Feeling Patriotic

These colors don't run!!!

Or cover my belly.

Sweaty Palms

This is my most recent paper done for my Creative Non-fiction class. I chose to write about the first date I had with my wife. Enjoy.

 
So much to do and so little time, throwing my work clothes on the floor and jumping into the shower, I make a mental list of all the things I need to do for this date: 1) dress nice, I need to impress this one because she is something special, 2) drive from my apartment in Queens to her office in midtown, 3) find parking, 4) find her office, 5) most important, don't screw this up!
What is there to screw up? It really isn't a big deal if she likes me or not, so why do I allow myself to get so caught up in the game? Who is this woman that she can have such sway over my sanity without my permission? My jumbled nerves only add to the stress I feel, and I quickly come to the conclusion that the sooner I accept the reality of a failed date, the sooner I can go on with my life. The date hasn't even begun and I throw up the white flag pleading for mercy. Of course years from now I will look back at this small moment and laugh at the stress I felt, and I will smile when I tell my wife how nervous I was that she might not have liked me.
What makes her so special? I could tell you about her intelligence and determination to attend and graduate from Princeton University and then go on to Graduate School in New York, but that wouldn't describe her people skills. I could tell you about when I saw her teaching a horde of hungry twenty-somethings easily transitioning from Spanish to English so everyone could understand, but that wouldn't describe her beauty. I could tell you about the first time I saw her in New Jersey, and when she came through the door I noticed a glow surrounding this exquisite Latina with a sincere smile and a welcoming aura, but that wouldn't suffice to describe my date. She has become the subject of every thought as the ever-present butterflies fill my body during every encounter I have with her.
At 6pm in NYC, traffic is my greatest foe. Fighting through the masses of commuters struggling for the last inch of roadway, I map out what I hope will be the quickest way to cover the 10 mile drive. 78^th Ave. to Myrtle; Myrtle to Woodhaven, take Woodhaven to the Long Island Expressway straight into the Queens Midtown Tunnel and then with any luck I can avoid the congested corners and arrive at her office by 7.
Of course traffic won't be as difficult as getting her to agree to a date with me in the first place. Why is it that at 26 years of age, I still have problems asking girls out? I sat at my desk looking at her number that she gave me, I questioned myself as to if she really would go out with me. I bit the bullet and dialed. She answered, but was too busy to talk; she will call me back later. I watched my phone all afternoon up until it was time to go home. At home she called me and I gathered the courage to ask her to dinner? What kind of dinner? She asked. The kind with food, of course! My humor helped little to ease the awkward tension I felt as she questioned my motives. I settled on the "just friends" kind of dinner that crushed my hopes of romance, but offered me a glimpse at the chance.
Thankfully, I find parking one block north of her office in a construction zone left empty by the homeward bound workers. With 5 minutes before my deadline I get into the elevator that will lift me even higher than my elated state. Upon reaching her floor I exit anticipating her welcome as we start our evening together, but I find an empty desk where a receptionist should sit. I call out and she responds from around the corner that I should enter. She has some more work to do, but if it is alright, I can wait for her in the lobby. With a heart that won't slow and legs that won't stand still I put on my façade of the "cool guy" who thinks that this evening is nothing more than a casual dinner between friends, but secretly I watch her face and body for clues that she really doesn't want me around in case I need to run away and salvage what little pride I have left; she smiles.

 
She wants me to stay.

 
I take some time to evaluate myself in the mirror. Spiky hair? Check. No food in my teeth? Check. Cool plaid shirt that everyone but me thinks is dreadful? Check. I look great! When we are on the street, she mentions a place she enjoys that is trendy and affordable and I quickly approve; the less time I spend talking, the less time I spend looking like a fool. At Republic, a hopping scene with fresh and tasty Thai food, we are greeted and I scan the restaurant hoping to find something on someone's table that I recognize and like, so that I can order without scratching my head like a giant ogre staring at the menu.
I spent several hours at work trying to find a great place that would be perfect for this date. I love diners and thought that she just might enjoy a large plate of cheese fries as much as me. I sent a few text messages with the hope of being on her mind, but found that I received much more—she flirted back. It wasn't overt, but I got a hint of maybe just a little crush for me when she said that she was looking forward to tonight and maybe we could do something after dinner. Maybe—that means if I don't screw up over dinner and keep her happy, I get more time with her.

 
Oh shit, there's a problem.

 
The tables in this place are fancy picnic tables with multiple parties sitting at one giant plank of wood. I have never had luck with sitting at any table that I couldn't move a chair far away from to get my massive 300 pound frame nestled into comfortably. With a couple "Hail Mary's" I squeeze and twist and plop onto the bench while holding my breath to save me a couple inches and hoping that I didn't look as stupid as I just felt.
I have a history of breaking chairs. The first happened in my parent's backyard leaning back in their outdoor cassock on a nice summer evening. The wood split. Without warning, I found myself on the ground with a sore butt and laughing family. With splinters still gracing my behind, I was at my grandma's birthday party sitting on what I thought was a stable metal folding chair—it wasn't. After standing up, I inspected the chair hoping to find evidence of foul play, but the facts don't lie; popped rivets and bent steel proved my guilt. Tonight would be a bad night to add another shattered chair to my collection.
She sits across from me and we begin the enjoyable conversations that I am "pro" at. Say something smart- check. Say something funny- check. Say something to make her smile—I am on a roll. When the menus come, I have no fear and I am starting to feel invincible; especially since the meals are described in English so I didn't need to ask what dish had chicken. The conversation continues and I am convinced that I am Adonis; captivating in every way and the true desire of her heart. Then the food comes, oh shit.

 
We have another problem.

 
Chopsticks! Really, chopsticks? I can't eat with chopsticks; since I was a young kid I had tried and tried again, but thankfully we lived in a country where forks were standard and people needed to ask for chopsticks. I have three choices at this point: 1) admit being a fool and ask for a fork, 2) hope she won't notice what I fool I am for dropping noodles all over my shirt, 3) run out of the building and back to the car and hope that I never run into this girl again. I choose the second, but only because people had sat down to my left and I am unable to get out of the table to make my escape. I find that if I take my bites while she is taking hers, I have one or two seconds in which I can stab my food and slide it into my mouth without her seeing. Crisis averted.
What is it about those early days of love when passions magnify the most mundane aspects of our lives? Feeling the undeniable butterflies of having a crush on a girl makes me giddy, and imagine a younger world where I needed multiple "cootie shots" to survive the square dance lessons of elementary school. How have I matured into becoming a dopamine junkie not wanting to release the dragon's tail even in the face of certain death? This evening's roller coaster ride of emotion is almost complete. I don't want to get off this ride just yet.
Fortune smiles upon me and we finish the meal without incident, and I find myself wishing for some more time with her. I had convinced her for dinner, but now I see a snapshot of myself standing outside the restaurant trying to keep conversation alive with rapid questions and uncomfortable puns while not wanting to admit the night is over. What is she going to do now? I asked her. She wants to see a movie. I pause, with me? Yes, with me.

 
Wow.

 
She wants me to stay.

My Pride and Joy

I did the hair today.

I Found Heaven at Smiths

Generic Cookie Crisp in a giant bag!!!  Life can end, I am complete.

Kepping it Old School

I found this awesome bathroom at SLCC today!  It even has the powder soap; what a find.

Love and Faith

The following is a little paper I wrote for my English class:

    I believe that Faith and Love will never get along. Now, I am not talking about the great principles taught to all of us in churches across the world; when I say Faith, with a big F, I mean my religion, and when I say Love, with a big L, I mean my wife.

    Faith and I have been friends my entire life, and in many ways you could say that Faith introduced me to Love. Love and Faith became acquainted just a few months before meeting me, and they had a great friendship. They shared many of the same ideals and goals that were so important to both of them. Quickly they built a rapport that was in the best interest of both parties. Learning about each other only helped them strengthen the friendship that continued to grow.

    Of course, like all friendships that burn bright and fast in the beginning, their friendship started to struggle. It didn't happen all at once, nor was it drawn out over a long process. Love came to see some other views held by Faith that she didn't agree with. Faith felt the need to exclude people, and make others feel bad if they didn't agree with her—she can be very demanding at times. This alone wouldn't be enough to strain the friendship, but Faith had many followers who felt the need to put Love aside and focus on not being nice. This made Love sad. The more Love spoke up, the more Love was told to be quiet.

    Love wrote Faith a letter. This was not a happy letter. Faith had abused the trust given her by Love, and Love couldn't let that continue. This letter made me sad because I have known Faith for a very long time, and I suppose that I had grown accustomed to her sometimes erratic behavior, but always considered her a great friend to have. Love realizes this friendship is still important to me, and will not get in the way of that, and I can only hope that Faith will feel the same way.

    So while Love will no longer be friends with Faith, I will continue to have faith, with a little f, in Love.

When playtime collides with naptime

This is Mommy's mess to clean.

Another “A” Paper…

the demands of the ticktockman

 

    Mixing the genres of science fiction and fantasy, Harlan Ellison created a world of order in need of social revolution. Standing alone, "Repent Harlequin! Said the Ticktockman", may seem an odd addition to any library, but when compared with the reality of our industry driven nation the story resonates the truth of the decline of individuality and personal accountability.

Who is the Ticktockman?

    In the opening of the story, Ellison quotes Thoreau from his book "Civil Disobedience": "The mass of men serve the state thus, not as men mainly, but as machines…" (Ellison 363). Thoreau's statement illustrates the lack of compassion and thought needed to run a healthy government and society. This machine-like government needs a machine-like enforcer—the Ticktockman. While he is a man remaining masked, the Ticktockman carried the responsibility of cutting back the time people have to live. As Master Timekeeper, he was given the burden of finding the "Harlequin" and punishing him according to his crimes.

    This idea of a Ticktockman immediately creates controversy to the readers. How can one man be given the ultimate power to end life? Who gives him that power, and what rules govern his use of it? To understand who he is, we must first understand what he fights.

The Harlequin

    Seen as a destructor of their utopian society, the Harlequin endeavors to disrupt the mindless obedience of the citizens and inspire them to live a free life of pleasure and chaos. In a paper written by Earl V. Bryant from the University of New Orleans, the Harlequin is described as a living representation of the great festival Mardi Gras (Bryant). This carnival involves celebrating life and indulging in the pleasures surrounding us. Bryant continues his connection of the Harlequin to Mardi Gras with the colors of the jellybeans and the colors of the parade: purple, green and yellow (Bryant).

    Once again the reader must face another question: are the indulgences of the Harlequin liberating, or are they simply the outward demonstrations of an undisciplined life? Where does a society find the balance between living free and order? Truly, the Harlequin not only disturbs life in the cozy land of the story, but starts a debate among readers about the amount of power and control given to government and industry.

From an Ethical Perspective

    Do we serve the government, or does the government serve us? In Ellison's work, we read about a people who are nothing more than the cogs of a machine running so efficiently that a simple delay of seven minutes can disrupt the economy. These drones may seem fictional, but in an honest comparison the similarities are shocking. We, as a people, shop in giant stores, drive on giant roads, vote in giant elections. The individual voices of our land drown in a sea of commonality. In turn, our blind following of "the rules" has placed us in a strange relationship with major companies to tell us what to buy and where to visit. The desire for individual expression and exploration has fallen into an abyss and covered by the ease of a pre-packaged life.

    The Ticktockman has the power to shorten life. With simple controls, he can exact justice for tardiness and other careless behaviors. This too holds great significance when juxtaposed with the "Rat Race" and other financial pursuits. Every person has the right to earn a living and provide for their families, but what is the cost of excess? When does making money become more important than living? In the United States millions of vacations days are wasted every year by workers unable or unwilling to use them. Our purpose is not simply working so that we can live, but living so that we can work.

    Ellison's warning shouts from the story with every turn of the page and culminates with "one day we no longer let time serve us, we serve time and we are slaves of the schedule" (Ellison 367). The reverse order of our lives leads to an enslavement of the soul; by surrendering to the demands of work and social order, an individual forfeits the beauty of life and assumes the role of machine.

Marxism and the Ticktockman

    In a utopian society, the health of the individual spirit is equal to the health of a nation. If one of our fellow citizens suffers, we all suffer. By realizing the importance of the individual a nation can lift and sustain even its weakest members. There may be little to profit from this theory in a monetary sense, but there will be much to gain in the humanities as humans are celebrated as equals.

We are subjects to our own laws. We possess the power to change our land—we just need to get off the couch. In rising for the defense of our countryman, the powers that govern our land would have no choice but to comply. Going to war for the profit of industry would become a thing of the past. Indulging in the carnal lusts of men would be replaced by the enjoyment of a land filled with equality and hope for all residents. Certainly the lure of a land with order and efficiency has its appeal, but at what cost? It is possible that order and efficiency would be the product of a peaceful land. Rather than enforce law, let us enforce life, and enjoy the new land created from the harmony of souls in true unity.

Conclusion

    The Ticktockman's purpose serves as warning to the destruction of living free. The giant sentinel dominates a world enforcing profit and order, but there is hope; laughing, loving and living prove the best antidote for a sterile life devoid of pleasure.

Works Cited

Bryant, Earle V. "Ellison's "REPENT HARLEQUIN!" SAID THE TICKTOCKMAN." Explicator 59.3 (Spring2001 2001): 163. Academic Search Premier. EBSCO. [SLCC Library], [Taylorsville], [UT]. 8 Aug. 2009 <http://libweb.slcc.edu:2436/login.aspx?direct=true&db=aph&AN=5011286&site=ehost-live>.

Ellison, Harlan. ""Repent, Harliquin!" Said the Ticktockman." Klotz, Richard Abcarian & Marvin. Literature The Human Experience. Boston: Bedford/ St. Martin, 2007. 363-372.

 

Almost Perfect

A couple weeks ago I purchased a new straight razor.  The cuts are becoming smaller and fewer, but I still have to learn some more shaving skills.

Saturday Morning Fun

We had breakfast at the Roundhouse Cafe then took a drive to Temple Square for a nice little morning as a family.  Now it is time to get home so mommy can get some rest; no fun being sick on a weekend.

He wants a turn to drive

Oregon or Bust

Once again Little Man and I are ready and waiting in the car for mom.  Once she gets in, we will be on our way to a great relaxing vacation in Oregon and Yellowstone.  Just waiting.  And waiting.

The Hounds

Akela on the left and Trucha on the right

“Harlem”

In the poem "Harlem" by Langston Hughes, the poet creates an image of decay. At the height of the New Negro Renaissance, Harlem became the home for a new wave of thought and creativity. Despite the overwhelming popularity given to the small neighborhood in New York City, Hughes records the eventual decline and departure of the intellectual leaders from the Mecca of the greatest cultural change of the twentieth century. "Harlem" foretells of the despair that most residents of the neighborhood will go through, as their dream of equality and prosperity is "deferred".

The poet begins the poem with a question that could easily pass for a philosophical discussion at the dinner table: "What happens to a dream deferred?" (406, 1). The word deferred stands out to the reader in considering what really happened to the dream. By stating that the dream had been deferred, the author allows for the dream to return. Deferring a dream is not the same as destroying it. Most often the reader will associate military service or college when thinking about deferment. This suggests to the reader that the author's dream is being deferred for a higher cause. Whether the dream is put on hold for war—a battle for equality, or for the education of the Black residents—a time to learn and then return ready to share the knowledge with their neighbors and family, eventually that dream will return to claim all the glory it was intended to receive.

The poet continues the writing by starting to list some possible outcomes for the deferred dream. "Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore—and then run?" (406, 2-5). Using the imagery of a raisin in the sun creates the feeling of something small reacting to a large amount of heat. This represents the great oppression the residents and Black leaders were facing at the time from the popular majority parties. The rhyme of these two lines is ABA. By linking the sentences together to allow the reader to feel the heat and pain felt by members of his community, the author takes the reader on a journey into the feelings and disappointment of the Harlem residents.

Continuing on with his theme of a dream deferred, the speaker then compares the dream to food: "Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over—like a sugary sweet?" (406, 6-8). The author's use of meat and sugar signify to the reader the importance of this great dream. Meat feeds and builds the body with a lasting protein while a syrupy sweet is a treat best saved for after meals—a simple dessert. Is this dream the nourishment needed to endure the trials ahead, or does the dream more closely resemble the sweet joys of art; providing pleasure but no lasting energy for life? The words chosen by the speaker create the images of a large feast prepared to celebrate the victory of war, but with no one attending, the food sours and remaining inedible to anyone who shows up late.

The author switches from the imagery of food to a much more pressing comparison: "Maybe it just sags like a heavy load." (406, 9-10). This image relates to the buildings of a once thriving neighborhood. The Apollo Theater for example fell close to ruin after the movement that defined much of Harlem ended. Not only are the buildings aging, but the people too; poverty, crime, and neglect have crippled a large number of Harlem residents. Those wishing to leave the rough neighborhood are often required to work harder and longer than their peers living across town.

The most chilling lines of this poem have been saved by the author for the end. Realizing that people will only be kept down for so long, and that the dream that had been deferred will soon return giving life and hope to the dreamers, the poet leaves the reader with a sense of the power and fight left inside: "Or does it explode?" (406, 11). Will there be an explosion? Will it come from the inside or the outside? The author does not tell when and where, just a simple question perhaps left as a warning serves as a cautionary conclusion to a poignant poem.

Grandpa Capson

We went to the Capson's home earlier this afternoon for some great food and the giant slide.  Little Man enjoyed some time with Grandpa, and being a crazy kid.

A- Racism. B- Sexism. C- Classism. D- All the above.

In my Summer courses at SLCC I have discovered great poetry and literature. The classes give me the flexibility I need to have plenty of time with my family, and I am grateful for that. However, in my Humanities course I spend many hours watching slide shows created by the Dean of the department. Despite his dry and repetitious delivery, I usually take with me lessons about equality and social justice. This is why I was somewhat disturbed last week when I was watching his presentation on race. He rarely makes jokes, and this time he made one that seemed inappropriate to me.



Perhaps I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but I was not amused at this little joke. In a class teaching the importance of different classes, races, sexes, genders and ethnicity, this man decided to poke fun at someone who has defied many odds and become a global activist. I am not going to say that I am a great Oprah fan, but I will stand up to defend her dignity.

I have spoken with a few people at work; some agree with me, and some think that I am blowing this out of proportion. What I want to know is, where can jokes like this be made? Is the classroom the forum to laugh at the "others" in society? I sent the following note to my teacher (who is not the dean) about this joke.

"On a side note I would like to point out that the joke made by “Professor” Allen is inappropriate not only for this course but for any educator endeavoring to teach lessons of equality and dignity. By claiming, in a humorous way, that Oprah possesses half the wealth of African Americans, he demeans both women and Blacks. Why is he concerned with the amount of money that she has made? Is it because she is a woman? Is he bothered that a Black person could earn more money than he? Where was the joke about Rupert Murdoch or Bill Gates? While I am a great fan of humor, I find it unprofessional for him to abuse his position of an educator to make light of anyone’s personal achievements."

I may have just woke on the wrong side of the bed, but it has been several days and I still feel the same way.

What do you think?

Jimmy Santiago Baca- A poet worth reading

So Mexicans are Taking Jobs from Americans

O Yes? Do they come on horses
with rifles, and say,

Ese gringo, gimmee your job?

And do you, gringo, take off your ring,
drop your wallet into a blanket
spread over the ground, and walk away?

I hear Mexicans are taking your jobs away.
Do they sneak into town at night,
and as you’re walking home with a whore,
do they mug you, a knife at your throat,
saying, I want your job?

Even on TV, an asthmatic leader
crawls turtle heavy, leaning on an assistant,
and from a nest of wrinkles on his face,
a tongue paddles through flashing waves
of lightbulbs, of cameramen, rasping
“They’re taking our jobs away.”

Well, I’ve gone about trying to find them,
asking just where the hell are these fighters.
The rifles I hear sound in the night
are white farmers shooting blacks and browns
whose ribs I see jutting out
and starving children,
I see the poor marching for a little work,
I see small white farmers selling out
to clean-suited farmers living in New York,
who’ve never been on a farm,
don’t know the look of a hoof or the smell
of a woman’s body bending all day long in fields.

I see this, and I hear only a few people
got all the money in this world, the rest
count their pennies to buy bread and butter.

Below that cool green sea of money,
millions and millions of people fight to live,
search for pearls in the darkest depths
of their dreams, hold their breath for years
trying to cross poverty to just having something.

The children are dead already. We are killing them,
that is what America should be saying;
on TV, in the streets, in offices, should be saying,
“We aren’t giving the children a chance to live.”

Mexicans are taking our jobs, they say instead.
What they really say is, let them die,
and the children too.

–Jimmy Santiago Baca, 1977

Happy Outside

We like to have some playtime out in the backyard.  I can't belive how old our Little Man is getting!

Playtime

Little Man likes to play with his hats, so that is what we did tonight. I love that kid!