So it's almost December, and I have come up with my December blogging idea. This year I'd like to explore a different memory every day and share a short narrative. Since I've been delving into the past recently, it sounds to me (at least right now) that I shouldn't find it too difficult. However, I would like to ask for your assistance. I've got a few that I want to stat with, but I need you to help me think of ideas--times in my life that might be worth writing about--small little slices of life. So please chime in with what you would like to hear/read. Whether it's a general suggestion like an age, a grade in school, or a place I lived, or even if you have a particular situation or story you'd like me to tackle, I'd love your input.
Check out my other posts throughout joeaveragewriter.blogspot.com if you need to see what subjects I've tackled recently.
I'm excited to see which stories reveal themselves over the next thirty-one days.
This is my blog: no frills, no girly backgrounds, no cute. Just me and my thoughts...and a little bit of writing.
29 November 2013
18 November 2013
Sunday Afternoon Wrestling
This was written
(with my students) after reading Eoin Colfer’s “Artemis Begins” from Guys
Read: Funny Business.
Unlike most brothers, we didn’t beat the crap out of each
other out of anger. No, the abuse was
voluntary and most of the time encouraged by the recipients. I don’t think I did too much damage without their consent—just an occasional dead-arm punch.
Back when there were just the three of us boys, we
established a weekly tradition when we lived in Japan. For some reason Sunday afternoons were sacredly
observed as Mom’s nap time. We’d come
home from church, have a large dinner—usually chicken and rice, lasagna, or
something else loaded with carbs, and then Mom would disappear for a few
hours. Sometimes, when Dad was home, we’d
wrestle with him, and then settle down for a movie.
Every once in a while, Dad would have an extra meeting,
or would be gone on a TDY for the Air Force, and we’d have to entertain
ourselves while Mom slumbered. Of
course, it was only natural to carry on our tradition of Sunday afternoon
wrestling. However, without Dad to
supervise, it would get out of control and heads would get busted, eyes poked,
feelings hurt; but we kept fighting for the fun of it. And without fail, we’d wake up Mom, and that would
be the end—the rest of Sunday spent in our rooms, apart from each other.
One Saturday we watched WrestleMania III where
Hulk Hogan defeated Andre the Giant. By the next day Marc had perfected his impersonation
of Randy “Macho Man” Savage, and was in rare (annoying) form. I decided to try a new move on my brothers. I was getting tired of using the same techniques that kept them at bay; I needed to inflict a new type of pain. You see, as I was the oldest, they usually
tag-teamed against me when Dad wasn't there to keep things even. Sometimes, they would attack at once and try
to pin me. They never could. Ever.
Still can’t.
A few months before, my parents purchased new blue-gray couches
for the living room. They were tired of
the ugly basic brown base furniture the military supplied. The back stood about three or four feet off
the ground: the perfect height, or so I thought, to be the “top rope” of our
wrestling ring.
After I had knocked both Marc and David to the floor, I
climbed to the top rope, and jumped at them with my arms stretched out for a
double clothesline as they staggered to their feet. It worked a little too well.
Unfortunately, I fell faster than I had anticipated, and
when I caught both of them, sending them thudding back to the floor, their
resistance didn’t slow me down at all.
My head smacked into the thinly carpeted floor. All three of us lay there for what seemed
like forever. No one cried. No one tattled. But our wrestling careers seriously calmed
down after that. When we half-heartedly
started back up, David tried the same aerial tactic multiple times, but I would
just catch him mid-air and set him on the couch. Somehow, wrestling my brothers lost its
luster for me. It was never the same
again. I would never lose.
14 November 2013
Am I Really Innocent Until Proven Guilty?
That title sounds like I'm going to bash our judicial system or something. It was purposely misleading. And that's part of my quandary this morning: I had a thought as I have been working on a short personal narrative piece with my darling little seventh graders (and the stinky ones, too). And I know I haven't really concerned myself too much with this in the past, but I started thinking about the ethics behind writing personally. How personal is too personal? When I attempt to write about my past, do I take pains to change the names of the guilty, or innocent, as the case may be? Or do I let it all hang out and not care who sees the blood, sweat, and barbecue stains on the laundry?
What are the repercussions of telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth as far as my mind dictates? I know that over time my version of an episode changes; it gets better. And usually it continues to improve with each retelling. So where do I draw the line? Is there some invisible boundary that when I cross it all my writing credentials spontaneously combust? The cliche reports that truth is stranger than fiction, but when does others' strangeness and quirkiness need to be protected? When is it authentic detail, and when is it "TMI," as my students love to misuse? Of course, I never want to disparage anybody (most of the time), and I'm not too cool with defamation of character, slander, or the like. What is going to convict me?
In the past, I haven't really cared, or maybe the better way to put it is that I haven't cared to write anything that might be considered too personal by other involved parties. I don't worry about sharing when I farted during algebra in 7th grade or when I peed on a rattlesnake, but it's when I involve other people--friends, enemies, civilian casualties, not-so-innocent bystanders--that I start to get a titch nervous.
Regardless, I'm a little stuck due to my newly-overly cautious ethics sensors (maybe its my dissertation jitters coming out--running the use of human subjects past the IRB); they're a little crossed.
Any thoughts on that?
What are the repercussions of telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth as far as my mind dictates? I know that over time my version of an episode changes; it gets better. And usually it continues to improve with each retelling. So where do I draw the line? Is there some invisible boundary that when I cross it all my writing credentials spontaneously combust? The cliche reports that truth is stranger than fiction, but when does others' strangeness and quirkiness need to be protected? When is it authentic detail, and when is it "TMI," as my students love to misuse? Of course, I never want to disparage anybody (most of the time), and I'm not too cool with defamation of character, slander, or the like. What is going to convict me?
In the past, I haven't really cared, or maybe the better way to put it is that I haven't cared to write anything that might be considered too personal by other involved parties. I don't worry about sharing when I farted during algebra in 7th grade or when I peed on a rattlesnake, but it's when I involve other people--friends, enemies, civilian casualties, not-so-innocent bystanders--that I start to get a titch nervous.
Regardless, I'm a little stuck due to my newly-overly cautious ethics sensors (maybe its my dissertation jitters coming out--running the use of human subjects past the IRB); they're a little crossed.
Any thoughts on that?
12 November 2013
Veterans Day Reflection
I suppose I should write something patriotic seeing as
yesterday was Veterans Day. In the
morning we had a nice assembly with Sgt. Long and Gen. Burton from the Utah
National Guard. I always get a little
misty when I ponder the freedoms I enjoy and those who have made that freedom
possible. A rousing rendition of “The
Star Spangled Banner” always gets the tears flowing.
Dad always springs to mind
first, since he was active duty USAF while I was living at home. He retired around the time I graduated from
high school, and was gone quite often for military training.
The
summer before I started high school he had been stateside (We were living in
England) for several weeks. When he
returned to RAF Mildenhall where he was stationed, he learned that his squadron
had been mobilized and were headed down to Saudi Arabia and Kuwait for Operation: Desert
Storm. He spent two days with us and
then was gone.
Those
nine months were tough. I gave up
watching the news. Avoiding reading
about it was harder, as I delivered the Stars
and Stripes in my neighborhood.
Eventually he returned, but then spent the next several months
alternating between temporary duties in Russia, Germany, Turkey, and home. I have to say that it was crazy not knowing
if he would come home or not.
I am
grateful for him, his sacrifice, and for the opportunities I have had as a
result of his assignments around the globe.
I have been places, witnessed events, and met people that have influenced my
life. I count myself fortunate to have
been an Air Force brat. It is part of who I am.
And
when thinking of other veterans who have made a personal impact on my life, I
can’t forget my mom, grandfathers, uncles, in-laws, friends, and even random
strangers. The men and women who helped
me to grow, especially when Dad was gone, who served their country in many
ways—security, mechanics, intelligence, etc.—will never be forgotten as they
are a part of who I am.
Earlier
this year I had the chance to visit Arlington National Cemetery with my wife, her father, and her brothers while we
enjoyed an extended family vacation and reunion in Washington D.C. It was the first time I had ever visited the
hallowed ground, and it was every bit as inspiring as had been advertised.
Shortly
after the experience I tried to express through writing the awe and majesty I felt while strolling through the
waves of marble markers—only broken by a few larger memorials—but I feel that I
failed miserably.
The following six paragraphs are
another attempt to capture that moment, which will most likely also fail because
I don’t believe that words exist to describe the pride, the richness of
history, tradition, and honor, or the reverence for the past that I felt as I
ambled across those hills above the western shore of the Potomac overlooking
the capital of our nation.
The air hung heavy with humidity, but as we hiked up the grounds
double-time toward the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, a light sprinkle began,
further dampening those few spots on our bodies that were not already wet with
perspiration.
Before we could catch our breath from the forced march, the changing of the guard began, and I was
privy to one of the most awe-inspiring rites I have ever witnessed. Pondering the symbolism, the simplicity, and
the crisp elegance to which the soldiers performed their duties, I stood as the
gravity with which these duties were performed washed over me.
Shortly, the ceremony was over,
and the newly charged Marine resumed his solemn vigil. As we moved away to find the Confederate Memorial,
I juxtaposed this experience with that of the occasion where I witnessed the
pomp and pageantry that surrounded the changing of the queen’s guard at
Buckingham Palace: bright reds and blacks and whites, thronging tourists’
camera flashes. Although that in
itself was quite the spectacle, it lacked the reverence displayed on a rainy,
summer afternoon in Arlington.
The flame at President John F.
Kennedy’s memorial reminded me of the fire that burns in Philadelphia and in
other historic sites, representing past sacrifice and symbolizing the ever-present need for good men and women
to step up when required and do their duty to God and man.
At the top of the hill, at Arlington House, we ran into one of my
former students. I seriously can't go anywhere (even 2200 miles away)
without running into one of them, can I?
It was still cool to see Maddy and realize how big an impact one seemingly
insignificant individual like me, an English teacher in Utah, can make on the
future of our nation. Despite all the
screwy things that happen in our country and in the world, regardless of the
corruption that runs rampant through all aspects of life, there are some things
that are good and proper and right. And
Arlington Cemetery helped me put them back into perspective that gray afternoon
in July.
Later on that same trip, to kill time on
a Sunday afternoon, my brother and I took our families to visit a small
Confederate graveyard in Jonesboro, Georgia, just outside Atlanta. Here someone had forgotten the dead. Without the kids noticing, my sister-in-law
and I picked up a dozen or so empty forties.
It upset me to think that so much disrespect existed, especially in a
land known for its tradition and proud heritage. Still, it was nice to see the rest of the
cemetery well preserved.
After a summer of patriotic events and
traversing this magnificent country we live in (23 states and the District of
Columbia in 25 days), I appreciate the sacrifice of our veterans even more than I have before.
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I think I'll post a little writing every so often...some polished...some rough. And I welcome any comments or criticisms or cupcakes you care to throw my way.