And We Will Call it ... 'This Blog'!

That’s not a REAL Issue!

                           

I introduced myself to the leftist community at the sub-Reddit /r/southpaws with a story from my high school days. It’s short, but I thought I’d share it here as well. (For people who don’t know, Reddit is a site where people can submit things for a blindingly large number of topics, and can create their own “sub-reddits”. /r/southpaws is for the differently-handed community)

Back when I was in high school *cough* *cough* years ago, we had to write something called a Controversial Issue essay. It was the big “term paper” project, and passing it was a prerequisite for passing the class. We were allowed to pick our own topics, but were asked to avoid the wildly controversial topics such as abortion.

After a lifetime of separate-but-equal office supplies, it occurred to me a topic discussing the mistreatment of left-handers through the ages would make for an interesting topic. When I went to my teacher to clear the topic, she scoffed at me!

“That’s not a real issue,” she said. “Pick a topic that actually matters.”

Struck with a sudden rush of righteous indignation, I proudly proclaimed “THAT’S exactly the kind of attitude I would expect! Keeping my people down yet again! We’ll see what the principal has to say about it!”

She laughed at me dismissively, and though I felt a tad silly, the die was cast. So after class I went to see the principal, true to my word. And though he himself was not a southpaw, he empathized with my plight, and told me he would ask the teacher to allow me to use the topic.

I wrote the paper, but the teacher refused to grade it, flabbergasted at my defiance. The principal stepped in again, reading it and ultimately giving me an A.

I can’t be sure, but I believe for the rest of the year, that she instinctively twitched every time I raised my left hand to answer a question in class.

Funerals Suck.

                         

I went to my ex’s father’s funeral today. It was way less awkward than it sounds. We’ve been close friends in the years since, and the period of our lives where we were an item has become more like “that one time, when we dated”.

But it feels more accurate to refer to her as my ex in this situation, since “my friend’s dad’s funeral” doesn’t truly reflect how much I admired the man, and how grateful I was to him for allowing me to be - just for a while - a part of his family.

The service was very nice. The pastor gave a kind, thoughtful, and occasionally funny speech. It was religious without being preachy, which I always appreciate. The room was filled to the brim with friends and family, a testament to the positive impact he made on so many during his time. Several people told stories; some were happy, some sad, a few that were funny, and all were touching and heartfelt. He had served in the military, so there were Airmen on hand to do the flag folding/presentation ceremony. As they moved with precision and practiced grace, taking great care to handle our nation’s symbol with respect and deference, a trumpeter in the back of the hall rang out a piercing rendition of ‘Taps’.

That’s when it got to me.

Up until then I’d held together rather well in my opinion. While I didn’t know him as well as the majority of the people there, I had seen the love and admiration he evoked in his children, especially my ex. I saw what wonderful people they were, and knew his guiding hand helped them become who they were today. Though I can rationalize and intellectually understand him being gone, hearing ‘Taps’ play brought it home in such an emotional, almost primal way. It was very hard to hold it together after that.

I’ve been very lucky to not have to deal with death much in my life. I have a very small immediate family (just my parents, essentially). My grandparents were distant, these people I talked to twice a year on the phone, and sent me $5 for my birthday. Neither of my parents were particularly close to their siblings, so the ones who passed had only an incidental impact, and the living ones I’ve not spoken to in decades.

Unfortunately this has left me completely useless when it comes to giving sagely advice to friends who’ve lost someone. I pride myself on being there for my friends when they need me, and I’ve lived a pretty eventful life thusfar, so I’m used to at least being able to provide some insight. But this …. there’s really nothing I can say that would have any meaning. So I sat there, listening to the trumpet fill the room along with a chorus of sniffles and sobs, hoping my presence had meaning.

And then it was over. We stood, and people began to file out, stopping to chat, and hug and comfort one another. I paid my respects to my ex and her family, and stepped outside. Blinking away the tears that had been welling up, I pulled out my phone, turned it on, and immediately called my father.

“Hey there, what’s up?” My dad’s soft but cheery voice warmed me.
“Hi dad. I just called to say that you’re not allowed to die.Ever.”

On Ice

                            

I’ve been reluctant to discuss the more difficult events that have recently cropped up in my life. In part because I don’t want to worry friends unnecessarily, and because I am, in a word, embarrassed.  For although we are as logical and understanding people who care and are compassionate when friends are experiencing less-than-ideal situations, there is an unavoidable stigma attached to the lack of material success (read: poor) that permeates our sub-conscious. Recently, I’d started to wallow in a shallow pond of self-pity when I was reminded of an incident from my youth.

The fall of 1996. Bill Clinton had just had an easy slide to re-election (an event he might later regret, given what was to come); MSNBC had just launched, promising to be a 21st Century network, with a young omni-ethnic Soledad O’Brien and a computer generated co-anchor as two of their biggest stars. Oh, and my parents had just gotten a divorce.

I took it about as well as most early teens do. A little bit of shock, a little bit of anger, and a whole lot of confusion about what happens next. I found myself suddenly having to make a lot of decisions that had never been mine to make before: Where I wanted to live, where I wanted to go to school, and who I was going to spend the rest of my teen years being raised by.  For a number of reasons that I will not go into right now, I chose to live with my father. He and I made the decision to leave the area where we lived in Ventura County to get a fresh start in the snow-capped San Bernadino mountains, specifically a small town called Crestline, on the outskirts of Lake Arrowhead.  We had spent some time there a while back when he was on a job, and he and I had enjoyed it. My mother less so.  With nothing holding us down at home we packed up and headed, full of hope, up the mountain.

It was a bitterly cold winter that year. The roads were frequently closed, and the only grocery store in our little town was often understocked due to delivery trucks not being able to make it up to us. I remember having almost a month’s worth of Snow Days, which while sounding great, mostly meant I spent all day and night on the computer since I didn’t really have many friends, or anywhere to go. So I became quite accustomed to the arcane squeaks of a dial-up modem connecting to the Internet, and the distant-but-cheerful voice saying “Welcome!” as I logged on to AOL. When he wasn’t working, my dad and I ended up spending a lot of time watching Back to the Future together. It became something of a tradition for us to watch BttF when we moved to a new place (Another reason the series is one of my all-time favorites).  Eventually we got a break from the snow, so my dad decided to take us on an evening out. We hopped into his dented cream-colored F-150, and drove to the nearby “suburb” called Blue Jay, which has a rather large ice skating rink.

Now mind you, I was 14 at this point and probably even more awkward than you remember yourself being at that age. I was never the most physically active of kids, and had certainly never thought it was a sensible idea to strap razor-sharp steel to your feet and go flying around on ice with a dozen or more strangers. But somehow, my dad talked me into it, and before I knew it I was gliding, albeit wobbly, around the rink. Eventually I  began to gain a little more confidence as my legs adjusted to their new method of transportation, and started to pick up some speed. I skated ahead of my dad, reminiscent of an earlier moment in life when my father let go of the bicycle seat, and finally let me ride down the road alone.  Only this time instead of crashing into a bush and starting to cry, I took a funky turn and my legs came out from under me.

To the outside observer it must have looked like something out of a cartoon, or a madcap comedy. I felt my torso stay absolutely upright as my legs swung forward, suddenly parallel with the ice. Gravity, the cruel jester that it is, did the rest, slamming my backside onto the ice with the full weight of my not-slight teenage frame. A grenade of pain exploded through my body, and next thing I knew my father was picking me up and taking me to a bench off the ice.

When he started to unlace my skates I abruptly stopped him.

“What are you doing?” I asked, still smarting, wondering how taking off my skates was supposed to make my butt feel any better.

“I figured you were done with skating.”

“Dad, I’ll be fine, I just need a minute.”  He stopped and looked at me for a while. It was a look I’d never seen him give me before. It was this strange mix of confusion, surprise, and just a hint of … pride? A few moments later I got back up and was out on the ice. We skated uneventfully for another hour or so until I decided what would really make me feel better was pizza.

It wasn’t until years later, when I brought up the story to my dad on one of those random occasions where you discuss odd events of your past, when he told me what that look meant. With the slightest hint of trepidation in his voice he said, “It meant I had just seen you grow up.”

It’s easy for us, in times of difficulty, to let the circumstances of our situation overwhelm us. But the truth is most of the time all you’ve done is fall on your butt. You just need to get up, and get back on the ice.

Header image from Shorpy Historic Photo Archive.