Moves
Wolf Like Me
David started his first week of classes at Neumann this week. For the first time in nearly twenty years, I won't be starting school again.
When I was very young school was a terrifying experience. It meant being ripped from my Mother's thigh and thrust into a new situation with strange people. I remember standing at the top of my driveway begging not to be sent to school. I couldn't wrap my head around why my parents were trying to punish me this way.
In grade school going back meant no more countless hours spent riding dirtbikes, building forts, playing street hockey, and swimming. Each year was a radical change from the next. New teachers, new classrooms, new subjects. Looking back on it, I think that grade school may have held the greatest shifts from year to year.
High school was scary at first. By the end of grade school I'd grown comfortable with my surroundings and the people I'd come to know. High school was a total departure from that. I remember thinking how much like men and women the seniors looked. The was also an air of responsibility that hung lightly over the whole high school experience. We weren't given much rope to hang ourselves with, just enough to trip ourselves up.
I was slightly more confident entering college. Most of my peers were worried about whether or not they'd chosen the right school. I was more concerned whether or not I could handle the work, and what the hell it was I was going to do with my life.
I'm not sure how I feel about this year's depart from the norm. In the past, each year held some anxiety but also a lot of hope. I usually went into the year remorseful for the free time lost, but excited for the opportunities it held. Opportunities to learn, be exposed to new information, and meet new friends. Each Fall was a welcome interruption to a blissful summer.
This year's fall feels like a ticking clock. There are only a few more earning months left until the cold of winter ends my work for the year.
As I talk with Dave about syllabus week, finding his classes, getting to know teachers, and finding the best deals on textbooks, I can't help but feel that I'd like to be a college student for at least a little while longer.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Fightin' words
My Body
Ghostwriter
"She doesn't wanna hear it." This big Stranger yells at Anthony as he walks past him to leave the bar.
Anthony nods his head slowly, weighing the pros and cons of addressing the Stranger. "You're probably right." The Stranger drools down his shirt in an attempt to put an exclamation point on the matter by spitting at Anthony.
I see the Stranger and his group of friends on the periphery as we walk out. Immediately, my senses heighten. I hear the fragmented rumblings that prelude a fight. "leave it alone." "yeah, that kid." "who's he with?"
Ant, Bubba and Steve are unaware. I'm glad for this. I don't want them to initiate. They've got food on their mind, so I push them into Media Pizza. I stand outside in front of the door. Head straight, eyes on swivel.
"Get out of the way." One of the stranger's friends is trying to move past me into the shop. He's taller than me, black. Built like a running back. Turns out he is one. Varsity.
I smile and stare at him. "Hey, come on man. Those guys don't want any trouble from you guys." My hands up at my chest. It looks like a calming gesture, but my stance is split. Lead leg forward, rear leg tense to throw my right hand. "They just wanna eat their pizza and go home. There's a cab right there. Why don't you guys take it?"
With that, the door swings open. Ant, followed by Bubba and Steve. They noticed I hadn't come in. The tinted windows of the shop couple with the darkness of the night mean that they can't see me.
The Stranger and his friends have been crowding up to the left. Watching to see what happens between Varsity and I. Anthony and the guys get funneled right into the center of this group.
Before Steve is out the door, I have my jacket off. It sits on the sidewalk in front of Media Pizza. I circle to Anthony's left, a last attempt to stop this before it goes farther. We're surrounded, Anthony and I. The stranger pushes Anthony back. Creates space. He throws a wild right, shifting his weight forward as he does.
Like a flash. He's going to hurt Anthony. It's all I can think. I step in. His punch has not yet completed it's arc. Over hand right.
And then. Everyone stops. No one moves. The Stranger is down. Asleep in the gutter on State street. flooding the sidewalk with blood from his nose and face. Unconscious, and whimpering like a dog does when it has a bad dream.
"Who did that?" "What happened to him?" "Is he ok?" "Somebody get him up."
I grab Anthony and try to pull him out.
From here on, it's just scuffles. No one really wants to fight anymore. At one point, Anthony gets backed into a corner. He's throwing punches from his back as 2 or 3 throw kicks at his legs. Varsity keeps trying to initiate, but I'm too focused on getting my guys out to fight him.
Finally, it's over. As I pull Anthony out, another crew comes out of nowhere and jumps right into the mess we were just in. Drunk and angry, people just want to fight someone. Say they were part of it.
I realize that Bubba still isn't with us. I run back across the street, frantic. As I cross, I see Bub walk out of the bar. In front of him, the Stranger rises. Finally awake from his slumber. Five, ten minutes. I wave to Bub, and he begins to cross the street. Almost in time with the stranger. Neither aware of the other.
They're both halfway across the street when the cops finally get there. "Which one of y'all broke my nose?!" The Stranger yells, his hands covering his face. I wink.
The cops are all over him. Biggest guy in the crowd, and he's covered in blood. "Put your hands on the hood!"
As I turn the corner to the waiting car, I look back. The stranger is bent at the waist. Hands on the car. Painting the hood red as the lights flash. Red and white.
Ghostwriter
"She doesn't wanna hear it." This big Stranger yells at Anthony as he walks past him to leave the bar.
Anthony nods his head slowly, weighing the pros and cons of addressing the Stranger. "You're probably right." The Stranger drools down his shirt in an attempt to put an exclamation point on the matter by spitting at Anthony.
I see the Stranger and his group of friends on the periphery as we walk out. Immediately, my senses heighten. I hear the fragmented rumblings that prelude a fight. "leave it alone." "yeah, that kid." "who's he with?"
Ant, Bubba and Steve are unaware. I'm glad for this. I don't want them to initiate. They've got food on their mind, so I push them into Media Pizza. I stand outside in front of the door. Head straight, eyes on swivel.
"Get out of the way." One of the stranger's friends is trying to move past me into the shop. He's taller than me, black. Built like a running back. Turns out he is one. Varsity.
I smile and stare at him. "Hey, come on man. Those guys don't want any trouble from you guys." My hands up at my chest. It looks like a calming gesture, but my stance is split. Lead leg forward, rear leg tense to throw my right hand. "They just wanna eat their pizza and go home. There's a cab right there. Why don't you guys take it?"
With that, the door swings open. Ant, followed by Bubba and Steve. They noticed I hadn't come in. The tinted windows of the shop couple with the darkness of the night mean that they can't see me.
The Stranger and his friends have been crowding up to the left. Watching to see what happens between Varsity and I. Anthony and the guys get funneled right into the center of this group.
Before Steve is out the door, I have my jacket off. It sits on the sidewalk in front of Media Pizza. I circle to Anthony's left, a last attempt to stop this before it goes farther. We're surrounded, Anthony and I. The stranger pushes Anthony back. Creates space. He throws a wild right, shifting his weight forward as he does.
Like a flash. He's going to hurt Anthony. It's all I can think. I step in. His punch has not yet completed it's arc. Over hand right.
And then. Everyone stops. No one moves. The Stranger is down. Asleep in the gutter on State street. flooding the sidewalk with blood from his nose and face. Unconscious, and whimpering like a dog does when it has a bad dream.
"Who did that?" "What happened to him?" "Is he ok?" "Somebody get him up."
I grab Anthony and try to pull him out.
From here on, it's just scuffles. No one really wants to fight anymore. At one point, Anthony gets backed into a corner. He's throwing punches from his back as 2 or 3 throw kicks at his legs. Varsity keeps trying to initiate, but I'm too focused on getting my guys out to fight him.
Finally, it's over. As I pull Anthony out, another crew comes out of nowhere and jumps right into the mess we were just in. Drunk and angry, people just want to fight someone. Say they were part of it.
I realize that Bubba still isn't with us. I run back across the street, frantic. As I cross, I see Bub walk out of the bar. In front of him, the Stranger rises. Finally awake from his slumber. Five, ten minutes. I wave to Bub, and he begins to cross the street. Almost in time with the stranger. Neither aware of the other.
They're both halfway across the street when the cops finally get there. "Which one of y'all broke my nose?!" The Stranger yells, his hands covering his face. I wink.
The cops are all over him. Biggest guy in the crowd, and he's covered in blood. "Put your hands on the hood!"
As I turn the corner to the waiting car, I look back. The stranger is bent at the waist. Hands on the car. Painting the hood red as the lights flash. Red and white.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Thanks for the memories
Swim Until You Can't See Land
Royal Blue
I spent some time looking at my old year books this past week. It's nice to brush the dust off every couple of years and reflect back on where you've come from. Apart from laughing at the massive shifts in weight, style, and facial features, the best part is always reading the comments people write on the first and last page. More than any famous autograph, the signatures held worth.
I remember being so concerned about who signed my book and what they wrote. How many signatures could I add to my collection? The signing of the yearbooks was almost ceremonial. As soon as they were passed out, everyone would rush to their picture and usually comment on how awful they looked. After our vanity was satiated, we'd look at our friends, the girl we had a crush on, enemies, teachers. And then the signing started. Each signature crafted expertly to reflect the appropriate amount of inside jokes, hope for the future, and melancholy at the end of an era.
As I read through the notes that people left, I noticed a theme. With little exception, people remembered me the same way. Grade school and high school. Although I changed drastically during this time, parts of me didn't. Book after book, note after note, people all said the same thing. 'You're crazy' and 'You're a really great guy'. Although I'd changed schools, friends, and uniforms, people all remembered me the same. It's not that I don't think about the impression that I leave on people, but I guess I've never really reflected on my legacy. How do people remember me? I didn't get a yearbook at Widener, and I wouldn't want one from Nova, but I wonder if I had, what people would have written. Would friends still extoll my character and smirk at my depart from the normal?
I suppose I could ask my friends to tell me what they think of me, but that just not quite as fun as writing it down next to your picture and signing it with your autograph. Maybe I'll see if Herff Jones will do a yearbook for my group.
Royal Blue
I spent some time looking at my old year books this past week. It's nice to brush the dust off every couple of years and reflect back on where you've come from. Apart from laughing at the massive shifts in weight, style, and facial features, the best part is always reading the comments people write on the first and last page. More than any famous autograph, the signatures held worth.
I remember being so concerned about who signed my book and what they wrote. How many signatures could I add to my collection? The signing of the yearbooks was almost ceremonial. As soon as they were passed out, everyone would rush to their picture and usually comment on how awful they looked. After our vanity was satiated, we'd look at our friends, the girl we had a crush on, enemies, teachers. And then the signing started. Each signature crafted expertly to reflect the appropriate amount of inside jokes, hope for the future, and melancholy at the end of an era.
As I read through the notes that people left, I noticed a theme. With little exception, people remembered me the same way. Grade school and high school. Although I changed drastically during this time, parts of me didn't. Book after book, note after note, people all said the same thing. 'You're crazy' and 'You're a really great guy'. Although I'd changed schools, friends, and uniforms, people all remembered me the same. It's not that I don't think about the impression that I leave on people, but I guess I've never really reflected on my legacy. How do people remember me? I didn't get a yearbook at Widener, and I wouldn't want one from Nova, but I wonder if I had, what people would have written. Would friends still extoll my character and smirk at my depart from the normal?
I suppose I could ask my friends to tell me what they think of me, but that just not quite as fun as writing it down next to your picture and signing it with your autograph. Maybe I'll see if Herff Jones will do a yearbook for my group.
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