quaint ( P ) Pronunciation Key (kwnt)
adj. Quaint·er, quaint·est
1. Charmingly odd, especially in an old-fashioned way.
2. Unfamiliar or unusual in character; strange: quaint dialect words. See Synonyms at strange.
3. Cleverly made; artful.
I miss my parents. I miss the smell of my old house. As much as this 23 year-old knows he should repress, he cannot help but feel a genuine sense of... well... genuine-ness when he walks crosses the threshold of the place in which he grew up.
I remember how endless the banister used to seem when I was sliding down it in my sleeper pajamas. Old family paintings that used to be haunted are now just dusty. But, I still swear that arms are about reach out from the space under the basement stairs (where the bodies are stashed) and grab an unsuspecting quarter-Sicilian, quarter-Pollock, eighth Irish, but all-stud ankle one of these days.
There's something about the smell of the French bread my mom bakes and the grunts that spew forth from my father's throat at the mess she makes; though we all know the only reason he's chosen that exact moment to clean the "command center" is because he wants to be in the same room as my mother. There's something about those moments! There's something about home that makes it easier to get through the hard times. Its like home, my mom, my pappa-cho, dog (that can tell my mother's footsteps and knows to get down off the couch before he gets yelled at), two beautiful sisters and not-so-little brother are this base-line for my life, a rock-bottom foundation, the north star from which I know I'll be able to find my way.
Home is my chain-smoking Aunt Teresa (we call her "Aunt Tar") who lives with the white-haired matriarch of the family, my super-Catholic Grandma Veith. Home is my always teary-eyed, Aunt Loretta, and my seven cousins. Zach with his always uncouth -yet extremely hilarious- stories, usually involving some combination his bodily functions, a girl, Brett Farve and beer. Ah, Shorty! There's my always-disapproving (usually with reason) cousin Erica, the overprotective Monica, her husband Steve and their progeny, Aedan, who try to fight the urge to laugh with an aire of disdain.
Home is driving by my old High School and wondering what all the fuss was about.
But now, Home is also seeing the gilded dome of Pat Neff Hall over the shoulder of Judge Baylor's statue. It's seeing young couples necking on the path through the North Village. Home is the courtyard of Brooks Hall, where I've lost myself and found myself. Home is the "tink" of frosty brews with friends like Eric and Myles. Holla at ya boy!
These things, they're familiar in their quirkiness. They're sort of old-fashioned but great. They are beautiful, and artfully done. They are, in a word, "quaint."
So you see, Stace, -may I call you "Stace"?- your words, your sweet innocence, your delicious sublimity, your utter honesty, they're masterfully done to me. Stace, when I imagine you, holding plastic bags, the hard-fought day-before-Thanksgiving contents straining against the handles and digging into your hands, standing in front of a red-haired, feisty mother doubled over in laughter at the sight of your scrunched eyebrows, wrinkled nose and the corners of your mouth turned down with frustration, its like home-made French bread being wafted in front of my nose. I don't think "quaint" is such a bad thing, hopefully you no longer do either.
Thanks, Stacey, it was great talking to me, wasn't it? Hopefully, you'll deign to do so again soon.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
[My Ghosts] Re-published for Myles
The most painful memories of my life are evoked by the mere mentioning of the words “Cardinal Glennon Children’s Hospital”, and now I’m entering that very place. It’s been almost five years since I’ve been here. Its prodigal son returns.
My ears begin to tingle with familiarity as I step onto the worn out pressure sensor mats in front of the automatic doors. I can see the inner hallway through the fencing reinforced plexiglass of the inner doors. I steel myself.
As I step through the entrance into the hallway, I notice the sea-foam colored tile that lines the hall and the same pastel pattern that borders along its edge. Only now, it’s seems lower. Have I grown that much?
I make my way, almost on auto-pilot, to the elevator. I notice, with a grin, how the arrow that points up still blinks with irregularity.
“Oops, my bad.”: says the orderly as he bumps me with his cart full of urine samples and the like.
“De nada.”: I mumble as I follow him onto the lift.
My finger finds the button for the ninth floor even though the number is scratched and appears now to be just a sloppy “3". I push it until it’s illuminated a pale orange.
It’s just the orderly and me now. We both smile and nod as we attempt a witty reparte’ while we wait. At the “ding” of the bell, I step off as I wish the orderly a good day.
The ninth floor. The Oncology ward. As I walk towards the door, my legs begin to feel like I’ve just run a marathon. They’re tired and heavy. I reach out a clumsy hand towards the cold metal of the doorhandle. My fingertips are surprised to feel a warmth in that seemingly heartless piece of steel.
As I open the door my nostrils flare as they are assaulted with the smell of the antiseptic cleaner used to clean up vomit. I, as Pavlov’s dogs salivated at the sound of a bell, have associated that unctuous odor with vomit and begin to get that bitter taste in the back of my mouth that touches the sides of your tongue right before you puke. My eyes dart around the hallway searching for a trash can. Not finding one, I run back through the doors and out of the Cancer ward, my heart racing.
I sit down in the corner of that hallway and put my head between my knees in a futile attempt to make that feeling of fear and anxiety subside. Throwing up would be a release.
Standing up and ignoring my own lightheadedness I step to the door, draw it open and attack the entrance. I step through it with all the will I can muster. As I look down the hallway, I observe a frayed knot of action. Nurses are walking stiff-legged with urgency from room to room, alcove to alcove.
As I start to move down the hall, I feel more like the hall is moving around me. I look down at my feet moving step ahead of step. It’s like I’m watching someone else’s feet. My breath tightens as I look through the crack of an opening door.
I see a child sitting on a table. I feel my stomach tense as his blue eyes lock with mine. His head is bald and lumpy resembling (though I hate to say it) a potato. Through the crack of the door, I can see the patches of gossamer hair that cling to his head in clumps. I see how on his arm is a board; and in his wrist is a needle, an I.V., a heparin lock.
In his eyes I can see a strength beyond his stature. As they hold me in their grip, I see a determination, a will greater than I can understand, a fire. He lays his head in his mother’s lap, and I can see him no more through that crack in the door.
As the hallway begins again to pass by me, I run, quite literally, into a little girl. She too, has the gaunt figures that remind me of sights I’ve seen only in National Geographic Magazine of starving Ethiopian children. But there is no emptiness in her eyes. I hear her squeal with delight as she races along the pathway and skids around the corner with her I.V. pole in tow. Her pink bathrobe with Barbie monogrammed on the back fluttering along after her.
I run after her. I want to see where she’s going. But when I turn the corner, my smile fades. I remember this place. It’s a cul de sac of a hallway; a giant “u”. It’s the infusion area. This is the place I remember all too well. This is the place I’ve been trying to forget. This hallway is more of a big room with little alcoves along the outside wall that surround a nurse’s post. Each little “room” has a bed, a tv, a chair for the parents, a pole for the medication, and a curtain for privacy.
As I walk through the hallway, I hear screams of pain. I can hear the children cry to their mothers “mommy, make it stop! I’ll be good, I promise!” My nose begins to drip and my eyes start to well and itch. In with the pleadings of the child I hear the alto sobbings of the mother: “I’m so sorry baby, I’m so sorry.” I go to this room, and I peek around the curtain to see the child laying down with another board held on by clear adhesive medical tape to his arm. It’s the boy I saw earlier. Wincing in pain, he once again lays his head in his mother’s lap. She strokes his lumpy head and begins to sing in a deep, melancholy voice:
"Summertime, and the livin’ is easy...” Instantly there is silence; silence, save for that sweet sound seeming to saturate every pore of my soul.
I look at the little boy. The pain has not left his face though his tears have stopped. I see all motion leave his face. My tears flowing, I close the curtain.
My ears begin to tingle with familiarity as I step onto the worn out pressure sensor mats in front of the automatic doors. I can see the inner hallway through the fencing reinforced plexiglass of the inner doors. I steel myself.
As I step through the entrance into the hallway, I notice the sea-foam colored tile that lines the hall and the same pastel pattern that borders along its edge. Only now, it’s seems lower. Have I grown that much?
I make my way, almost on auto-pilot, to the elevator. I notice, with a grin, how the arrow that points up still blinks with irregularity.
“Oops, my bad.”: says the orderly as he bumps me with his cart full of urine samples and the like.
“De nada.”: I mumble as I follow him onto the lift.
My finger finds the button for the ninth floor even though the number is scratched and appears now to be just a sloppy “3". I push it until it’s illuminated a pale orange.
It’s just the orderly and me now. We both smile and nod as we attempt a witty reparte’ while we wait. At the “ding” of the bell, I step off as I wish the orderly a good day.
The ninth floor. The Oncology ward. As I walk towards the door, my legs begin to feel like I’ve just run a marathon. They’re tired and heavy. I reach out a clumsy hand towards the cold metal of the doorhandle. My fingertips are surprised to feel a warmth in that seemingly heartless piece of steel.
As I open the door my nostrils flare as they are assaulted with the smell of the antiseptic cleaner used to clean up vomit. I, as Pavlov’s dogs salivated at the sound of a bell, have associated that unctuous odor with vomit and begin to get that bitter taste in the back of my mouth that touches the sides of your tongue right before you puke. My eyes dart around the hallway searching for a trash can. Not finding one, I run back through the doors and out of the Cancer ward, my heart racing.
I sit down in the corner of that hallway and put my head between my knees in a futile attempt to make that feeling of fear and anxiety subside. Throwing up would be a release.
Standing up and ignoring my own lightheadedness I step to the door, draw it open and attack the entrance. I step through it with all the will I can muster. As I look down the hallway, I observe a frayed knot of action. Nurses are walking stiff-legged with urgency from room to room, alcove to alcove.
As I start to move down the hall, I feel more like the hall is moving around me. I look down at my feet moving step ahead of step. It’s like I’m watching someone else’s feet. My breath tightens as I look through the crack of an opening door.
I see a child sitting on a table. I feel my stomach tense as his blue eyes lock with mine. His head is bald and lumpy resembling (though I hate to say it) a potato. Through the crack of the door, I can see the patches of gossamer hair that cling to his head in clumps. I see how on his arm is a board; and in his wrist is a needle, an I.V., a heparin lock.
In his eyes I can see a strength beyond his stature. As they hold me in their grip, I see a determination, a will greater than I can understand, a fire. He lays his head in his mother’s lap, and I can see him no more through that crack in the door.
As the hallway begins again to pass by me, I run, quite literally, into a little girl. She too, has the gaunt figures that remind me of sights I’ve seen only in National Geographic Magazine of starving Ethiopian children. But there is no emptiness in her eyes. I hear her squeal with delight as she races along the pathway and skids around the corner with her I.V. pole in tow. Her pink bathrobe with Barbie monogrammed on the back fluttering along after her.
I run after her. I want to see where she’s going. But when I turn the corner, my smile fades. I remember this place. It’s a cul de sac of a hallway; a giant “u”. It’s the infusion area. This is the place I remember all too well. This is the place I’ve been trying to forget. This hallway is more of a big room with little alcoves along the outside wall that surround a nurse’s post. Each little “room” has a bed, a tv, a chair for the parents, a pole for the medication, and a curtain for privacy.
As I walk through the hallway, I hear screams of pain. I can hear the children cry to their mothers “mommy, make it stop! I’ll be good, I promise!” My nose begins to drip and my eyes start to well and itch. In with the pleadings of the child I hear the alto sobbings of the mother: “I’m so sorry baby, I’m so sorry.” I go to this room, and I peek around the curtain to see the child laying down with another board held on by clear adhesive medical tape to his arm. It’s the boy I saw earlier. Wincing in pain, he once again lays his head in his mother’s lap. She strokes his lumpy head and begins to sing in a deep, melancholy voice:
"Summertime, and the livin’ is easy...” Instantly there is silence; silence, save for that sweet sound seeming to saturate every pore of my soul.
I look at the little boy. The pain has not left his face though his tears have stopped. I see all motion leave his face. My tears flowing, I close the curtain.
Republished for the lovely and "quaint", Miss Stacey {Does being nothing special make you special?}
Origionally published: August 16th, 2004
I wasn't going to go. I didn't really want to go. I felt like being there would somehow be betraying my friends and family. Like going to the movie you told a friend earlier in the day you didn't want to see.
So as I was clapping and cheering for numerous of my friends as they received their diplomas from President Sloan last Saturday, I did my best to yell in such way that wouldn't get me noticed. Its kind of contrary to the whole purpose of yelling, I guess. But we tend to suspend logic in situations where it isn't welcome.
I was able to avoid any real pangs of guilt until I perused the Commencement Program and discovered my name.
Elizabeth Anne Goble
Neil Edward Golemo
Miguel Gonzalez
I recently had a conversation with a dear friend. She felt the need to inform me of how "hard it is to be your friend".
Apparently, and I'm doing my best to recreate words she used, it is hard to be friends with me because I'm perfect. I'm smart. I'm funny. I'm well-read. I have high moral standards. I'm devoted to my family. I love children. I laugh at everything. I'm in a good place with the Lord but not complacent. I can sing. I'm an excellent cook. I'm courteous and romantic. I have a "way of making myself the center of attention". I'm "one of the most confident people" she's ever met.
And supposedly all of these things make me perfect, thus intimidating.
What in the hell?
Immediately I questioned how well this girl could have ever felt she knew me if she could honestly think of me as "perfect". I don't see how she could have a conversation with me and not take note of my arrogance. I'm not perfect. I'm nothing if not completely and utterly flawed.
I found myself growing angry with her. I'm nothing. If I have any worth its because of blessings given to me by the Lord. I know this. Obviously, she has not the audience with my thoughts that I enjoy. But she should know me better than that. I don't really trust many people, but I had trusted her. I'd been honest with her. How dare she think me superior to her. Its flagrant misuse of the word "perfect" that degrades the word and superlatives as a whole. Damn, I was mad.
I'm nothing special. I'm just a pudgy, socially deft yet relationally inept connoisseur of Chicago area baseball clubs trying to find my christian way through the media-driven wasteland that is our world.
Wait.
Do I really believe that? Do I really think that I'm not special? Don't we all truly believe that we, alone, are the center of the universe? We've all entertained the thought from time to time that maybe this life is, quite literally, a dream from which we could wake up at any moment. Who hasn't watched The Truman Show and not wondered "what if our reality was merely someone else's media? How real is our world?
Or in the Christian identity sense, don't we all have a personal relationship with Christ? Is it not the idea of a Lord that knows every hair on my head that comforts us like a warm quilt? The idea that I am in possession of some trait(s) that sets me apart from every other soul existing, existed, or yet to exist makes me feel, well, special.
So as I was defending my own mediocrity, I started to wonder why I was fighting it. Yeah, she was wrong. But why was I fighting it? Was I simply trying to avoid the hubris of which I'm very susceptible?
I don't want to be intimidating. I don't want to be ashamed of who I am. And I'm not. I know I have (many) faults, but I'm not ashamed of them either. The other day, I was watching "the great biker build-off" on TLC. I'm addicted to these Chopper series. But one of the master builders, as he was installing the headlight into his newest masterpiece, his hand slipped and the chrome-plated casing falls to the floor with a fitting crash. He simply picked it up and after glancing to see any new defects the plunge might have caused he simply put it into place with a "hmmph" and the comment "now it has character".
That's me. Yeah, I may have a few scratches but that doesn't mean the Lord won't use me as part of his masterpiece. My dents have blessed me with "character".
As I watched Elizabeth Anne Goble walk across the stage and heard the name of Miguel Gonzalez come next, I watched carefully the people surrounding me to see if they had notice the egregious error made my the announcer. I was searching for the small girl grabbing the arm of her mother and asking pleadingly "mommy, why didn't they read Neil's name?"
I was expecting to see men rising and storming out in protest. Women should start crying. I expected friends and strangers I had benevolently touched in some unknown way rise to my defense.
But much to my awe and gaping mouth, no one said a thing. No wailing women wearing black. No men with a beef. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
As I sat back in my stadium seat, the plastic fighting the relaxing advance of my thoracic vertebrae, I smiled. What does a dumb ol' girl know about me anyway?
I wasn't going to go. I didn't really want to go. I felt like being there would somehow be betraying my friends and family. Like going to the movie you told a friend earlier in the day you didn't want to see.
So as I was clapping and cheering for numerous of my friends as they received their diplomas from President Sloan last Saturday, I did my best to yell in such way that wouldn't get me noticed. Its kind of contrary to the whole purpose of yelling, I guess. But we tend to suspend logic in situations where it isn't welcome.
I was able to avoid any real pangs of guilt until I perused the Commencement Program and discovered my name.
Elizabeth Anne Goble
Neil Edward Golemo
Miguel Gonzalez
I recently had a conversation with a dear friend. She felt the need to inform me of how "hard it is to be your friend".
Apparently, and I'm doing my best to recreate words she used, it is hard to be friends with me because I'm perfect. I'm smart. I'm funny. I'm well-read. I have high moral standards. I'm devoted to my family. I love children. I laugh at everything. I'm in a good place with the Lord but not complacent. I can sing. I'm an excellent cook. I'm courteous and romantic. I have a "way of making myself the center of attention". I'm "one of the most confident people" she's ever met.
And supposedly all of these things make me perfect, thus intimidating.
What in the hell?
Immediately I questioned how well this girl could have ever felt she knew me if she could honestly think of me as "perfect". I don't see how she could have a conversation with me and not take note of my arrogance. I'm not perfect. I'm nothing if not completely and utterly flawed.
I found myself growing angry with her. I'm nothing. If I have any worth its because of blessings given to me by the Lord. I know this. Obviously, she has not the audience with my thoughts that I enjoy. But she should know me better than that. I don't really trust many people, but I had trusted her. I'd been honest with her. How dare she think me superior to her. Its flagrant misuse of the word "perfect" that degrades the word and superlatives as a whole. Damn, I was mad.
I'm nothing special. I'm just a pudgy, socially deft yet relationally inept connoisseur of Chicago area baseball clubs trying to find my christian way through the media-driven wasteland that is our world.
Wait.
Do I really believe that? Do I really think that I'm not special? Don't we all truly believe that we, alone, are the center of the universe? We've all entertained the thought from time to time that maybe this life is, quite literally, a dream from which we could wake up at any moment. Who hasn't watched The Truman Show and not wondered "what if our reality was merely someone else's media? How real is our world?
Or in the Christian identity sense, don't we all have a personal relationship with Christ? Is it not the idea of a Lord that knows every hair on my head that comforts us like a warm quilt? The idea that I am in possession of some trait(s) that sets me apart from every other soul existing, existed, or yet to exist makes me feel, well, special.
So as I was defending my own mediocrity, I started to wonder why I was fighting it. Yeah, she was wrong. But why was I fighting it? Was I simply trying to avoid the hubris of which I'm very susceptible?
I don't want to be intimidating. I don't want to be ashamed of who I am. And I'm not. I know I have (many) faults, but I'm not ashamed of them either. The other day, I was watching "the great biker build-off" on TLC. I'm addicted to these Chopper series. But one of the master builders, as he was installing the headlight into his newest masterpiece, his hand slipped and the chrome-plated casing falls to the floor with a fitting crash. He simply picked it up and after glancing to see any new defects the plunge might have caused he simply put it into place with a "hmmph" and the comment "now it has character".
That's me. Yeah, I may have a few scratches but that doesn't mean the Lord won't use me as part of his masterpiece. My dents have blessed me with "character".
As I watched Elizabeth Anne Goble walk across the stage and heard the name of Miguel Gonzalez come next, I watched carefully the people surrounding me to see if they had notice the egregious error made my the announcer. I was searching for the small girl grabbing the arm of her mother and asking pleadingly "mommy, why didn't they read Neil's name?"
I was expecting to see men rising and storming out in protest. Women should start crying. I expected friends and strangers I had benevolently touched in some unknown way rise to my defense.
But much to my awe and gaping mouth, no one said a thing. No wailing women wearing black. No men with a beef. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
As I sat back in my stadium seat, the plastic fighting the relaxing advance of my thoracic vertebrae, I smiled. What does a dumb ol' girl know about me anyway?
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
It's a [insert race] thing; you wouldn't understand.
One of my favorite things about the great land of Texas is Bush's Chicken. When I'm away, in the world of good dental hygiene, green leafy vegetables and Deer Huntin' orange with camouflage interior design motif's up north, the pale tan of the chicken-fried chicken strips, gravy the consistency of warm Vaseline (not that I would know anything about that) and fried okra of Bush's Chicken are what calls to me. Top all that off with a half-gallon of pancreas-punching sweet tea and coma’s almost worth it. It's what I call tank food; the kind of food that just marches through your system; kicking the ass of anything that would step into its way.
So one day a week or so ago, two of my friends and I decided to assuage my angst at becoming part of the single's community by kicking my arties in the crotch with a 2 piece at Bush's. Dine in, please. Tim Chao, Dave Chen and I order our food and find a nice booth on the right side of the restaurant. Dave and Tim sit facing doors; I hit the other side with my back to the entrance. I only say this because I usually like to sit with facing the entrance, in case someone decides to run in with AK-47's and hold up Bush's for extra Bush's Chicken Seasoning... yes, I'm strange. Very strange.
Anyway, just as I was finishing my crinkle-cut fries, I notice two young black men snicker as they walk by. To be honest, it really was a "snicker". I'd never really thought I'd actually heard a "snicker" until I heard their particular snicker. Yes, it was definitely a snicker.
I didn't think anything of it -people usually laugh when they see me. A couple seconds later, I hear more laughing and then I think I catch the words "chop-sticks." Wait, this is a chicken joint. I eavesdrop -no I observe- a little closer and try to catch the rest of what these fellows are saying. I don't really have to listen closely as they start to get louder and louder.
"Hi YAW!" one yells as he rips through a napkin held up by his friend. "Oh, Daniel-San, your technique racks the soul of a warrior!"
At this, the devilish smile melts off my face as I realize these guys are making fun of my Asian friends. I turn around and look at them with the sternest, most withering scowl I can shape upon my face. They see me, laugh, duck and keep going. I hear them yell "Jackie Chan" and "Bruce Lee" in between purposely poor attempts at the Chinese language. The whole time, I'm getting more and angrier.
Finally, I see something come flying across the room and onto the ground. That's it. You can be openly racist, and you'll make me angry. But you litter? That's just too much! Whatever the reason, I stand up, calmly walk over to their booth, pull up a chair and sit upon it backwards while facing my two new friends.
With a grin, I look at the first one, the one on my right, and ask "Have you ever been the victim of racism?" I stare at him, my eyes locked onto his, and wait for a response that won't come. I turn and look at the guy on the left, "What about you? Have you ever had anyone call you a racist name? Have you ever been treated differently for no other reason than the color of your skin?"
This guy must have been the brave one because he started to respond, "well, um, ye-"
"-No." I interrupt. "No, I don't think you have. Because if you knew anything about what racism feels like, I cannot believe you would be treating my friends with such a lack of respect."
Stunned silence.
I wait one RCC-esque pause, and wish them both a nice day and walk back to my table to eat. To be honest, I'm not really sure what happened next. I know that my friends didn't really have much to say. It was kind of a crazy thing to do. I mean, who does that? That's the kind of thing I usually think of later, after the clouds of anger of have dispersed from my mind and the size of the other guys have shrunk into something more manageable by my imagination.
Race, racism, bigotry, these are my chocolate; things subjects that just ignite my passion; my push-button issues. I have no idea why. I’m no crusader, I do not pretend that these are problems I can solve for the world. But these are huge problems.
So often people will claim things like “racism is getting better; its not such a big problem anymore.” Well I think that any racism is a “big” problem.
I get frustrated sometimes. So it goes.
So one day a week or so ago, two of my friends and I decided to assuage my angst at becoming part of the single's community by kicking my arties in the crotch with a 2 piece at Bush's. Dine in, please. Tim Chao, Dave Chen and I order our food and find a nice booth on the right side of the restaurant. Dave and Tim sit facing doors; I hit the other side with my back to the entrance. I only say this because I usually like to sit with facing the entrance, in case someone decides to run in with AK-47's and hold up Bush's for extra Bush's Chicken Seasoning... yes, I'm strange. Very strange.
Anyway, just as I was finishing my crinkle-cut fries, I notice two young black men snicker as they walk by. To be honest, it really was a "snicker". I'd never really thought I'd actually heard a "snicker" until I heard their particular snicker. Yes, it was definitely a snicker.
I didn't think anything of it -people usually laugh when they see me. A couple seconds later, I hear more laughing and then I think I catch the words "chop-sticks." Wait, this is a chicken joint. I eavesdrop -no I observe- a little closer and try to catch the rest of what these fellows are saying. I don't really have to listen closely as they start to get louder and louder.
"Hi YAW!" one yells as he rips through a napkin held up by his friend. "Oh, Daniel-San, your technique racks the soul of a warrior!"
At this, the devilish smile melts off my face as I realize these guys are making fun of my Asian friends. I turn around and look at them with the sternest, most withering scowl I can shape upon my face. They see me, laugh, duck and keep going. I hear them yell "Jackie Chan" and "Bruce Lee" in between purposely poor attempts at the Chinese language. The whole time, I'm getting more and angrier.
Finally, I see something come flying across the room and onto the ground. That's it. You can be openly racist, and you'll make me angry. But you litter? That's just too much! Whatever the reason, I stand up, calmly walk over to their booth, pull up a chair and sit upon it backwards while facing my two new friends.
With a grin, I look at the first one, the one on my right, and ask "Have you ever been the victim of racism?" I stare at him, my eyes locked onto his, and wait for a response that won't come. I turn and look at the guy on the left, "What about you? Have you ever had anyone call you a racist name? Have you ever been treated differently for no other reason than the color of your skin?"
This guy must have been the brave one because he started to respond, "well, um, ye-"
"-No." I interrupt. "No, I don't think you have. Because if you knew anything about what racism feels like, I cannot believe you would be treating my friends with such a lack of respect."
Stunned silence.
I wait one RCC-esque pause, and wish them both a nice day and walk back to my table to eat. To be honest, I'm not really sure what happened next. I know that my friends didn't really have much to say. It was kind of a crazy thing to do. I mean, who does that? That's the kind of thing I usually think of later, after the clouds of anger of have dispersed from my mind and the size of the other guys have shrunk into something more manageable by my imagination.
Race, racism, bigotry, these are my chocolate; things subjects that just ignite my passion; my push-button issues. I have no idea why. I’m no crusader, I do not pretend that these are problems I can solve for the world. But these are huge problems.
So often people will claim things like “racism is getting better; its not such a big problem anymore.” Well I think that any racism is a “big” problem.
I get frustrated sometimes. So it goes.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
The kind of heavy gravity ignores
"Big things are happening" our hero thinks to himself as he waits in line. It is 11:45 pm on an island of a Monday night and here I find myself bouncing foot-to-foot as if I'm a 4 year-old doing the "Potty dance" in a queue for the highly-anticipated, nearly 2 years waited, video game of the year. The "Lord of the Rings" of the video game world. Halo 2.
Go earth.
In just 30-45 minutes, depending upon traffic and how fast I drive, I, "Master Chief", will be, once again, saving the universe and all mankind from "The Covenant" and "The Flood" while wielding an amazing assortment of weapons and never lacking in cute quips for those who would stop me.
But for now, I wait. Its a strange thing to spend 3 hours in close proximity with this especially avid form of video gamers. Its an oxymoronic phrase: "video gamers interacting." You should have seen the two fellas in front of me. The sociologist in me came out to play while watching these two Dagwoods. I swear they spoke, nearly exclusively, in grunts and gurgles. It took me about 5 minutes to realize that Lump #1's name wasn't actually "Exturmn8er702" but that he and his friend, "LyvYer2012" only refer to each other in their Xbox Live handles.
Sigh.
I could see the excitement in the glistening of their pasty-white hides and spotty mustaches 14 years in the making... "Come on puberty! You can do it!" But a surprising thing happened. Being near these guys began to get my heart pumping a little bit. They were pumped! And I have to admit, it was rubbing off on me. Yeah sure, their untucked, two sizes too big shirts show signs of their last two lunches and reek of B.O. Sure, they have the social skills of a Mongol with Tourett's and the attention span of a "huh? What were we talking about again?" But this was a big night for them. A night two years in the making, and I found their passion to be inspiring.
LyvYer told me, between heaves on his inhaler, how he'd been dreaming of this day for the last two years, "ever since I beat the Halo 1." The release of this game was a big thing for them. A heavy thing.
Sometime around hour 2 of 3, with all of my social currency spent, I began to reflect as I sometimes do.
Big things. Big, heavy things.
There's been a few of those for me this week. On Tuesday I found out that my cousin, Andee, practically a younger sister, who is in Iraq, would be -and currently is- involved in "Operation Phantom Fury." This was a little sobering. Yeah, I've sent her an email and a letter or two. I pray for her constantly. And I'll get a mass email from her occasionally as well hearing how life "over there" sucks. But until now, until I heard about casualties coming from her battalion or company, (or maybe both?) I'd been just imagining her at summer camp. A really dry summer camp... with guns... and where they curse a lot... a really dry, militant summer camp where they curse... like Boy Scout Camp in El Paso...
But now its real. People are dying and my worries are no longer held in check by anonymity. Andee is in danger. Real danger. And I fear for her. This kind of fear... its a sort of an Achilles-cutting debilitating phobia-forming fear. I'm helpless to help her.
On Wednesday, a very good friend of mine here at Baylor had a child. Around 1:51 PM, Brian Rowe's beautiful daughter, Emma Merie Grace was born into this world. Earlier in the day, Brian called me, let me know what was going on, and asked me if I would be his "communication guy." He would call me and I would farm out the information to "the Crew." In my "Goofy" voice, I answer with the kind of awe that seems to accompany all requests (no matter how mundane: "would you mind cleaning up the vomit left by the wedding party?) surrounding things like births, weddings, funerals, bar-mitzvahs, duels?, "um, garsh, I mean, shucks! Yeah Bry! Of course! I'm your man. Let me know what you need... shucks!"
The baby came. Calls went out. We all, Jordan, Rae, Dave, Crawford, Beth, Tim and myself, went to go see the newest edition to our group of fellas. It hit me when I looked through the glass and saw this little red-faced wriggling thing wrapped up like a candy bar in commercials, "she is new." Right now, this child has not a sin upon her soul. I understand why it is that parents always call their baby's "perfect" no matter how butt-ugly everyone else thinks they may be. (Oh, right, like YOU'VE never thought that.) But all light-heartedness aside, one cannot get avoid seeing the gravity of this situation. This is big. This is heavy.
I begin to fall prey to my own sense of solipsism and wonder about myself; how this all affects me. Brian, is a year younger than me. Yet, should an outsider with no knowledge of Brian other than his age see him with a stroller walking Emma, I imagine no real flags would be raised. Its natural for a 22 year-old to procreate. Perhaps he is a little young, but not too much. What does this say about me? I'm 23. I've graduated from a good University with a very marketable degree. I'm doing well in Graduate school in a cohort where nearly half of my peers are married, engaged, or well on their ways to being so. And here I am, wallowing in academia, afraid to leave my niche as the spunky student and wondering if I'm ever going to get this "Bill-paying" thing.
When I think of the long-term, I'm simply finding it hard to see anything beyond receiving my Masters in Education a year from May. Its as though there is a curtain pulled across my future. I know its there, (hope its there), but I cannot see it. And for now, now is enough to keep me occupied. My line is weighted well enough this far from the bobber.
There's the girl. Erin. She makes my heart sing but things are tough. For the last couple of years I've been a wreck when it comes to the opposite sex. Either I'm all in it or not at all. I find a woman of worth, and I have excellent taste in women, and I place her upon a pedestal; hold her as my ideal. "The girl."
But with Erin, things are different. She's not so much a "girl." She's, well, she's just "Erin." She isn't a sex to me. She's just this person I think I might love. It was a slippery kind of back-door realization of this, too. She started out as a crush. But somewhere over the years I gave up and decided to just get to know the girl, her crazy little peccadillos. But before she would show me hers, I had to show her some of mine. I dropped the playboy routine for the first time with her. We were never going to date, why not? For some reason, it has always been so easy to lay myself out there for Erin. Guys, she's amazing. I've never known someone more unafraid of a hard-day's work. She's not a wimp. But, she's girly too. Sometimes she lets me act like I make things better for her.
She's loyal. She's loyal to her friends, her parents, her family, her school.
She has most pronounced northern accent I've ever heard from someone south of Milwakee. Everytime "bags" becomes "bigs" or "gosh" becomes "gash," "Neil" becomes "mush." I'm praying like hell that she comes down here to Baylor for her master's degree. I've never lived in the same city as the girl. It would be nice. And I've seen what Baylor is when she's around. The team wins football games, Thai food tastes better and my friends are funnier. Its something I could get used to.
But when I think about it, I'm not sure I'm ready for the weight of serious monogamy. Is there anyone else? Absolutely not. If I had to choose one person on this earth, any person, with which to get married and have tons and tons and tons of marital sex, it would take me no time to give you my answer, Erin Many. (totally wanted to say something like Gandhi, Jessica Rabbit or Bosephus the Rodeo clown)
But, I know that right now, I'm not the man that Erin deserves or will need. But will I ever be? And does it matter? Its not fair to imagine Brian "ready" to have a child, a mouth to fill, diapers to change, a butt to have inoculated and clothed, a soul to guide for, at least, the next 18 years. I cannot see how my melodramatic cousin Andee, the one who would wear yellow or pink everyday for everything if she could, who loves Winnie the Pooh more than most people have any business loving any fictional character, was ready to go to war; to pledge her life to protect those of others. I don't care what you say, but how can someone be ready for something like that? Hell, even my buddies LyvYwer and Turmn8er might have balked at whether or not they were ready for something like Halo 2. But damnit, they dealt. Just as Brian will deal and Andee will deal.
Brian will raise his child. Andee will come home. Lyv and n8er will beat the game. They will carry their burdens and maybe their burdens will carry them. Life is funny like that. Gravity has no power over this kind of heavy. But we do.
Brian, Emma, Andee and Erin, I will see you all soon, ready or not.
Go earth.
In just 30-45 minutes, depending upon traffic and how fast I drive, I, "Master Chief", will be, once again, saving the universe and all mankind from "The Covenant" and "The Flood" while wielding an amazing assortment of weapons and never lacking in cute quips for those who would stop me.
But for now, I wait. Its a strange thing to spend 3 hours in close proximity with this especially avid form of video gamers. Its an oxymoronic phrase: "video gamers interacting." You should have seen the two fellas in front of me. The sociologist in me came out to play while watching these two Dagwoods. I swear they spoke, nearly exclusively, in grunts and gurgles. It took me about 5 minutes to realize that Lump #1's name wasn't actually "Exturmn8er702" but that he and his friend, "LyvYer2012" only refer to each other in their Xbox Live handles.
Sigh.
I could see the excitement in the glistening of their pasty-white hides and spotty mustaches 14 years in the making... "Come on puberty! You can do it!" But a surprising thing happened. Being near these guys began to get my heart pumping a little bit. They were pumped! And I have to admit, it was rubbing off on me. Yeah sure, their untucked, two sizes too big shirts show signs of their last two lunches and reek of B.O. Sure, they have the social skills of a Mongol with Tourett's and the attention span of a "huh? What were we talking about again?" But this was a big night for them. A night two years in the making, and I found their passion to be inspiring.
LyvYer told me, between heaves on his inhaler, how he'd been dreaming of this day for the last two years, "ever since I beat the Halo 1." The release of this game was a big thing for them. A heavy thing.
Sometime around hour 2 of 3, with all of my social currency spent, I began to reflect as I sometimes do.
Big things. Big, heavy things.
There's been a few of those for me this week. On Tuesday I found out that my cousin, Andee, practically a younger sister, who is in Iraq, would be -and currently is- involved in "Operation Phantom Fury." This was a little sobering. Yeah, I've sent her an email and a letter or two. I pray for her constantly. And I'll get a mass email from her occasionally as well hearing how life "over there" sucks. But until now, until I heard about casualties coming from her battalion or company, (or maybe both?) I'd been just imagining her at summer camp. A really dry summer camp... with guns... and where they curse a lot... a really dry, militant summer camp where they curse... like Boy Scout Camp in El Paso...
But now its real. People are dying and my worries are no longer held in check by anonymity. Andee is in danger. Real danger. And I fear for her. This kind of fear... its a sort of an Achilles-cutting debilitating phobia-forming fear. I'm helpless to help her.
On Wednesday, a very good friend of mine here at Baylor had a child. Around 1:51 PM, Brian Rowe's beautiful daughter, Emma Merie Grace was born into this world. Earlier in the day, Brian called me, let me know what was going on, and asked me if I would be his "communication guy." He would call me and I would farm out the information to "the Crew." In my "Goofy" voice, I answer with the kind of awe that seems to accompany all requests (no matter how mundane: "would you mind cleaning up the vomit left by the wedding party?) surrounding things like births, weddings, funerals, bar-mitzvahs, duels?, "um, garsh, I mean, shucks! Yeah Bry! Of course! I'm your man. Let me know what you need... shucks!"
The baby came. Calls went out. We all, Jordan, Rae, Dave, Crawford, Beth, Tim and myself, went to go see the newest edition to our group of fellas. It hit me when I looked through the glass and saw this little red-faced wriggling thing wrapped up like a candy bar in commercials, "she is new." Right now, this child has not a sin upon her soul. I understand why it is that parents always call their baby's "perfect" no matter how butt-ugly everyone else thinks they may be. (Oh, right, like YOU'VE never thought that.) But all light-heartedness aside, one cannot get avoid seeing the gravity of this situation. This is big. This is heavy.
I begin to fall prey to my own sense of solipsism and wonder about myself; how this all affects me. Brian, is a year younger than me. Yet, should an outsider with no knowledge of Brian other than his age see him with a stroller walking Emma, I imagine no real flags would be raised. Its natural for a 22 year-old to procreate. Perhaps he is a little young, but not too much. What does this say about me? I'm 23. I've graduated from a good University with a very marketable degree. I'm doing well in Graduate school in a cohort where nearly half of my peers are married, engaged, or well on their ways to being so. And here I am, wallowing in academia, afraid to leave my niche as the spunky student and wondering if I'm ever going to get this "Bill-paying" thing.
When I think of the long-term, I'm simply finding it hard to see anything beyond receiving my Masters in Education a year from May. Its as though there is a curtain pulled across my future. I know its there, (hope its there), but I cannot see it. And for now, now is enough to keep me occupied. My line is weighted well enough this far from the bobber.
There's the girl. Erin. She makes my heart sing but things are tough. For the last couple of years I've been a wreck when it comes to the opposite sex. Either I'm all in it or not at all. I find a woman of worth, and I have excellent taste in women, and I place her upon a pedestal; hold her as my ideal. "The girl."
But with Erin, things are different. She's not so much a "girl." She's, well, she's just "Erin." She isn't a sex to me. She's just this person I think I might love. It was a slippery kind of back-door realization of this, too. She started out as a crush. But somewhere over the years I gave up and decided to just get to know the girl, her crazy little peccadillos. But before she would show me hers, I had to show her some of mine. I dropped the playboy routine for the first time with her. We were never going to date, why not? For some reason, it has always been so easy to lay myself out there for Erin. Guys, she's amazing. I've never known someone more unafraid of a hard-day's work. She's not a wimp. But, she's girly too. Sometimes she lets me act like I make things better for her.
She's loyal. She's loyal to her friends, her parents, her family, her school.
She has most pronounced northern accent I've ever heard from someone south of Milwakee. Everytime "bags" becomes "bigs" or "gosh" becomes "gash," "Neil" becomes "mush." I'm praying like hell that she comes down here to Baylor for her master's degree. I've never lived in the same city as the girl. It would be nice. And I've seen what Baylor is when she's around. The team wins football games, Thai food tastes better and my friends are funnier. Its something I could get used to.
But when I think about it, I'm not sure I'm ready for the weight of serious monogamy. Is there anyone else? Absolutely not. If I had to choose one person on this earth, any person, with which to get married and have tons and tons and tons of marital sex, it would take me no time to give you my answer, Erin Many. (totally wanted to say something like Gandhi, Jessica Rabbit or Bosephus the Rodeo clown)
But, I know that right now, I'm not the man that Erin deserves or will need. But will I ever be? And does it matter? Its not fair to imagine Brian "ready" to have a child, a mouth to fill, diapers to change, a butt to have inoculated and clothed, a soul to guide for, at least, the next 18 years. I cannot see how my melodramatic cousin Andee, the one who would wear yellow or pink everyday for everything if she could, who loves Winnie the Pooh more than most people have any business loving any fictional character, was ready to go to war; to pledge her life to protect those of others. I don't care what you say, but how can someone be ready for something like that? Hell, even my buddies LyvYwer and Turmn8er might have balked at whether or not they were ready for something like Halo 2. But damnit, they dealt. Just as Brian will deal and Andee will deal.
Brian will raise his child. Andee will come home. Lyv and n8er will beat the game. They will carry their burdens and maybe their burdens will carry them. Life is funny like that. Gravity has no power over this kind of heavy. But we do.
Brian, Emma, Andee and Erin, I will see you all soon, ready or not.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Announcement/Cop-out Blog
Sorry its been a while since i've posted. I'm afraid its actually going to be a bit longer.
- Big news: I've decided that I'm going to pursue my Phd. in Education as soon as I can. Most likely it will be after I finish my Master's in Education in May '06.
- Baylor beat aTm 35-34. Proud of my boys.
- I heard Bush won. I know I should feel something about that...
- I've been writing my little pucker off... just for academic purposes...
- My buddy Brian is having his kid on Thursday! Prayers!
- Cousin Andee needs prayers.
- Myles, you need to call a brother.
- Mary, frozen fruit, hot tea and good conversation awaits us.
- That Erin is one amazing girl.
- I've decided to go by Neil E. Golemo. I was named after both my grandfathers. I'm sick of barely recognizing my link to Grandpa Golemo. (I wonder if this is how Sting felt when he started asking all of his friends to call him "Sting?")
Hollar at your boy and listen to "Snow Patrol."
Neiliness to you all,
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
A letter of recommendation
This is a letter I've been working on for a very deserving man. I was kinda chosen out of my cohort for this honor. I had no idea until about 24 hours ago how big a deal this is. The last fella who got this award was given a $20,000 grant and the option to present a paper upon the topic of his choice at a banquet in held in his honor. The only obstacle between Dr. Cloud and this award is my abilty to articulate how wonderful a man he is.
For your consideration:
Neil Golemo
Master’s Candidate
School of Education
October 27, 2004
Nomination Committee, One great expectation of being in Grad School that has completely come true is that of exceptional professor performance. It’s only my first semester, yet I've already been exposed to three excellent teachers. Dr. Martha Lou Scott is fascinating, yet wholly disarming with her East-Texas accent. Also, she bleeds Green and Gold, just as I do. Dr. Shushok has proven to be one of the best facilitators of classroom discussion I have ever encountered. Then there's Dr. Robert C. Cloud. And he says his middle initial, as if he were a civil war general of old. Robert C. Cloud—or RCC for short—is a true commander of dramatic teaching form, the master of the 3-second pause. He literally reminds our class how smart and good looking we are at every meeting. He can take us from laughs to tears in the "flick of a cricket's leg."
I don't really remember either of my grandfathers. One died years before I was even conceived and the other, my namesake, died when I was very young. I remember only tiny bits. I remember looking at a cartoon in a Sesame Street book, seeing a portrait on the wall of Bert's father, and thinking I was reminded of my 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.
And now the Lord has brought Dr. Cloud into my life. RCC challenges our class in a way I doubt any of us ever thought a professor could. He engages each and every person with every word of oration. When he speaks, his watery-blue eyes have a way of finding every other set in the room, demanding their attention –no, their fixation. And every time he says "now listen to RCC on this one..." we are all rapt in concentration, secured upon his every word. His are words that do not seem to come from the man, but from every man, woman or piece of prose that has ever touched him and taught him a lesson. When RCC holds forth, one does not hear only the words of a silver-haired gentleman, but the sagacity of Plato, the simplicity of a kindergartner and the wisdom from the mouth of his 92-years-young “Mee-Maw” when she admonished him that “there’s always the morning after the night before.”
Dr. Cloud is emotional. He shares his life with us so that we may know exactly how the skills and information we are learning now will make us better equipped to serve the Academy in our futures. With RCC, every reading has weight and importance. He has shown us that passion can have a place in our careers, passion tempered by knowledge. Dr. Cloud bares his soul for the good of ours.
Lately, he has been reading to us at the end of every class and I cannot 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 book-bag sitting in my lap became my old teddy bear and my jeans and Doc's were suddenly "footsie pajamas." For only a moment, I was little again and my life lay completely ahead of me. With whimsy in his heart, he spoke to us of the places we would go and the things we would do. And then, solemnly he informed my class of how he wished he could go with us, yet he could not; his time was passing. With a tear in his eye, he asked us to take him along in spirit. In that moment, RCC made me feel as though I had all the potential in the world and that my life is a book yet to be written. One can only imagine my shock when I realized it was true.
This only begins to describe how each one in my class feels about Dr. Robert C. Cloud. He continues to change the face of scholarship, enhance the level of academia among the students, and create leaders in education for tomorrow. I, along with my classmates, would like to nominate Dr. Cloud for the second annual Cornelia Marschall Smith Professor of the Year Award.
Sincerely,
Neil Golemo
For your consideration:
Neil Golemo
Master’s Candidate
School of Education
October 27, 2004
Nomination Committee, One great expectation of being in Grad School that has completely come true is that of exceptional professor performance. It’s only my first semester, yet I've already been exposed to three excellent teachers. Dr. Martha Lou Scott is fascinating, yet wholly disarming with her East-Texas accent. Also, she bleeds Green and Gold, just as I do. Dr. Shushok has proven to be one of the best facilitators of classroom discussion I have ever encountered. Then there's Dr. Robert C. Cloud. And he says his middle initial, as if he were a civil war general of old. Robert C. Cloud—or RCC for short—is a true commander of dramatic teaching form, the master of the 3-second pause. He literally reminds our class how smart and good looking we are at every meeting. He can take us from laughs to tears in the "flick of a cricket's leg."
I don't really remember either of my grandfathers. One died years before I was even conceived and the other, my namesake, died when I was very young. I remember only tiny bits. I remember looking at a cartoon in a Sesame Street book, seeing a portrait on the wall of Bert's father, and thinking I was reminded of my 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.
And now the Lord has brought Dr. Cloud into my life. RCC challenges our class in a way I doubt any of us ever thought a professor could. He engages each and every person with every word of oration. When he speaks, his watery-blue eyes have a way of finding every other set in the room, demanding their attention –no, their fixation. And every time he says "now listen to RCC on this one..." we are all rapt in concentration, secured upon his every word. His are words that do not seem to come from the man, but from every man, woman or piece of prose that has ever touched him and taught him a lesson. When RCC holds forth, one does not hear only the words of a silver-haired gentleman, but the sagacity of Plato, the simplicity of a kindergartner and the wisdom from the mouth of his 92-years-young “Mee-Maw” when she admonished him that “there’s always the morning after the night before.”
Dr. Cloud is emotional. He shares his life with us so that we may know exactly how the skills and information we are learning now will make us better equipped to serve the Academy in our futures. With RCC, every reading has weight and importance. He has shown us that passion can have a place in our careers, passion tempered by knowledge. Dr. Cloud bares his soul for the good of ours.
Lately, he has been reading to us at the end of every class and I cannot 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 book-bag sitting in my lap became my old teddy bear and my jeans and Doc's were suddenly "footsie pajamas." For only a moment, I was little again and my life lay completely ahead of me. With whimsy in his heart, he spoke to us of the places we would go and the things we would do. And then, solemnly he informed my class of how he wished he could go with us, yet he could not; his time was passing. With a tear in his eye, he asked us to take him along in spirit. In that moment, RCC made me feel as though I had all the potential in the world and that my life is a book yet to be written. One can only imagine my shock when I realized it was true.
This only begins to describe how each one in my class feels about Dr. Robert C. Cloud. He continues to change the face of scholarship, enhance the level of academia among the students, and create leaders in education for tomorrow. I, along with my classmates, would like to nominate Dr. Cloud for the second annual Cornelia Marschall Smith Professor of the Year Award.
Sincerely,
Neil Golemo
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