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.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
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
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Lines
Tonight I was watching my favorite TV show on DVD. Yes, once again, I couldn't sleep.
There's this scene where the main character is drawing the image of the woman he once loved. For most of the scene, you cannot see the picture though you see his scowl and he, pencil in hand, working furiously to render her visage to parchment.
Finally, we see the face of his beloved. It's an incredibly simple drawing; just a few lines -but beautiful and sublime. My heart sunk and I'll admit I got a little teary. Yeah, I know it's been one of those "weeks" but even still, the pure poignancy of the drawing touched me.
Upon a second or two of reflection, I was touched even further to realize that I was so moved by a collection of lines. Black upon white. Nothing more. But then again, yes. Yes it was.
In this world we've been lead to believe that we are more than just black lines against white paper. Life is more than black and white, the song says. There's grey in there too.
We have "yes" and we have "no." "Maybe."
This picture. It captured her completely. It required no grays to encompass all that made his muse beautiful. This drawing made my heart sing and cry and mope around in its socks and stained hoody drinking milk from the carton for three days in a row, all at the same time.
I heard a quote by Oscar Wilde that once said: "morality, like art, means drawing a line someplace."
Whatever the case may be, for good or for not-so-good, it is the lines we draw that define us. Grays and shadows will fall where they may, but my friends, it is the lines we draw that make the man... or woman... okay person.
I could launch into a whole diatribe (or prolong the current one) by talking about morality and all that stuff. But as ol' RCC would say, "folks, maybe that's a rabbit I'll chase another time." Perhaps our time is better served wondering why it is that we need lines.
We need lines to show us where to park and where to walk. We need lines to get tickets to a show... or Pigskin (Nice legs, Mary!). When you think about it, you've lines to thank for reading this particular bit of prose. Lines bent into the shape of letters.
We desire lines. Sometimes just because we want something to toe. Other times, we love the connection that only a line can illustrate. I remember before a recent trip to Illinois, I was "MapQuesting" routes to drive home from Hamilton. (Wow. Weird statement. Waco is home? Waco is home.) On a whim, I decided to plot the course from my apartment to Erin's. One cannot describe the particular flavor of comfort I got from seeing a red line cross states and rivers to connect the two places in which we both sleep, eat and breath.
Sigh.
What a wonderful thing a line is. Comfort-bringer and curse. Much like my fallen form, forever shall it bring me wonder of a greater thing than myself.
There's this scene where the main character is drawing the image of the woman he once loved. For most of the scene, you cannot see the picture though you see his scowl and he, pencil in hand, working furiously to render her visage to parchment.
Finally, we see the face of his beloved. It's an incredibly simple drawing; just a few lines -but beautiful and sublime. My heart sunk and I'll admit I got a little teary. Yeah, I know it's been one of those "weeks" but even still, the pure poignancy of the drawing touched me.
Upon a second or two of reflection, I was touched even further to realize that I was so moved by a collection of lines. Black upon white. Nothing more. But then again, yes. Yes it was.
In this world we've been lead to believe that we are more than just black lines against white paper. Life is more than black and white, the song says. There's grey in there too.
We have "yes" and we have "no." "Maybe."
This picture. It captured her completely. It required no grays to encompass all that made his muse beautiful. This drawing made my heart sing and cry and mope around in its socks and stained hoody drinking milk from the carton for three days in a row, all at the same time.
I heard a quote by Oscar Wilde that once said: "morality, like art, means drawing a line someplace."
Whatever the case may be, for good or for not-so-good, it is the lines we draw that define us. Grays and shadows will fall where they may, but my friends, it is the lines we draw that make the man... or woman... okay person.
I could launch into a whole diatribe (or prolong the current one) by talking about morality and all that stuff. But as ol' RCC would say, "folks, maybe that's a rabbit I'll chase another time." Perhaps our time is better served wondering why it is that we need lines.
We need lines to show us where to park and where to walk. We need lines to get tickets to a show... or Pigskin (Nice legs, Mary!). When you think about it, you've lines to thank for reading this particular bit of prose. Lines bent into the shape of letters.
We desire lines. Sometimes just because we want something to toe. Other times, we love the connection that only a line can illustrate. I remember before a recent trip to Illinois, I was "MapQuesting" routes to drive home from Hamilton. (Wow. Weird statement. Waco is home? Waco is home.) On a whim, I decided to plot the course from my apartment to Erin's. One cannot describe the particular flavor of comfort I got from seeing a red line cross states and rivers to connect the two places in which we both sleep, eat and breath.
Sigh.
What a wonderful thing a line is. Comfort-bringer and curse. Much like my fallen form, forever shall it bring me wonder of a greater thing than myself.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
The "bit role"...
Put on some pants... check.
Shirt... check.
Tuck in... whoop!... check.
Got my keys, got my phone, fly's up. Let's go. Phone rings -it's Myles.
"Hey Neil, on your way over?"
I start to walk to the door. "Just stepping out of the Apartment... en route, brother".
"Well, um, okay we're going to take a field trip... I can't explain now and I have no idea what's going to happen."
I lean forward, interested. "Um, okayyy, I'll be there in a minute".
What in the heck? I'm used to Myles saying things over my head, but this was crazy. So, I hurry up and get to Myles to discover a skinny looking African American woman looking quite perturbed and sitting on Myles's stoop. Well, actually, I didn't know for a fact that it was a woman. To be honest, I thought it was the infamous "Glenn". (A homeless man Myles and his roommates occasionally support with a meal or the occasional buck or two) Turns out, I wasn't that far off...
I park across the street; say a quick prayer asking for nothing in particular. I turn the ignition key counter-clockwise, sigh, and pull it out. I glance up at the rear-view, fix my hat. I close my eyes and open the door. After crossing the street, I get to within a few feet of where the young woman was sitting and subsequently realized that not only was she a "she" but also that she wasn't exactly all that young.
As the realization begins to curve my eyebrow Myles steps up with a "Neil. How are ya?". I shake his hand and introduces the lady to me as "Deisha" (sp?). In the next few minutes, I found out that Deisha needed a ride to her place a few miles away, a room in the "Viking Inn". Since I had plenty of gas, I volunteered.
Deisha looks at me and asks: "Do you think that maybe we could get me some chicken or something to eat?".
My heart drops and I say: "of course, Deena".
Yeah, I definitely blew that one.
I'm not really sure how to describe the thoughts going through my head as we held forth unto the highway out towards a rougher part of town. Deisha's telling us about Glenn ditching her far from the apartment and how he's smokin' again, etc. At this, I wonder if the Bob Marley in my CD player was such a good choice... or was it? Then Deisha gets quiet and Myles says "so how was your weekend?". I was surprised at my own ability to Bullshit calmness on the surface while my heart is fluttering wildly underneath.
As I pull into the "Viking Inn", my mind is in a state of horror confused with intense interest. My eyes wide, I sucked in every detail. Three cars in the parking lot. A lady in tight and dirty jean shorts stands in the doorway of the of motel office sucking a cigarette all the way down to her orange fingernails. 5 episodes of MakeOver have taught me that Orange is an "unfortunate" color for her complexion.
"Its the apartment on the other side of the suburban" Deisha croaks.
As I stop and before the struts can even dampen the inertia of the car making it bounce back --you know what I'm talking about-- Deisha leaps out the back-right door of my Stratus. The second the door even shuts Myles turns his shoulders towards me, leans slightly forward and without taking his eyes off of a Deisha angrily pounding upon the motel door, says -as if he had to- "Neil, I have absolutely no idea where this is going. If I were you I'd be ready to throw it in reverse and get the hell out of here".
After a few seconds of pounding on a door that won't be answered and a few attempts to peer through a curtained window, a livid Deisha storms off through the parking lot back towards the office. She motions for us to follow her. Forgetting I had already slipped the car into reverse in preparation for a hasty get-away, I accidentally put it into neutral. As I was looking down to fix the problem, I see Myles's eyes focus upon something over my shoulder. I twist to look out the driver's-side window to see a skinny African-American man in a torn, red t-shirt stumble out of another motel room with two beers in one hand --one open, one not-- with a younger-looking woman tottering behind him. He walks right up to the door upon which Deisha had so eagerly been knocking and slips in a key. He looks at us, Myles and I look at each other, then he seems to recognize Myles.
He walks up to the door: "What's up?".
Myles: "Deisha's looking for you. She just went to the motel office to get your key".
Yeah, this is Glenn.
So Glenn walks straight to the motel office. We follow, -in the car of course. I'll spare you the rest of this story but I will let you know it involves a husband and a wife yelling and screaming at each other, a motel key being thrown into the middle of a parking lot, and Myles and my not saying a word.
As we drove Deisha back to Myles's place, I guess because that's where we found her, I think I began to kind of cry inside. Had I just witnessed the ending of a marriage? A breaking point in the conjunction of two lives?
What kind of shit was this? How could this be? I hadn't said anything. I hadn't done a thing to help them. Hell, in a way I had facilitated this whole event via the four wheels of my Dodge. But then one tells himself there really was nothing he really could do. That the relationship had been deteriorating for months or even years before this day and I had only caught but a frame or two of a story reels into the telling.
Sigh.
As I gave Deisha all the money I had, I suddenly wish I had more to give. I hated myself for having a good car. I despised myself for purchasing a wicked-cool CD player to put in it. I saw the Baylor ring on my finger, the Nike Watch on my wrist and the phone in my pocket and I all of a sudden felt heavy, as if I was wearing three parkas on a spring day.
I thought about the parents who've placed me in a position to succeed. I have a wonderful life with friends who support me and an amazing woman who waits to kiss me. I think about the life I've had and all the days I've yet to enjoy, and I wonder what I could have done to deserve it. It's a beautiful thing when the heaviest weight upon your heart is watching October baseball without seeing Cubbie Blue.
In stories of many lives, I play a major character. I may be the quirky roommate, or the fatherly mentor. I could be the naive apprentice or the hunky "Mr. Right". (thanks, Erin) But it appears that in this case, I am but a random dude playing the "bit" part. In the credits of Deisha's life, I guess I'd be "Guy #2 in Car". I guess I'm okay with that. I only hope I got my line right.
Shirt... check.
Tuck in... whoop!... check.
Got my keys, got my phone, fly's up. Let's go. Phone rings -it's Myles.
"Hey Neil, on your way over?"
I start to walk to the door. "Just stepping out of the Apartment... en route, brother".
"Well, um, okay we're going to take a field trip... I can't explain now and I have no idea what's going to happen."
I lean forward, interested. "Um, okayyy, I'll be there in a minute".
What in the heck? I'm used to Myles saying things over my head, but this was crazy. So, I hurry up and get to Myles to discover a skinny looking African American woman looking quite perturbed and sitting on Myles's stoop. Well, actually, I didn't know for a fact that it was a woman. To be honest, I thought it was the infamous "Glenn". (A homeless man Myles and his roommates occasionally support with a meal or the occasional buck or two) Turns out, I wasn't that far off...
I park across the street; say a quick prayer asking for nothing in particular. I turn the ignition key counter-clockwise, sigh, and pull it out. I glance up at the rear-view, fix my hat. I close my eyes and open the door. After crossing the street, I get to within a few feet of where the young woman was sitting and subsequently realized that not only was she a "she" but also that she wasn't exactly all that young.
As the realization begins to curve my eyebrow Myles steps up with a "Neil. How are ya?". I shake his hand and introduces the lady to me as "Deisha" (sp?). In the next few minutes, I found out that Deisha needed a ride to her place a few miles away, a room in the "Viking Inn". Since I had plenty of gas, I volunteered.
Deisha looks at me and asks: "Do you think that maybe we could get me some chicken or something to eat?".
My heart drops and I say: "of course, Deena".
Yeah, I definitely blew that one.
I'm not really sure how to describe the thoughts going through my head as we held forth unto the highway out towards a rougher part of town. Deisha's telling us about Glenn ditching her far from the apartment and how he's smokin' again, etc. At this, I wonder if the Bob Marley in my CD player was such a good choice... or was it? Then Deisha gets quiet and Myles says "so how was your weekend?". I was surprised at my own ability to Bullshit calmness on the surface while my heart is fluttering wildly underneath.
As I pull into the "Viking Inn", my mind is in a state of horror confused with intense interest. My eyes wide, I sucked in every detail. Three cars in the parking lot. A lady in tight and dirty jean shorts stands in the doorway of the of motel office sucking a cigarette all the way down to her orange fingernails. 5 episodes of MakeOver have taught me that Orange is an "unfortunate" color for her complexion.
"Its the apartment on the other side of the suburban" Deisha croaks.
As I stop and before the struts can even dampen the inertia of the car making it bounce back --you know what I'm talking about-- Deisha leaps out the back-right door of my Stratus. The second the door even shuts Myles turns his shoulders towards me, leans slightly forward and without taking his eyes off of a Deisha angrily pounding upon the motel door, says -as if he had to- "Neil, I have absolutely no idea where this is going. If I were you I'd be ready to throw it in reverse and get the hell out of here".
After a few seconds of pounding on a door that won't be answered and a few attempts to peer through a curtained window, a livid Deisha storms off through the parking lot back towards the office. She motions for us to follow her. Forgetting I had already slipped the car into reverse in preparation for a hasty get-away, I accidentally put it into neutral. As I was looking down to fix the problem, I see Myles's eyes focus upon something over my shoulder. I twist to look out the driver's-side window to see a skinny African-American man in a torn, red t-shirt stumble out of another motel room with two beers in one hand --one open, one not-- with a younger-looking woman tottering behind him. He walks right up to the door upon which Deisha had so eagerly been knocking and slips in a key. He looks at us, Myles and I look at each other, then he seems to recognize Myles.
He walks up to the door: "What's up?".
Myles: "Deisha's looking for you. She just went to the motel office to get your key".
Yeah, this is Glenn.
So Glenn walks straight to the motel office. We follow, -in the car of course. I'll spare you the rest of this story but I will let you know it involves a husband and a wife yelling and screaming at each other, a motel key being thrown into the middle of a parking lot, and Myles and my not saying a word.
As we drove Deisha back to Myles's place, I guess because that's where we found her, I think I began to kind of cry inside. Had I just witnessed the ending of a marriage? A breaking point in the conjunction of two lives?
What kind of shit was this? How could this be? I hadn't said anything. I hadn't done a thing to help them. Hell, in a way I had facilitated this whole event via the four wheels of my Dodge. But then one tells himself there really was nothing he really could do. That the relationship had been deteriorating for months or even years before this day and I had only caught but a frame or two of a story reels into the telling.
Sigh.
As I gave Deisha all the money I had, I suddenly wish I had more to give. I hated myself for having a good car. I despised myself for purchasing a wicked-cool CD player to put in it. I saw the Baylor ring on my finger, the Nike Watch on my wrist and the phone in my pocket and I all of a sudden felt heavy, as if I was wearing three parkas on a spring day.
I thought about the parents who've placed me in a position to succeed. I have a wonderful life with friends who support me and an amazing woman who waits to kiss me. I think about the life I've had and all the days I've yet to enjoy, and I wonder what I could have done to deserve it. It's a beautiful thing when the heaviest weight upon your heart is watching October baseball without seeing Cubbie Blue.
In stories of many lives, I play a major character. I may be the quirky roommate, or the fatherly mentor. I could be the naive apprentice or the hunky "Mr. Right". (thanks, Erin) But it appears that in this case, I am but a random dude playing the "bit" part. In the credits of Deisha's life, I guess I'd be "Guy #2 in Car". I guess I'm okay with that. I only hope I got my line right.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
A many splendored thing
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.
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.
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