a relationship with an older brother that simply can't be synthesized.
A big brother is like a father whose authority is derived completely from respect. It depends not at all upon the societal constructs that so strengthen the idea that we should trust our parents; "father knows best". A good older brother combines the wisdom of a more experienced man with the familiarity of a peer and the trust that can only be shared between family members.
I've always needed a big brother, but it just so happened that I was the oldest male to spring forth from Gregg and Milly's loins. I'll give you a minute to catch your breath.
As a result, I've been collecting older brother figures my entire life. My first was my cousin, Nick Short. I'll never forget the time when I was six...
"quit hitting yourself!" my cousin, Zach, would say as he slugged me in the jaw with my own fist as he lay atop me, straddling any escape I might make.
"Zach, that hurts!" I'd say through an already swelling lip.
"That's the point, 'Neeeeeeeeilly'" he'd sneer as he abandoned my fists for his own.
"Zach!!!", my cousin, Nick would roar as he rounded the corner to discover me in my predicament.
Instantly, Zach would roll over and start to sob and scream: "Get off me, Neil!" as if I were the one beating him up. The next couple moments almost always went the same as Nick would do something crude and gross to Zach as a penance for winning a fight against me. Often it would be a wedgie, a killer Indian burn, or my personal favorite: a lugey to the mouth.
Nick was, and in many ways still is, an older brother to me. But as we grew older I was forced to find other surrogate elder siblings. There was Joe & Steve in High School and then Spencer when I went to college. After Spencer there came Andrew and Chad.
Perhaps more than any other older-brother figures I've ever had, Chad and Andrew changed and affected me. I'll spare you the exact details, but it was they who helped me to see my tunnel vision. It was Chad and Andrew who took my hand and used it to slap myself in the face so that I would open my eyes to see the error of my ways. They didn't lead me out of my dark place, they dragged me kicking and screaming. They helped me to know that I was something more than a broken heart. They made me see that I was bigger than so much trash that one could cast aside.
As I was sitting across the table from Myles, and listing intently to whatever Zen-like wisdom Myles sometimes likes to dole out, I couldn't help but say a silent prayer to the Lord who has always blessed me with the older brothers I never had.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
As a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs...
I want to say that grad. school is something special. I want to say that its great, amazing and expanding my borders.
Kinda yes, kinda no.
The classwork is a little more serious. The pressure is a little higher. But to be honest, the feel isn't much removed from my last real semester of college courses. Its actually pretty much the same. You really need to do the readings, which are sizable, and you need to get your junk done. We're treated as professionals.
But then again that may be a little of the problem. This whole "you're a big boy now" treatment is kind of undermining its own intent. If we're big kids, do we really need to be reminded?
But that's all the good stuff.
And for the inevitable "bad" stuff. Dealing with my fellow grad students has been more of the same crap. Don't get me wrong, I really like them. I mean, I really like them. I haven't been so impressed with a group of people since CL training.
But all that being said, we're a diverse group and some of us are bringing in the same ol' baggage that all people bring in. I hate having to deal with really competitive people at the beginning of a relationship. The initial posturing that has been taking place is inherent behavior amongst a group of people so "professional" and new as ours. We're all looking to be taken seriously and that requires putting up our best sides. We all want to make it known that we belong.
Well, most of us anyway.
I am not a competitive person. I do not care if I'm first, last or middle. And while I've always been addicted to attention, I've never felt the need to overshadow anyone else. The position of others in relation to myself has never been much of a concern. This makes people nervous.
There is a group member who I completely freak out. She is one of the most competitive people I've ever met. If someone mentions a date at which they left school, she left a month earlier. If someone shows up to class a minute before her one week, you had better believe she will come to class next week two minutes earlier than last. And then you throw me into her life. I know myself well enough to count being on time to be momentous and to be early damn-near miraculous.
I don't care if my team wins so long as everyone does well . I don't care if people think I'm crazy so long as they know me to be dependable. I don't care if I'm seen as intelligent so long as people feel I'm competent.
But then you throw me into the mix with all of these people trying to express themselves and impress our professors. They want others to see them as the future Deans, provost, Presidents and policy makers of Universities nationwide. They throw around words like "ramifications" and phrases like "let it be known" as if we know what we're talking about. And then there's me, I make jokes and point out ironies. I compliment people on their ties and try and organize football teams. I feel completely comfortable saying "I don't know" and it drives some people crazy.
I think my lack of posturing bothers my new friend. In a room full of robins puffing out their chests and singing their anthems of their accomplishments I'm the parakeet playing with a bell in the corner.
Does this mean I'm not nervous? Absolutely not. I just know this is what the Lord has called me to do. I believe the best lesson for leading is found in the story of David. He was given his throne. He became the King because he was the Lord's anointed. Leadership is not earned, its given. And shall it be with my accomplishments. I will work hard the task that I've been given. If I become more than my position, I'll be rewarded. But I'll never complain about my rank in life. Its enough to travail in the tasks we've been given.
Its not that I'm special. This knowledge doesn't make me enlightened. I only recognise that I'm different. Just like everyone else.
Kinda yes, kinda no.
The classwork is a little more serious. The pressure is a little higher. But to be honest, the feel isn't much removed from my last real semester of college courses. Its actually pretty much the same. You really need to do the readings, which are sizable, and you need to get your junk done. We're treated as professionals.
But then again that may be a little of the problem. This whole "you're a big boy now" treatment is kind of undermining its own intent. If we're big kids, do we really need to be reminded?
But that's all the good stuff.
And for the inevitable "bad" stuff. Dealing with my fellow grad students has been more of the same crap. Don't get me wrong, I really like them. I mean, I really like them. I haven't been so impressed with a group of people since CL training.
But all that being said, we're a diverse group and some of us are bringing in the same ol' baggage that all people bring in. I hate having to deal with really competitive people at the beginning of a relationship. The initial posturing that has been taking place is inherent behavior amongst a group of people so "professional" and new as ours. We're all looking to be taken seriously and that requires putting up our best sides. We all want to make it known that we belong.
Well, most of us anyway.
I am not a competitive person. I do not care if I'm first, last or middle. And while I've always been addicted to attention, I've never felt the need to overshadow anyone else. The position of others in relation to myself has never been much of a concern. This makes people nervous.
There is a group member who I completely freak out. She is one of the most competitive people I've ever met. If someone mentions a date at which they left school, she left a month earlier. If someone shows up to class a minute before her one week, you had better believe she will come to class next week two minutes earlier than last. And then you throw me into her life. I know myself well enough to count being on time to be momentous and to be early damn-near miraculous.
I don't care if my team wins so long as everyone does well . I don't care if people think I'm crazy so long as they know me to be dependable. I don't care if I'm seen as intelligent so long as people feel I'm competent.
But then you throw me into the mix with all of these people trying to express themselves and impress our professors. They want others to see them as the future Deans, provost, Presidents and policy makers of Universities nationwide. They throw around words like "ramifications" and phrases like "let it be known" as if we know what we're talking about. And then there's me, I make jokes and point out ironies. I compliment people on their ties and try and organize football teams. I feel completely comfortable saying "I don't know" and it drives some people crazy.
I think my lack of posturing bothers my new friend. In a room full of robins puffing out their chests and singing their anthems of their accomplishments I'm the parakeet playing with a bell in the corner.
Does this mean I'm not nervous? Absolutely not. I just know this is what the Lord has called me to do. I believe the best lesson for leading is found in the story of David. He was given his throne. He became the King because he was the Lord's anointed. Leadership is not earned, its given. And shall it be with my accomplishments. I will work hard the task that I've been given. If I become more than my position, I'll be rewarded. But I'll never complain about my rank in life. Its enough to travail in the tasks we've been given.
Its not that I'm special. This knowledge doesn't make me enlightened. I only recognise that I'm different. Just like everyone else.
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