"Drunken with Opportunity"

Subtitle: Another analogy that may or may not work, depending on how my warped thoughts are like yours.
            Yesterday I had the opportunity to accompany a delegation of 8th and 9th graders from my school to a naturalization ceremony. The ceremony included a typical patriotic opening program with an elementary school group singing the national anthem and performing well-rehearsed commentary about famous American heroes. My school’s students led the crowd in the Pledge of Allegiance and read two original essays about what it means to be an American. Then the city mayor spoke for a few minutes. It was predictably lovely.

            After the 457 participants had renounced their previous citizenship and had sworn allegiance to the United States of America, the officiating judge had the new citizens stand by continent to show the representation (80 countries) to the rest of the audience in the hall. He then let each who desired, to share a short comment with the audience. Most simply stated their name, where they came from originally, and a part of their story or some of their feelings. Speakers included war refugees, foreign exchange students who never went home, parents of children born in the country who already had citizenship, even a former federal judge who had been exiled from his own country for some of his rulings just to describe a few. I found myself fascinated by their stories.

            There was one woman from sub-Saharan Africa, who, while struggling with her English haphazardly invented or coined a phrase that stuck in my head. And like a three-year-old attached to his father's leg when he's late for work, it pulled at my brain all the way home and all through the night; and it still pulls at me when I stop to think about it.

            She said, “I feel drunken with opportunity,” and then went on to narrate her educational experiences since arriving in this country. Now, her inexpert word play may have seemed like funny phrasing to those listening, but I feel she struck a treasure trove of truth with that simple statement.

            Her exuberant speech and excitement revealed the obvious buzz she was riding as she spoke of her new-found freedoms and opportunities that did not exist for women in her native country. Her educational opportunities alone made her a little tipsy. No one with a soul could begrudge this woman her giddiness.

            And then I began to think about the opportunities that I have enjoyed for my entire life. I thought about growing up in a military family. Do I take the time to drink in deeply from the different opportunities that I have to choose from? Those thoughts are still jumbled.

            (So, here’s where the philosophical analogy begins. Heh heh.) Are there some that are so inebriated by the blessings in their lives that they don’t even recognize which way is up? In other words, how many of us are soused by success and excess that we stumble through life as big, brash drunks, believing that the world revolves around us?

            Not being one to personally imbibe, I don’t know how far to take this metaphor, but I think it can work. Well, at least for my limited experience it does. As a citizen of the United States, and of the world, I have a responsibility to monitor my consumption of life’ joy and the intoxication that follows and make sure that I drink responsibly from the opportunities that are around me, careful not to get to pissed or punchy. I need to surround myself with family and friends who can help me know when I’ve thrown back enough, regardless of how well I think I can hold life’s liquor. Humility and a good night’s sleep does wonders.

            Now I know I’ve carried this way too far away from what this beautiful woman meant, but her speech made me realize again how richly I have been blessed in this life. I have a family, friends, and a God who love me and tolerate me, even at my worst. I have an education that grows and expands equivalent to the efforts I make. I have talents and interests and hobbies and the ability to choose how I pursue them. Indeed, I am “drunken with opportunities.” My plea, I guess, is for all of us—fellow citizens—to (1) help buy a round of opportunity for those who may not have any, and (2) to not make drunken fools of ourselves, with a reciprocal agreement to hand over the keys when it’s become too much. Too many mistakes (of all varieties) are made when people are drunk. (Hiccup.)

P.S. Then we went to the capitol, where I witnessed some partaking of opportunity in excess.

And Here's More Evidence

Yesterday I wrote, or rather, rambled for a while regarding learning how to write one skill at a time, and how I am really a conglomeration of all the lessons I've learned before. Not two minutes after I had posted and reposted 27 times because the formatting was off (I'm still not happy about it), I picked up my newly-acquired Horoscopes for the Dead by Billy Collins and read "Memorizing 'The Sun Rising' by John Donne."

“Memorizing ‘The Sun Rising’ by John Donne” by Billy Collins

Every reader loves the way he tells off

the sun, shouting buy old fool

into the English skies even though they

were likely cloudy on that seventeenth-century morning.

And it’s a pleasure to spend this sunny day

pacing the carpet and repeating the words,

feeling the syllables lock into rows

until I can stand and declare,

the book held close by my side,

that hours days, and months are but the rags of time.

But after a few steps into stanza number two,

wherein the sun is blinded by his mistress’s eyes,

I can feel the first one begin to fade

like sky-written letters on a windy day.

And by the time I have taken in the third,

the second is likewise gone, a blown-out candle now,

a wavering line of acrid smoke.

So it’s not until I leave the house

and walk three times around this hidden lake

that the poem begins to show

any interest in walking by my side.

Then, after my circling,

better than the courteous dominion

of her being all states and him all princes,

better than love’s power to shrink

the wide world to the size of a bedchamber,

and better even than the compression

of all that into the rooms of these three stanzas

is how, after hours stepping up down the poem,

testing the plank of every line,

it goes with me now, contracted into a little spot within.

Instant validation.

I think now about how horrible I am about memorizing bits and pieces, especially extended texts, and how usually once I have something down, another chunk of knowledge gives my mind the slip.

Most of the time, memorizing facts or formulas or French verb conjugations is like a Boy Scout learning his knots. He repeat over and over again, "drilling and killing," but despite his best efforts, the information still does not hold fast. The synapses fire long enough to pass off the requirement or the quiz, but then the skill disappears, forever into the dark void between his ears, or so it appears. Hope is not lost, my friends; not for you, not for the scout. At least, not yet. If you internalize the knowledge, be it stanza or sheepshank, grammar rule or game design, and actually use it, that tidbit of knowledge becomes a part of you, ready to creep to the surface in a contemplative stroll across the field, or it may pop out when you desperately have to secure your tent during a downpour. Eventually, it has the potential to become wisdom through experience.

It's not automatic, of course; you must work at retrieval of stored knowledge. It takes practice listening to that inner self. And you must practice! introspect.

You never know how or when the miscellanea lodged in your gray matter will be of use (or distraction). How often do song lyrics come to the forefront of your thoughts when you are alone, or psyching yourself up for the interview, or whatever? What do you do with them? Dance? Ponder life, the universe, and everything? Ignore that buzzing sound in your skull and grunt like a Neanderthal? Recognize it as a part of who you are?

So, I guess what I'm saying is that we, as human beings, need to cram as much learning into our brains as we can. And then we need to wedge in some more, even if it seems like we might lose other dear memories and ideas. They're still there; you just have to mine for them sometimes.

Again, let me assuage your fears, those who fear attracting zombies with those overstuffed brains. Don't worry. You have nothing to fear. In the moment, something that you supposedly learned back in Boy Scouts will help you survive.

Belated Ramble in Two Parts and Mixed Metaphors

Part I

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist, or any other kind of –ist for that matter, to see that I have neglected my blogging as of late. However, I need to articulate that I was writing, just not blogging. I started a few pieces. Then I put them down (literally and figuratively). I journaled. I dissertated. But I could not come up with anything I deemed blog-worthy.

Before I go on, though, I must confess that I am a little disappointed that I only had one entry for the poetry contest. Dave, you win! (Again!) Now back to our not-so-regularly-scheduled blog post.

As I worked on my seventh draft of my dissertation proposal, I had an epiphany. In the words of Smee from Hook, “Lightning ha[d] just struck my brain.” I encountered an amazing quote in my research book of all places. In her latest edition of Qualitative Research: A Guide to Design and Research, Sharan B. Merriam quotes Harry Wolcott: “Writing is not only a great way to discover what we are thinking, it is also a way to uncover lacunae in our thinking. Unfortunately, that means we must be prepared to catch ourselves red-handed when we seem not to be thinking at all. The fact should not escape us that when the writing is not going well, our still-nebulous thoughts are not yet ready to be expressed in words” (Writing Up Qualitative Research). That from a research book? Wow.

I didn’t need to feel too guilty (apart from breaking my promise to write 31 narratives, which I am still working on). 

Part II

And so I thought about my blog. And my writing. Then I looked down at the book again and noticed all my notes scrawled in the margins. Ping! (That’s the sound of the light bulb.) My ninth graders are annotating To Kill a Mockingbird right now (and digging deeper than they ever have before). As I revised, I was using the annotations I had made, just like I had been taught in Mr. Albert’s class. So I thought—hand on chin, pensive furrow in my brow—about the different skills that I had picked up over the years.

Mrs. Thompson taught me how to respond to questions with complete sentences in fourth grade. Mrs. Curry taught me how to effectively summarize (without embellishments) in fifth grade. Mr. Iwanski, even though he was a super creeper, pounded grammar and usage into me in sixth grade. That same year Mrs. Saiki taught me how to research, paraphrase, cite, and read as a writer. I started writing story to escape the realities of seventh grade. I wrote for audience in eighth grade, as it were in the Algebra Express. Mr. Albert, in tenth grade, instilled in me the importance of revision and the need to appeal to an audience. He also made sure that I knew how to back up my arguments and opinions with evidence and to never try to argue for something I didn’t believe in—at least when my grade was on the line. That same year I became a wannabe poet on the side. (Scattered evidence can be found on this site.) Mrs. Misselhorn helped me as a junior  to take something abstract and transform it into a concrete image, as well as to focus thesis statements. The advisors of the Lancer Lot gave me the confidence I needed to start publishing. And in twelfth grade I finally realized that I was a writer—not a very good one—but a writer nonetheless.

Various instructors throughout my college career helped me to shape my craft both academically and aesthetically. I sat through lecture and workshop and acquired piece by piece my writing tool belt. And just like Batman’s utility belt, there’s more there than you would ever think possible.  Nevertheless it’s still packed in there.

(I know I’m rambling now, but I needed to just spill a few thoughts and the way they came to me.)

Writing came to me slowly, as a process, one small fragment at a time.  And as I reflect on my skills, I realize that everything I learned back when I wondered if I was ever going to use it in my life…well…I still use them. These skills and shortcuts and secrets and styles—they are all a part of me. My own voice and style are a reflection of all the reading and writing I have ever done. Even the words I scribbled on the tiny Fisher Price desk with a chalkboard with yellow chalk that always squeaked and sent goose bumps racing over my body (They are visible now as I relive that memory.) helped lay a foundation, helped me to become the writing superhero I pretend to be. It’s up to me—jumping back to the Batman metaphor—to help them pack their utility belts, so they can use the tools whenever they need them. Okay, now that I think about it, I'm probably more like Inspector gadget than Batman, but the idea is the same.

Because I know hardly anyone will ever read this far, I’ll wrap up simply asserting that the writer I am today is because of the patchwork I stitched together from so many others. To the many, thank you. And as I try to instill similar skills in the nebulous minds of my students, I hope that some of them will also realize that I am just adding a piece to their puzzle. For some, it will just be a small patch of sky that blends in with the rest of their life’s panorama, but for others, I may be the red roofed villa in the hills that serves a s a focal point that gets the puzzle started within the boundaries of its frame. And yet for others, I may even be a straight-edged side, or even a corner foundation, from which the puzzle of their lives begin to take shape.

That’s enough of the metaphors, but I hope you know what I mean. Just take life, and writing, one piece at a time. And when the pieces don’t always fit, it may be time for a new puzzle. Either that or you just need to re-cut them to make them fit.

Can anybody tell me what this is supposed to be?