Sunday, December 09, 2007
Some years ago I was generally considered to be a good artist. I never considered myself particularly artistic and am relieved that people don't expect me to be so anymore. Not that I wouldn't like to be artistic, but I never have liked to conform to any expectations or standards. I was often approached by people asking me to draw something for them, or by people wanting me to enter an art contest.
My mom is an artist, see, so I was assumed to have inherited the artistic genes by people who knew her. I think my mom wanted me to be an artist, because she was one of the people that used to encourage me to enter art contests. Most of the pictures that I ended up painting to satisfy her were completely abstract. I only attempted realism on a couple of occasions. I just wasn't really into watercolor, which was my mom's favorite medium and what I was always offered. I did kind of want to be a cartoonist for a while. I used to make up really dumb comic strips, with very mild, dry humor, drawn on blank index cards with a mechanical pencil. My characters were developed better than my plots, but still not particularly good in any way.
I was doodling one day when I was in sixth grade and I drew a silly-looking face in a way I'd never drawn one before: I merged the eyes and nose into a distorted trefoil shape and placed a gaudy, angular smile, complete with large dimples, underneath. If I were to describe the face myself, I'd say it looked like a dinner roll floating over a letter H. Here was something I created totally on my own, and something I actually liked. I started turning my little doodles into miniature comic panels with characters sporting my signature style of face. Someone saw my faces and said they looked like mushrooms; the name stuck. From then on out I was known as the guy who drew "mushroom men." Another person, after that name had been established, told me she thought they looked like T-shirts, and in fact, she had originally thought that they were T-shirts. I guess she had assumed the pupils of the eyes were nipples poking through.
Every November one of the local banks sponsored a community art show and just like every year, my mom coaxed me into entering something. I decided to draw some mushroom men. I made a collage of variations on the traditional mushroom man: distorted men with tiny eyes and big noses, men with arrows through their heads, and a mushroom man-in-the-moon, among others. Like my other comics, they were simply drawn with a mechanical pencil on typing paper, but we framed it up pretty nicely. Much to my surprise, it won! People all over town knew about the little guys, including their name, since I'd titled the work "Mushroom Men." Eventually, though, the fad passed, thankfully. I was worried people would rip off the one thing that I had on all the other artists. I eventually got tired of drawing them--tired of the way they looked--so when I needed to draw a silly face, I developed other ways to do it.
My mom is an artist, see, so I was assumed to have inherited the artistic genes by people who knew her. I think my mom wanted me to be an artist, because she was one of the people that used to encourage me to enter art contests. Most of the pictures that I ended up painting to satisfy her were completely abstract. I only attempted realism on a couple of occasions. I just wasn't really into watercolor, which was my mom's favorite medium and what I was always offered. I did kind of want to be a cartoonist for a while. I used to make up really dumb comic strips, with very mild, dry humor, drawn on blank index cards with a mechanical pencil. My characters were developed better than my plots, but still not particularly good in any way.
I was doodling one day when I was in sixth grade and I drew a silly-looking face in a way I'd never drawn one before: I merged the eyes and nose into a distorted trefoil shape and placed a gaudy, angular smile, complete with large dimples, underneath. If I were to describe the face myself, I'd say it looked like a dinner roll floating over a letter H. Here was something I created totally on my own, and something I actually liked. I started turning my little doodles into miniature comic panels with characters sporting my signature style of face. Someone saw my faces and said they looked like mushrooms; the name stuck. From then on out I was known as the guy who drew "mushroom men." Another person, after that name had been established, told me she thought they looked like T-shirts, and in fact, she had originally thought that they were T-shirts. I guess she had assumed the pupils of the eyes were nipples poking through.
Every November one of the local banks sponsored a community art show and just like every year, my mom coaxed me into entering something. I decided to draw some mushroom men. I made a collage of variations on the traditional mushroom man: distorted men with tiny eyes and big noses, men with arrows through their heads, and a mushroom man-in-the-moon, among others. Like my other comics, they were simply drawn with a mechanical pencil on typing paper, but we framed it up pretty nicely. Much to my surprise, it won! People all over town knew about the little guys, including their name, since I'd titled the work "Mushroom Men." Eventually, though, the fad passed, thankfully. I was worried people would rip off the one thing that I had on all the other artists. I eventually got tired of drawing them--tired of the way they looked--so when I needed to draw a silly face, I developed other ways to do it.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
I went to a party last night. I only knew a handful of the people at the party, and they were all playing Wii Sports, so I did a lot of idle loitering. On the end table by the couch, beneath me, I noticed a yo-yo. I picked it up and for the first time in several years, yoed. I was impressed with how easy it was to do. To be fair, it was one of those Yomega yo-yos with a clutch that makes it really easy to "sleep," but I was still impressed.
See, when I was a kid, I couldn't make a yo-yo work. My dad was pretty good at it, I guess on account of his having grown up in the 60s. When I was real young, on one of my dad's birthdays, my mom bought him a glow-in-the-dark Duncan yo-yo and I was amazed. I tried and tried, received instruction from everyone and their brother, but I just couldn't. The frustration of having to wind it up manually, combined with the equally frustrating problem of a twisted or knotted string, usually made my attempts at yoing brief and anger-filled. My dad forgot about the glow-in-the-dark yo-yo after a while and it ended up in my pile of junk. Occasionally I would find it, try until the frustration got to me, and then throw it back on the pile.
Then, when I was in middle school, my cousins came to visit and one of them had a yo-yo of a newer design, but still plain--no fancy mechanics. I tried it and after a few minutes, got the hang of it. I was so proud of myself, you wouldn't believe it. My cousins and I used to trade stuff when we were kids, and I traded something I can't remember to them for the yo-yo. I got pretty swift at doing the regular up-and-down motion, but I usually bombed when I tried any tricks. I think I was able to get it to "sleep" one time, for like two seconds, but I couldn't repeat it.
Just before posting this, I went online and read all about yo-yos. Did you know that Duncan makes a limited-production, precision-engineered magnesium model that sells for $400? Four hundred dollars! For a yo-yo! I have to admit, I'm intrigued. I wouldn't actually buy one, no, but I would like to play with one just to make sure I couldn't do any cool tricks with it.
See, when I was a kid, I couldn't make a yo-yo work. My dad was pretty good at it, I guess on account of his having grown up in the 60s. When I was real young, on one of my dad's birthdays, my mom bought him a glow-in-the-dark Duncan yo-yo and I was amazed. I tried and tried, received instruction from everyone and their brother, but I just couldn't. The frustration of having to wind it up manually, combined with the equally frustrating problem of a twisted or knotted string, usually made my attempts at yoing brief and anger-filled. My dad forgot about the glow-in-the-dark yo-yo after a while and it ended up in my pile of junk. Occasionally I would find it, try until the frustration got to me, and then throw it back on the pile.
Then, when I was in middle school, my cousins came to visit and one of them had a yo-yo of a newer design, but still plain--no fancy mechanics. I tried it and after a few minutes, got the hang of it. I was so proud of myself, you wouldn't believe it. My cousins and I used to trade stuff when we were kids, and I traded something I can't remember to them for the yo-yo. I got pretty swift at doing the regular up-and-down motion, but I usually bombed when I tried any tricks. I think I was able to get it to "sleep" one time, for like two seconds, but I couldn't repeat it.
Just before posting this, I went online and read all about yo-yos. Did you know that Duncan makes a limited-production, precision-engineered magnesium model that sells for $400? Four hundred dollars! For a yo-yo! I have to admit, I'm intrigued. I wouldn't actually buy one, no, but I would like to play with one just to make sure I couldn't do any cool tricks with it.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
I spent most of last week at my parents' house. Being unemployed for the week, and since my parents were working all day every day, I took on the task of beginning the long, arduous process of removing years and years' worth of junk. Our individual situations are such that we haven't been able to really organize the place in about five years, so much of the house is in disarray. My mom and I will probably work on it every time I'm home in the next few months, especially Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks. I spent two days tackling the worst of it, which was in the "new room." It's so-called because it was added on to the house......in 1986. We've never gotten out of the habit of referring to it as "new."
A good bit of the clutter was just piles and piles of books that we're not interested in reading anymore. I spent one of the days just going through the books, sorting them for donation to either the city library (which operates a used book store) or the Salvation Army. I found some old duffel bags that we'd never have used either, so I put some of the books I thought would be less of interest to the library's clientele into those and just dropped them off at the thrift store. The rest of the books and magazines went to the library, where I was surprised by their gratitude for my bringing in so much stuff.
The second day I went through box after box of my own things that had been stashed away in the New Room during past attempts at cleaning up the house. I found many toys that I gave to the thrift store; it was depressing to remember all the fun I had with them, and then have to box them up to be given away to kids who won't understand how special they once were. I took better care of my toys than most kids do; I managed to keep parts of play sets together all these years, for example. I put some stuff in the thrift store box that I know will immediately be rummaged through and dispersed by kids at the store. But I guess it's for the best. What makes me feel even worse, though, is the fact that I know a lot of it will end up in the landfill to be destroyed, either by nature or by bulldozer tracks.
Speaking of destroying things, I found many boxes containing the remains of electronic and mechanical devices I took apart as an aspiring tinkerer. I found unidentifiable circuit boards, some of which are antiques now. What's neat is that there were a few that I couldn't tell the device that they'd come out of, but I could see exactly how the device would have operated. I could find boards from different boxes, long since separated, but tell they came out of the same product, once upon a time. These points aside, I had surprisingly sharp memories of acquiring some of the junked electronics that I took apart, as well as the surgery I had to perform to get some of them apart.
Here's some other items of interest:
What pissed me off was that most all of the things I decided to give to the Salvation Army, I packed carefully into boxes to protect it. I tried stacking up the boxes by the door, but they came outside and put everything immediately into two big gray loading bins, throwing them in like garbage, disturbing my careful arrangement.
A good bit of the clutter was just piles and piles of books that we're not interested in reading anymore. I spent one of the days just going through the books, sorting them for donation to either the city library (which operates a used book store) or the Salvation Army. I found some old duffel bags that we'd never have used either, so I put some of the books I thought would be less of interest to the library's clientele into those and just dropped them off at the thrift store. The rest of the books and magazines went to the library, where I was surprised by their gratitude for my bringing in so much stuff.
The second day I went through box after box of my own things that had been stashed away in the New Room during past attempts at cleaning up the house. I found many toys that I gave to the thrift store; it was depressing to remember all the fun I had with them, and then have to box them up to be given away to kids who won't understand how special they once were. I took better care of my toys than most kids do; I managed to keep parts of play sets together all these years, for example. I put some stuff in the thrift store box that I know will immediately be rummaged through and dispersed by kids at the store. But I guess it's for the best. What makes me feel even worse, though, is the fact that I know a lot of it will end up in the landfill to be destroyed, either by nature or by bulldozer tracks.
Speaking of destroying things, I found many boxes containing the remains of electronic and mechanical devices I took apart as an aspiring tinkerer. I found unidentifiable circuit boards, some of which are antiques now. What's neat is that there were a few that I couldn't tell the device that they'd come out of, but I could see exactly how the device would have operated. I could find boards from different boxes, long since separated, but tell they came out of the same product, once upon a time. These points aside, I had surprisingly sharp memories of acquiring some of the junked electronics that I took apart, as well as the surgery I had to perform to get some of them apart.
Here's some other items of interest:
- A pile of worksheets and homework from my 8th-grade American History class. I threw these right in the garbage because I didn't want to remember.
- Travel guides and maps from many Western states. I loved maps as a kid, and since we had little money, my mom sent away to state tourism offices from all over the country for free maps, which usually ended up coming with a bunch of travel brochures. I found a big, glossy 1989 Montana travel guide, still sealed in the original plastic wrapping. I saved the maps but threw out the travel guides.
- An 800 number directory that I got at a yard sale circa 1994. What the hell was I thinking? The library has it now.
- Again from the "What the hell was I thinking?" category: Prentice-Hall Tax Courses from 1981 through 1985. I remember getting these at a yard sale as a kid. I don't know, man. All I know is that I'm glad they didn't turn me into an accountant.
- A little science kit I got at age 9 because the box pictured a train of gears. I thought it would be cool to have a set of gears, so I bought the kit. It contained no gears. The kit was shelved and sat there until last week.
- A small stack of invoice forms my dad had printed up when he worked as an independent contractor before I was born. My parents changed their address just before I came along, and he went into partnership and incorporated the business when I was about a year old. Therefore, the invoices were junk. I used them as doodling paper when I was little.
- A series of children's books featuring Frances the badger (by Russell Hoban). These never were my favorites, but I read them a lot.
- The November 1991 Reader's Digest, containing a real-life story in which a young girl locks herself in a safe and must be rescued while the only person who knows the combination lies anesthetized recovering from surgery. I read it a million times.
- The General Electric 4885 fully digital clock radio that I described here back in June. I didn't try it to see if it still worked. I started to put it in the Salvation Army box, but I decided to make permanent room for it on a shelf. It was just too awesome.
- The National Geographic collection that my grandmother acquired and gave to me for my 12th birthday. I never read more than a few of them. I donated most of them to the library, but kept a few that had articles on places near where I grew up.
- Finally: a mechanical pachinko-like game from the early 70s called "Big Bat Baseball." I got this at a yard sale when I was in maybe fifth grade. It's a mechanical marvel; you depress a spring-loaded bat to fire a marble, and depending on how far it goes at the top of the thing, it either registers a ball, strike, out, single, double, triple, or run. And if you get a triple, say, and the next marble gets a home run, you score two runs because the home run knocks the previous marbles to home plate. It, again, was too awesome to give up.
What pissed me off was that most all of the things I decided to give to the Salvation Army, I packed carefully into boxes to protect it. I tried stacking up the boxes by the door, but they came outside and put everything immediately into two big gray loading bins, throwing them in like garbage, disturbing my careful arrangement.
Friday, October 12, 2007
I'm not really a "morning person," but I'm not really a "night owl" either. Sometimes it's nice to get up earlier than my usual 7:00 to 8:00, but sometimes it's nice to stay up into the wee hours. As a kid, though, I definitely preferred to stay up late. It seemed exotic, perhaps rebellious, to keep going until after everyone else had turned in. I became acquainted with the many offerings of late-night television. I was fascinated by these programs, and even today, I still enjoy them a little too much. I think the fascination is with the idea that I'm not the only person up and around at these unusual hours--somebody must be there to put the tapes in and run the transmission equipment, and there must be enough people watching that the stations can afford not to just go off the air.
When I was four or five, I remember a few times staying up late with my mom while she canned peaches, of all things. I got my first taste of Late Night with David Letterman then. This was back when the show was still edgy and off-beat. He did this bit called simply Crushing Things With An 80-Ton Hydraulic Press. (See YouTube for videos.) I thought it was the greatest thing since sliced bread. My mom was not pleased with my reaction, for some reason. I didn't become a die-hard Letterman fan, although I do enjoy the quirky nature of his older shows.
As I got a little older, going on a school schedule, my late-night viewing was confined to Friday and Saturday nights and summers. Saturday Night Live was a favorite, even if I didn't get all the jokes. In the summers I don't think I watched anything regularly, but Nick at Nite usually was good company when I stayed up all night as I sometimes did. Speaking of staying up all night, during the Olympics, all the unpopular sports get their coverage shown via tape-delay in the middle of the night, which was great for me. I was actually watching as the bomb went off in Atlanta in 1996, about 1:30 am our time. There was live coverage of a party for the athletes, and it happened just outside. So even in the middle of the night, you can watch history made.
When I didn't have to go to school Mondays, Sunday night TV was great. The fascination I had with being up and around when nobody else was seemed to be accentuated on Sunday nights, since they are traditionally very quiet times of the week. Reruns of other shows dominated Sunday night viewing. I suppose reruns are my favorite late-night "genre," but I'm not sure why.
Looking back, the late shows I enjoyed the most I watched in high school. My parents didn't care so much anymore about how late I actually stayed up as long as I got in bed. I'd gotten into hockey by then and some nights, games from the West Coast wouldn't start until 9:30 or 10:00 our time, and I would get in bed and watch some of the games before I went to sleep. It was wonderful because I had done all I had to do for the day--school, work, shower, teeth-brushing--all there was to do was watch the game.
When I was four or five, I remember a few times staying up late with my mom while she canned peaches, of all things. I got my first taste of Late Night with David Letterman then. This was back when the show was still edgy and off-beat. He did this bit called simply Crushing Things With An 80-Ton Hydraulic Press. (See YouTube for videos.) I thought it was the greatest thing since sliced bread. My mom was not pleased with my reaction, for some reason. I didn't become a die-hard Letterman fan, although I do enjoy the quirky nature of his older shows.
As I got a little older, going on a school schedule, my late-night viewing was confined to Friday and Saturday nights and summers. Saturday Night Live was a favorite, even if I didn't get all the jokes. In the summers I don't think I watched anything regularly, but Nick at Nite usually was good company when I stayed up all night as I sometimes did. Speaking of staying up all night, during the Olympics, all the unpopular sports get their coverage shown via tape-delay in the middle of the night, which was great for me. I was actually watching as the bomb went off in Atlanta in 1996, about 1:30 am our time. There was live coverage of a party for the athletes, and it happened just outside. So even in the middle of the night, you can watch history made.
When I didn't have to go to school Mondays, Sunday night TV was great. The fascination I had with being up and around when nobody else was seemed to be accentuated on Sunday nights, since they are traditionally very quiet times of the week. Reruns of other shows dominated Sunday night viewing. I suppose reruns are my favorite late-night "genre," but I'm not sure why.
Looking back, the late shows I enjoyed the most I watched in high school. My parents didn't care so much anymore about how late I actually stayed up as long as I got in bed. I'd gotten into hockey by then and some nights, games from the West Coast wouldn't start until 9:30 or 10:00 our time, and I would get in bed and watch some of the games before I went to sleep. It was wonderful because I had done all I had to do for the day--school, work, shower, teeth-brushing--all there was to do was watch the game.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Here we are at the end of the month. Anyone who has been checking in on this blog in the past few months has probably noticed that my posting frequency has dwindled such that writing up an entry has become a once-monthly chore for me. Looking closely at the actual day within each month, I've tended to put it off for slightly more than a month each time, pushing the date farther and farther into the month, until the breaking point, today, when I am posting on the last day possible. I suppose nobody will care if I don't make a post in each calendar month, but it seems important to me to be able to say I post "every month."
Semantics aside, the reason I've been posting so rarely is because I just don't get the inspiration I used to get that led me to write on and on about the past on a weekly basis. Once, coming out of an earlier lull in activity here, I remarked that due to the events affecting me at that moment, I was looking much more into the future than into the past. I tend to get sentimental when my life is unsatisfying and I either wish things were the way they once were, or I simply try to find fulfillment in comparing current events to past experiences. You'd think now that I've graduated and have yet to land a job--any job!--that I'd have plenty of time to daydream and come up with a load of good stories to recount here. But you'd be wrong. I've actually been more busy in the past month than I have in a long time, because I'm taking advantage of not being employed to accomplish a lot of projects I've wanted to complete for many, many months.
I don't have any specific events to discuss today, but I will speak of a recurring thought I've had recently. As with so many fresh graduates, I am trying to find where I fit best into society. Where I can do the greatest good. Part of that is a spiritual process, or perhaps a philosophical process. What I want to do is not the same as what I feel I should do. I look to the people I have known as role models and try to determine if it's in my best interest to emulate them, or at least to be inspired by their good deeds. In doing this, I'm realizing a lot of the people that I used to highly regard are not as wise as they once seemed. I don't want to name names, but I will say that two (or more) of them are teachers that I had at some point before I went to college.
The people of which I'm thinking are of respectable character and certainly are doing good for their students and protégés. They are the types of teachers their students regarded very highly, almost infallible. But looking back at the particular parts of their personalities that made them who they were, I realize that they are indeed human, with weaknesses and flaws, and it is sort of comforting. Recalling events in which they said or did something extraordinary, and looking at them not as a child but as an adult, I can tell it wasn't really extraordinary. In one case it was a teacher I had that everybody really liked, and that had a reputation for being brilliant. I look back at that person and now interpret more than a bit of arrogance from their attitude. That's my own interpretation, of course, and I still have a lot of respect for that teacher. The difference is that now I would take their teachings with a grain of salt instead of taking them for the truth.
I'm going to try to get back in the habit of posting here, at least twice a month, but I think I'm through with the epic stories. See you soon.
Semantics aside, the reason I've been posting so rarely is because I just don't get the inspiration I used to get that led me to write on and on about the past on a weekly basis. Once, coming out of an earlier lull in activity here, I remarked that due to the events affecting me at that moment, I was looking much more into the future than into the past. I tend to get sentimental when my life is unsatisfying and I either wish things were the way they once were, or I simply try to find fulfillment in comparing current events to past experiences. You'd think now that I've graduated and have yet to land a job--any job!--that I'd have plenty of time to daydream and come up with a load of good stories to recount here. But you'd be wrong. I've actually been more busy in the past month than I have in a long time, because I'm taking advantage of not being employed to accomplish a lot of projects I've wanted to complete for many, many months.
I don't have any specific events to discuss today, but I will speak of a recurring thought I've had recently. As with so many fresh graduates, I am trying to find where I fit best into society. Where I can do the greatest good. Part of that is a spiritual process, or perhaps a philosophical process. What I want to do is not the same as what I feel I should do. I look to the people I have known as role models and try to determine if it's in my best interest to emulate them, or at least to be inspired by their good deeds. In doing this, I'm realizing a lot of the people that I used to highly regard are not as wise as they once seemed. I don't want to name names, but I will say that two (or more) of them are teachers that I had at some point before I went to college.
The people of which I'm thinking are of respectable character and certainly are doing good for their students and protégés. They are the types of teachers their students regarded very highly, almost infallible. But looking back at the particular parts of their personalities that made them who they were, I realize that they are indeed human, with weaknesses and flaws, and it is sort of comforting. Recalling events in which they said or did something extraordinary, and looking at them not as a child but as an adult, I can tell it wasn't really extraordinary. In one case it was a teacher I had that everybody really liked, and that had a reputation for being brilliant. I look back at that person and now interpret more than a bit of arrogance from their attitude. That's my own interpretation, of course, and I still have a lot of respect for that teacher. The difference is that now I would take their teachings with a grain of salt instead of taking them for the truth.
I'm going to try to get back in the habit of posting here, at least twice a month, but I think I'm through with the epic stories. See you soon.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
We're coming up on the sixth anniversary of the September 11 attacks. Hard to believe it's been that long. But that's not really what I mean to talk about in today's (actually, this month's) post. Remember how nervous we were, collectively, in the immediate aftermath? How every little thing seemed like it was a security threat, how overwhelmed we were with the grief and fear? For me, it's difficult to recall these feelings, particularly where I am in my life right now, safe at home, complacently distanced from the hatred and threats of terrorists. It's also hard for me because at the time of the attacks, I had just begun college and a new job, and I found no time to stop and worry. What free time I did have I spent relaxing and enjoying the freedom I did have, as ironic as that may be in light of the popular sentiments that fall.
I remembered something recently, though, that when it happened, did briefly shake me up. It was something that should not have made me nervous, but it did, and that's why I now look back on it realizing that I wasn't as calm as I had thought in those tense days.
A few weeks after the events--probably during October or November--I was alone in my dorm room at Mississippi State on a Sunday night. My roommate was rushing that semester, and he was at some fraternity function. It was really late; I don't remember exactly, but it was late enough that I certainly did not expect to receive a phone call. I was minding my own business, studying, when the phone rang. Caller ID showed a 325 number, indicating that the call was originating on campus. I picked it up and a person with a strange accent asked for "Jacob." I acknowledged that it was he who was speaking. The guy identified himself with a Middle Eastern name that I cannot remember. He said he was a representative of a local group of Muslims who were reaching out to members of the community in an attempt to prevent Islam from attaining a bad reputation with the populace. (This actually was a serious issue at the time; the university had enough of a Muslim community that Starkville had a small mosque near the campus, which drew a lot of attention from locals. Many attempts were made by the members of the mosque to dispel rumors of ties to al-Qaeda and the like.) Of course, he asked me if I'd seen the coverage of the attacks and the then-beginning war in Afghanistan. He quizzed me on my knowledge of Islam, which I admit, isn't thorough. These questions continued for several minutes. I was confused, but nothing had really seemed out of the ordinary, so I wasn't particularly bothered by any of this.
Eventually the guy asked me if I would be interested in meeting with a representative of his group to discuss the situation further and see if I would be interested in playing a role as, I suppose, a delegate from the community, to try and bridge the gap between cultures. Mind you, I wouldn't normally want to meet with anybody about anything about which I had been solicited on the phone. The call itself was particularly suspicious, coming late, late on a Sunday night. The person's tone was also suspicious: he was being passively coercive. His tone was friendly, but it also sounded sneaky; it suggested I should comply with his requests. It was silly, but I got really nervous at this point. I felt like I had to indicate that I didn't want to actually meet, while also indicating that I didn't harbor any anti-Muslim feelings (which I don't, and didn't then either). He kept telling me there would be no obligation, no commitment, and asked why I wasn't interested. My nervousness was probably becoming apparent. I fidgeted and fumbled my way through some kind of excuse, still trying to be positive about declining. He remained friendly through the whole ordeal, but it took a long time to get him off the phone. Needless to say, I was a bit freaked out. Seems silly, yes.
After a few minutes of contemplation I decided I should see if I could find where the number was coming from. I got online and looked at the campus phone directory and discovered that the number was wired to a phone in my own dorm, in fact, on my own floor. I didn't know the guys listed as having the number, but I knew they didn't normally have an accent. I had been had. I think the reason that I was called was probably somehow related to the nametags that the RA had stuck on each door to guide everyone to their room upon move-in (hence the formality of "Jacob"). Most people had taken them down after school started, but for some reason, my roommate and I had never bothered to do so. What was strange about all of it was how realistic they'd tried to make the call. It wasn't as if they were out to directly make me look foolish by leading me into a corner, nor were they trying to actually make me think I was in imminent danger. They just wanted to see what my reaction was, I guess, and that's why they planned it so that I would have to talk my way out of the proposition. I don't really know. I do wonder, though, if there actually was some kind of meeting like the one they tried to get me to go to, and they just thought it would be funny for me to show up at a meeting where I wouldn't be expected. Any which way you look at it, there is definitely potential for retaliation. I considered concocting a plan to fool them, but I couldn't think of anything as good as what they'd done.
I remembered something recently, though, that when it happened, did briefly shake me up. It was something that should not have made me nervous, but it did, and that's why I now look back on it realizing that I wasn't as calm as I had thought in those tense days.
A few weeks after the events--probably during October or November--I was alone in my dorm room at Mississippi State on a Sunday night. My roommate was rushing that semester, and he was at some fraternity function. It was really late; I don't remember exactly, but it was late enough that I certainly did not expect to receive a phone call. I was minding my own business, studying, when the phone rang. Caller ID showed a 325 number, indicating that the call was originating on campus. I picked it up and a person with a strange accent asked for "Jacob." I acknowledged that it was he who was speaking. The guy identified himself with a Middle Eastern name that I cannot remember. He said he was a representative of a local group of Muslims who were reaching out to members of the community in an attempt to prevent Islam from attaining a bad reputation with the populace. (This actually was a serious issue at the time; the university had enough of a Muslim community that Starkville had a small mosque near the campus, which drew a lot of attention from locals. Many attempts were made by the members of the mosque to dispel rumors of ties to al-Qaeda and the like.) Of course, he asked me if I'd seen the coverage of the attacks and the then-beginning war in Afghanistan. He quizzed me on my knowledge of Islam, which I admit, isn't thorough. These questions continued for several minutes. I was confused, but nothing had really seemed out of the ordinary, so I wasn't particularly bothered by any of this.
Eventually the guy asked me if I would be interested in meeting with a representative of his group to discuss the situation further and see if I would be interested in playing a role as, I suppose, a delegate from the community, to try and bridge the gap between cultures. Mind you, I wouldn't normally want to meet with anybody about anything about which I had been solicited on the phone. The call itself was particularly suspicious, coming late, late on a Sunday night. The person's tone was also suspicious: he was being passively coercive. His tone was friendly, but it also sounded sneaky; it suggested I should comply with his requests. It was silly, but I got really nervous at this point. I felt like I had to indicate that I didn't want to actually meet, while also indicating that I didn't harbor any anti-Muslim feelings (which I don't, and didn't then either). He kept telling me there would be no obligation, no commitment, and asked why I wasn't interested. My nervousness was probably becoming apparent. I fidgeted and fumbled my way through some kind of excuse, still trying to be positive about declining. He remained friendly through the whole ordeal, but it took a long time to get him off the phone. Needless to say, I was a bit freaked out. Seems silly, yes.
After a few minutes of contemplation I decided I should see if I could find where the number was coming from. I got online and looked at the campus phone directory and discovered that the number was wired to a phone in my own dorm, in fact, on my own floor. I didn't know the guys listed as having the number, but I knew they didn't normally have an accent. I had been had. I think the reason that I was called was probably somehow related to the nametags that the RA had stuck on each door to guide everyone to their room upon move-in (hence the formality of "Jacob"). Most people had taken them down after school started, but for some reason, my roommate and I had never bothered to do so. What was strange about all of it was how realistic they'd tried to make the call. It wasn't as if they were out to directly make me look foolish by leading me into a corner, nor were they trying to actually make me think I was in imminent danger. They just wanted to see what my reaction was, I guess, and that's why they planned it so that I would have to talk my way out of the proposition. I don't really know. I do wonder, though, if there actually was some kind of meeting like the one they tried to get me to go to, and they just thought it would be funny for me to show up at a meeting where I wouldn't be expected. Any which way you look at it, there is definitely potential for retaliation. I considered concocting a plan to fool them, but I couldn't think of anything as good as what they'd done.
Friday, July 27, 2007
I am, and have always been, hopelessly clumsy. I'm thankful that we humans were only given two arms and legs, because I have enough trouble managing that many. Any more would just add to the problem. Partly for this reason, partly because I spent most of my childhood playing by myself indoors, and partly because I seem to lack muscle-building genes, physical education was my weakest subject. I remember writing once before that I was that poor soul who was picked last, save the years in which there was a disabled kid in the class. I know that's not P.C., but it's the truth. Don't get mad at me--I wasn't the one doing the picking.
My earliest memories of P.E. are from kindergarten, when we spent most of our time practicing motor skills, making laps around the gym, progressing through a series of increasingly difficult methods of pedestrian travel: walking, jogging, skipping, jumping, etc. There was something they called sliding, which was essentially running sidestep, that I am surprised I was able to do. It just seems like it would be difficult to do now. I think it was the following year when we began to play games in P.E. This is when my true athletic lameness became widely known.
Throughout grade school, kickball was something we only got to play if the weather was decent and if we were "good." I hated kickball with a passion, because I was awful at both kicking and catching, and I almost always got tagged out no later than second base, and since I was a weak kid, some bully would usually throw the ball at me as hard as he could, leaving impressions of the hatched pattern of the ball's surface on my skin. Our games were very competitive, or at least there were competitive kids on both teams that would make the environment unpleasant for the third-stringers like myself. It became standard practice for the members of the fielding team to move forward, beyond the infield and into the diamond itself, whenever a crappy player would come up to kick, because we would always bunt. There was no risk on the part of the outfielders because if we were to kick the ball as best as we possibly could, it would bounce before passing second base. We didn't particularly care because we, the crappy, didn't have any fun with the game anyway and if we went out it was nothing to cry about.
Basketball was something the teacher always made a "unit" out of. For a month or so, we focused on basketball. Either we were doing drills, having endurance-dribbling contests, or, worst, playing actual games. Despite having a physique that made people think I would be good at basketball, I sucked eggs. I especially hated basketball because it put other people in a position to rely on me to be open to take a pass or to shoot. I was no good at these things, which usually resulted in the entire team getting mad at me for making us lose.
Then, the worst embarrassment of all, the annual Presidential Physical Fitness Tests. Wait, what am I saying? These weren't any more embarrassing than the other things we did. It was just that after the tests, they always posted our performance rankings on the gym wall for all to see. As if we weren't traumatized enough by not being able to do a single push-up or pull-up, they had to numerically define just how lame we really were. I don't have to say I always rounded out the bottom rung in elementary school, usually coming in at the 10th to 20th percentile.
Finally, by ninth grade, the last year I had P.E., I apparently caught up with everyone else and I actually did okay. It was the first year I actually did a pull-up. I came up in the 70th to 80th percentile of most of the tests. I was actually physically stronger than people in my class and it made me very proud of myself. Ninth grade P.E. was actually fun. We played games that were actually enjoyable and the competition was more reasonable. The teachers acquired some little plastic hockey sticks and we played floor hockey for a while. Just running around hitting a rubber ball. This was awesome. For the first time ever, I was actually, genuinely good at an athletic endeavor. I scored goals, I poke checked, I blocked shots. I was a real two-way player. I guess the fact that I was the only kid in school who watched hockey gave me a bit of an edge because I knew some strategy that others didn't. We played hockey twice weekly for about three weeks. In a typical twist of fate, though, one day that I was out sick, this tiny girl named Natalie high-sticked a 250-pound farm boy named Scottie, striking him in the head and giving him a concussion. Thus ended our hockey games. At least I went out on top.
Even after I gained some athletic ability in my teens, I still suffered from the stigma of having been a really wimpy kid. A lot of the people that picked on me for being weak when I was a kid continued to ridicule me in later years, or at least still talk to me condescendingly, as if I didn't know how to play correctly. Something that still follows me to this day is the group of strange looks I get when I play baseball and bat left-handed. I just happen to be left-handed with a ball bat and I usually have to explain to people that yes, I do know how to hold a bat and yes I do bat left-handed. Jeez, they should see me swing a golf club.
My earliest memories of P.E. are from kindergarten, when we spent most of our time practicing motor skills, making laps around the gym, progressing through a series of increasingly difficult methods of pedestrian travel: walking, jogging, skipping, jumping, etc. There was something they called sliding, which was essentially running sidestep, that I am surprised I was able to do. It just seems like it would be difficult to do now. I think it was the following year when we began to play games in P.E. This is when my true athletic lameness became widely known.
Throughout grade school, kickball was something we only got to play if the weather was decent and if we were "good." I hated kickball with a passion, because I was awful at both kicking and catching, and I almost always got tagged out no later than second base, and since I was a weak kid, some bully would usually throw the ball at me as hard as he could, leaving impressions of the hatched pattern of the ball's surface on my skin. Our games were very competitive, or at least there were competitive kids on both teams that would make the environment unpleasant for the third-stringers like myself. It became standard practice for the members of the fielding team to move forward, beyond the infield and into the diamond itself, whenever a crappy player would come up to kick, because we would always bunt. There was no risk on the part of the outfielders because if we were to kick the ball as best as we possibly could, it would bounce before passing second base. We didn't particularly care because we, the crappy, didn't have any fun with the game anyway and if we went out it was nothing to cry about.
Basketball was something the teacher always made a "unit" out of. For a month or so, we focused on basketball. Either we were doing drills, having endurance-dribbling contests, or, worst, playing actual games. Despite having a physique that made people think I would be good at basketball, I sucked eggs. I especially hated basketball because it put other people in a position to rely on me to be open to take a pass or to shoot. I was no good at these things, which usually resulted in the entire team getting mad at me for making us lose.
Then, the worst embarrassment of all, the annual Presidential Physical Fitness Tests. Wait, what am I saying? These weren't any more embarrassing than the other things we did. It was just that after the tests, they always posted our performance rankings on the gym wall for all to see. As if we weren't traumatized enough by not being able to do a single push-up or pull-up, they had to numerically define just how lame we really were. I don't have to say I always rounded out the bottom rung in elementary school, usually coming in at the 10th to 20th percentile.
Finally, by ninth grade, the last year I had P.E., I apparently caught up with everyone else and I actually did okay. It was the first year I actually did a pull-up. I came up in the 70th to 80th percentile of most of the tests. I was actually physically stronger than people in my class and it made me very proud of myself. Ninth grade P.E. was actually fun. We played games that were actually enjoyable and the competition was more reasonable. The teachers acquired some little plastic hockey sticks and we played floor hockey for a while. Just running around hitting a rubber ball. This was awesome. For the first time ever, I was actually, genuinely good at an athletic endeavor. I scored goals, I poke checked, I blocked shots. I was a real two-way player. I guess the fact that I was the only kid in school who watched hockey gave me a bit of an edge because I knew some strategy that others didn't. We played hockey twice weekly for about three weeks. In a typical twist of fate, though, one day that I was out sick, this tiny girl named Natalie high-sticked a 250-pound farm boy named Scottie, striking him in the head and giving him a concussion. Thus ended our hockey games. At least I went out on top.
Even after I gained some athletic ability in my teens, I still suffered from the stigma of having been a really wimpy kid. A lot of the people that picked on me for being weak when I was a kid continued to ridicule me in later years, or at least still talk to me condescendingly, as if I didn't know how to play correctly. Something that still follows me to this day is the group of strange looks I get when I play baseball and bat left-handed. I just happen to be left-handed with a ball bat and I usually have to explain to people that yes, I do know how to hold a bat and yes I do bat left-handed. Jeez, they should see me swing a golf club.
