Sunday, December 10, 2017

In Art Class

Art was messy. As a kid, I enjoyed drawing—in pencil, in markers, in crayon. But watercolors tended to end up dripping over my hands, over the table, and I was rarely happy with what I painted. Papier mache and pottery and any projects that involved lots of cutting and gluing were little better, and thus Art class remained an uneven proposition for me. Better than Gym class where I was bad at most sports, a welcome reprieve sometimes from the regular elementary school classroom where I struggled to pay attention after long periods of sitting, and on more or less equal footing to Music class which tended to strike the middle ground of not objectionable nor fun. Art could be great. Art could be awful.

I remember my first art teacher, a thin, very tan, very Italian woman with a fiery temper who scolded the kids who talked while she was giving instructions and who tsk tsk tsked when we failed to follow the instructions of a project correctly. I recall one such tsk when I heard the rattle of her metallic bracelets over her wrists and thought for sure she would slap me on the back of the head (she didn’t--I already knew, but hadn’t yet internalized that teachers couldn’t do that).

I remember my second art teacher. I remember thinking, even in the moment, that her projects were too ambitious for her student base. Regardless of how interesting its composition was, no one wanted to sit still to draw a still-life of an empty violin case and plant with long vines and an open book. I remember upon volunteering to hand out something or other one day, that she said, “thank you,” that I said, “sure thing,” and that it gave way to a lengthy monologue on why you’re welcome was the appropriate response, and how children didn’t learn to speak properly these days.

I encountered her again in high school--perhaps she had moved up the ranks, or the school system had simply recognized older students as a better fit for her. She gave us sketchbook assignments, one asking us to capture something from a dream. I drew my crush de jour (with an elongated nose, lest anyone recognize her), drew a dragon. The art teacher held it up as an exemplar of what we might accomplish in our exercises if we applied ourselves.

And another art teacher—the better art teacher who worked with juniors and seniors, and who had worked closely with my sister, peeked at my progress now and again. Lauded the texture of my shading, and chastised me when I rubbed it into even tones. I suspect he may have been waiting to work with me, and so it was with some regret that that I stopped taking art classes after sophomore year, in favor of focusing on AP coursework and editing the school newspaper; relishing in a daily study hall instead of the extra elective.

I figured drawing would always be a part of my life, anyway. It had been throughout childhood. Surely I wouldn’t let it go. As I started to identify more concretely as a writer, though, I made less use of the still half-empty sketchpad from my last art class.

At my liberal arts college, I fulfilled my art requirement first with an art history course freshman year, and then, in my senior year, a studio class focused on pencil sketching, where I found myself entirely average in skill and not all that inspired.

Now and again, I still think of drawing. I can still remember some of the fundamentals—that capturing what I saw rather than what I assumed or imagined tended to be truest route to an accurate sketch, and that the human head is shaped more like an egg than a sphere. And I think one day, work will slow down, and I’ll carve time from writing and reading and family life to make a go at visual art again.

But I don’t.

And so I look back to art class not as something that I objectively miss, but as a conduit to a way of being in the world that I rarely think of, much less pine for in my day-to-day as a thirty-something. The way my hand used to cramp after drawing for too long and the way the side of my hand turned gray from absentmindedly pressing against the page while I worked.

These are the pains, the messes, the side effects that I miss as much as the art itself I used to make.

These are the pieces that make me think one day I really might try again.

Sunday, November 26, 2017

On Everyday Conversation

I remember my final day of work in Baltimore. That I’d already experienced a really generous series of farewell lunches, happy hours, and farewell notes from my friends and colleagues. And that three o’clock on that final day, a dear friend from the preceding six and half years came to my office.

It was his last day, too. He suggested we grab a beer to celebrate.

I still had work to do. A lot of it, for 3 p.m. on a Friday, with very little to hold me accountable. Still, I recognized this as a final opportunity to have final drink with someone I’d talked to on a daily basis for a period of years, and thought I would be foolish and hard-hearted to decline.

So, we walked down the hill to the tavern some of us had frequented in years past, that I’d only made it to a half dozen or so times in the past year. We grabbed a table near the bar and sipped our pints. Talked about the adventures we were both moving on to, and his son, and TV. We finished our first drinks and, in good spirits, I said I could go for just one more if he liked.

My friend had a family to get home to, and politely passed.

On my way back to the office, I walked my friend to the car. I said to keep in touch. He said that our friendship had always been an easy one, and he was sure we would remain in contact.

And I remember talking with another, older friend about this exchange. “You really think you’ll keep in touch?” he asked.

I wasn’t certain, but in the direct aftermath of such good conversation, riding high on all of these fond farewells and the nostalgia they had conjured, I said, “I think so.”

We texted a handful times along my drive across the country and that fall. The following summer, when I returned to our old mutual employer for seasonal work, we caught up on the phone and ended up meeting for drinks at the same bar.

“Keeping in touch” is a relative and arbitrary term. I still have a small handful of friends my teenage sleep-away camp experience with whom I’m Facebook friends. We’ll “like” one another’s posts here and there, sometimes offer a comment. I expect if we ever found ourselves in the same city again, we’d say hello, maybe grab lunch, but it’s hard to earnestly say that we’re really in each other’s lives now.

That friend from work--I like him a lot and I wish him nothing but the best. Just the same, it’s hard to say that we’re really still in touch in any meaningful way.

I got to thinking about all of this upon listening to the “What’s Going On In There?” episode of This American Life. One of the segments profiles a young man who grew up in the States with his Chinese immigrant father who never learned English. The son reports that the family made a conscious decision to focus on the English language opportunities that would afford their son opportunities in the US, assuming he would pick up Chinese more casually at home.

Only, he didn’t.

So the boy grew into a man without ever having a conversation that extended past pleasantries with his father.

This relationship depicted on this show conjured thoughts of my own relationship with my Chinese grandparents--strikingly similar, if even more distant for only having seen them for three weekends a year growing up, plus strained weekend and Christmas morning phone calls in which we fumbled through polite how-are-yous before giving up on account of the language barrier.

All the more so, this episode got me thinking about my relationship with my own parents.

Growing up, I tended to see my father as a monster--a man with a temper who was quick yell at and demean me, my sister, and even my mother for any transgression. I remember him saying that all I did was make more work for other people when I spilled gravy at one family dinner, and years later asking how I’d ended up so stupid when I dropped a gallon of milk as I fetched it from the fridge.

My childhood memories of my mother tend to be faded, like out-of-focus photographs, in the shadow of my father. I remember hugs good night and singing along to Beatles songs, but these memories are fewer and factor less prominently in my childhood psyche.

As an adult, I don’t harbor ill will told either of my parents. I believe that they were each mostly doing the best they knew how in the mind-bogglingly complicated domain of trying to raise other human beings. And I like seeing them now, though it typically doesn’t happen more than two or three times a year, and typically not for visits that last more than two or three nights.

I’ve thought from time to time that one of those visits might be the one in which we break new ground. When I tell them something profound about my life and uncover pieces of their past that I’ve never heard--origin stories or secrets or even forgotten memories from times I would have been too young to fully recall.

But we rarely move much past basics. My mother and I share a limited capacity for small talk and once we’re through with the essentials some chatter on the TV shows we watch, our conversation tends to run dry. Conversations with my father usually gravitate around his obsessions—ballroom dancing, Texas Hold ‘Em, the stock market. We get stuck when we talk about my life--when he doesn’t know what to ask about my writing or teaching, and when my childhood instincts for assuming that what I have to say isn’t important resurface.

Still, when I listened to “What’s Going On In There?” I sensed a common drive to know more, to have a connection.

I listened on. And it became clear that a meaningful connection there, too—even with the help of translators and the written word--didn’t come to fruition through any grand revelation or moment of truth.

But this segment of the podcast spun off. Away from big changes, into the everyday.

The father and son began emailing. Texting. Nothing profound. Just how-are-you-doing questions, the father’s reminders to make sure his son was eating enough. These exchanges began to happen more regularly. Until the father and son were, for the first time, part of one another’s lives.

And I thought about making more of an effort to do this with my parents. With my sister. With all of the friends I mean to keep in better touch with, but rarely make the time for.

I got overwhelmed, just imagining it. You can’t maintain a consistent connection with everyone.

And then I think that perhaps I don’t have to. That these everyday conversations with people in my everyday life, for as trivial as they may be, are not unimportant. They’re the foundation for shared experience, for a shared life. And when our time together passes, it doesn’t mean that that connection goes away or didn’t matter, but rather that it’s served it’s purpose, and might be there waiting for us down the road or on the other side (however abstractly, profoundly, or literally you want to take that).

I know most of my readers are friends or family--some from today, probably all the more so from some time in our shared past, drawn together now only through Facebook or Twitter. And to you, I say, “Hello,” “how are you,” and “don’t be a stranger.”

Sunday, November 12, 2017

Memories of Thanksgiving

It’s funny—the things we remember and things we don’t. Then there are those memories that get garbled and distorted with time until it’s all but impossible to distinguish a version of a story from what really happened from.

Thanksgiving night, in the sixth grade, I made my first earnest attempt at writing a book.

It was that critical period of my life when I started to transition from child into teenager and started staying up past my nine-thirty bedtime, not to hang out with friends or do anything dangerous, but more often than not to read, write, or draw. So it was, sitting in bed that I began work on The Prince. Riffing off of The Enchanted Forest Chronicles that I had read and reread in the preceding years, and maybe borrowing from The Hobbit which I would have just been starting, I wrote a fantasy story about a prince and a princess—the princess smacked around in public by her domineering father, a king; the prince from a neighboring kingdom who consoled her and fell in love at a feast.

I think this all happened in the sixth grade. The staying up late and the literary influences line up. That, and I remember Steve Cabrinski shaking his head in wonder a couple month’s later in Mrs. Kroll’s Language Arts class when I showed off the typed sixty-ish page manuscript. Chin wrote a book.

But then the memory grows more complicated. Because I recall casting the princess in my mind as a girl we'll call Dana, who I’d had my first crush on in the first grade, but who I hadn’t circled around to thinking about again, much less writing about, until the seventh grade. That means that the Thanksgiving i'm thinking of must have been the Turkey Day of my seventh grade year, but then how to reconcile that with the Steve Cabrinski comment? If anything, it might have taken longer to finish the manuscript than I’m remembering, which would place Steve a year later in life, all the way in the seventh, maybe eighth grade, not the sixth, and that just couldn’t be right.

I have trouble lining up other Thanksgiving memories as well. That I remember eating the turkey liver with my father on Thanksgiving afternoons, hours before dinner was ready. We were the only ones in the house who liked the liver, and one time I was distracted by doing something else while my father called for me to partake, and I told him I didn’t want any, and I recall the terror afterward that he wouldn’t offer me liver again--this once-a-year delicacy, this piece of my childhood that the two of us shared. I remember all of this, but also remember spending Thanksgiving afternoons with my sister at my grandmother’s house--probably equally to stay out of our parents’ way as they cooked and because we were so in love with spending time with her. But how could I have been at my grandmother’s house and in the kitchen at my childhood home?

Speaking of pleasures that my father and I shared, separate from the rest of my family, I remember Survivor Series, the annual WWF wrestling super show in which teams of four or five squared off against one another. We never ordered pay per view, but in those days, the cable company would broadcast a scrambled image while still delivering the sound of the show loud and clear, so I would listen. My parents would drape a blanket over the screen so I didn’t hurt my eyes. I would dutifully write down who won and lost, and sometimes attempt to act out what was happening on TV, based on the play-by-play, with my wrestling action figures. I remember this being annual part of Thanksgiving--after dinner, after my grandmother had gone home. I don’t remember it happening for a first time or last time--just that Survivor Series always happened and I assumed it always would. For this particular memory, there’s more historical record available to support and refute pieces of what I remember--that the Survivor Series show launched in 1987 on Thanksgiving night and stayed there for four years, then moved to Thanksgiving eve, before falling in line with the then-WWF’s more uniform pay per view schedule, occurring on Sunday nights (note: that part continues to this very day).

I remember doubling up on Thanksgiving dinners, eating with my best friend’s family as well as my own, and what seemed like years of tripling up with Thanksgiving at my girlfriend-at-the-time’s house as well, though I think that only happened one year.

All of these memories, and all the more so the discrepancies among them may seem frivolous, and I’ll concede that most of them probably only matter to me, and perhaps my closest family and friends. Still, as another holiday season takes flight, and particularly with Thanksgiving around the corner, I feel inclined to look backward. To remember these days that I alternately looked forward to and treasured as a child, a teenager, an adult.

It can be disconcerting to recognize when the memories are off. To identify paradoxes and pieces that couldn’t possibly be right or when my memories conflict with someone else’s. It can be particularly problematic when those histories aren’t the kind that archived in any meaningful way, and the best route to confirming a story is to ask someone else who was there and trust her or his memory will align with one side or the other and not complicate matters further.

As a writer, and particularly a writer of fiction, I grapple with all of this. The prevailing logic is to focus on scene work--not to be afraid to consolidate characters, and to pick isolated moments that will convince the reader of broader messages. I want to find similar grains to piece together my own life, to feel like, if not a comprehensive, at least a representative whole.

Through that lens, I suppose the factuality of memories is far less essential than what my memories stand for. The feelings they evokes. Whether the stuffing was Stove Top, Bell’s, or homemade that year, and whether I ate dark meat or white, it’s more far important that the food was warm. That I felt hope and that I felt loved.

That I was happy.

That I am thankful.

Sunday, October 29, 2017

Surviving Haunted Houses

There’s a pivotal moment in the lives of horror movie characters. Pivotal because their lives are on the line. Pivotal because, in most instances, that moment represents the last choice the character will ever make. Pivotal because that’s how most of these characters die.

The killer lurches forward--Jason, Freddie, Ghostface, even the little girl, Samara, from The Ring. Killers of this ilk rarely move at rapid speeds, but rather, because of physical limitations, enjoying the victim’s terror, or another tension-building plot device, they prolong their attacks. The victims tend to fall in one of three categories:

1) They freeze.
2) They fight.
3) They run.

I suppose there are characters who call for help, too, but they tend to fall into the freeze category because help is so rarely available, or if it is, the films tend to present such help as based more in happenstance, or the rescuers' clever planning, as opposed to the victim truly having chosen the best strategy and allowed for his own preservation.

The characters who freeze are goners. Fair enough, given that they didn’t even try to survive the attack, and I almost respect these characters more so than the ones who fight or run, because the latter groups tend to execute the fighting and running strategies so poorly.

The fighters don’t seem to understand that they are in a fight for their death. I had a friend in Baltimore who used to insist anyone held up at gun or knife point should fight for her life, because there was every likelihood of being killed anyway in such a situation, and so the victim should do everything in her power to end the life of the assailant in the process. I don’t necessarily agree with that philosophy, but in a horror film context, when the villain is clearly more interested in murder than money or assets, I can get behind the idea of not only fighting, but assuming that one is in a fight to the death. That’s the point at which most horror movie victims fail. They land a good shot and then they flee (or, even worse, don’t flee and stand around the not-really-incapacitated monster). In either case, if the fighter gains the advantage, she tends to let up, when a few more head shots with a blunt object might have sealed the deal.

The runners are even worse, though. I don’t fault the running strategy empirically--in fact, faced with a serial killer or monster, I think the odds are that that would be the first option I’d embrace. But there’s the insistence on looking back while running that has a tendency to only distract and slow down the runner, making him especially prone to trip over a tree branch or curb. And then there’s the direction of running--inevitably upstairs, toward a sketchy alleyway, or toward a lake, each of which lessen the chance of rescue or continued escape.

I like horror movies in spite of myself. Despite recognizing these logical gaps, and as often as not feeling deeply unsettled by them, I feel drawn to the prospect of witnessing high stakes monstrosity through the safe lens of fiction. Paradoxically, it’s my favorite horror movies--the ones that I feel are best realized and most authentically scary--that are also the ones that leave me most disturbed and checking beneath my bed at night. Thus, I embrace that which psychologically scars me.

I haven’t been too many haunted house attractions. I went from too scared of what I might find as a kid, to too grown up and prone to recognizing the hokie-ness of it all to really be scared or entertained, without ever lingering in that middle ground that haunted houses are made for.

But I did act in one.

The setting was Huntingdon Ave in the Remington neighborhood of Baltimore—a not particularly nice area of the city that just the same neighbored the Johns Hopkins University campus, and thus was subject to a disproportionately high volume of volunteer efforts. I volunteer-tutored kids in the area on a weekly basis during the school years, and was thus made aware of Hauntingdon, a street re-branded for a Saturday night outdoor street festival a couple nights before Halloween. The community blocked off the road. Front porches hosted pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey-type games, and folks erected a stage for a costume contest. And there was a haunted house.

When I offered my services, I was advised to put on some make up, wear ratty clothes, and plan to be a zombie in said haunted house. I wasn’t sure what to expect--if I’d spend the evening cooped up in one of the neighborhood basements waiting to scare people who were led down, or if perhaps the organizers had contracted with someone who would set up a plastic apparatus to approximate a house.

In reality, the haunted house was a homemade construction. A frame of wire and two-by-fours, walls made of slit open black trash bags. We decorated it further with fake cobwebs and rubber spiders. A self-described makeup artist enhanced my self-applied black and white face paint with splashes of fake blood.

The whole operation seemed kind of shoddy and underwhelming to my overly critical eye. I didn’t imagine anyone being scared by it or by me.

And I was wrong.

I took in this haunted house not only from a place of economic privilege—expecting a nicer haunted house set up--but perhaps even more detrimentally through an adult’s eyes. The first group of children came through and shrieked as the garbage monster (literally a woman dressed in black with candy wrappers and soda cans taped to her) lurched out of a corner and toward them. They screamed and actually ran when they spotted my fellow zombie and I waiting in the next “room.”

And so, I got into it.

I experimented with a slow stumble versus convulsing. Rolling my eyes into the back of my head versus staring straight at the passersby. More often than not, they were scared—even half of the grownups shocked by the surprise of coming upon us in the penultimate stage of the haunted house.

And I had the time of my life. Years later, I would listen to podcasts and read articles, and learn about all of the technical pieces we hadn’t gotten right. The importance of spacing out visitors to a haunted house so the first group wouldn’t scream and tip off the second group about when the scare was coming. I learned of the concept of “scaring forward”—that catching groups from behind is both more frightening because they can’t see it coming, and helps move people forward through the attraction at a faster clip. In that moment, I didn’t know much about best practices for scares. All I knew was that what we were doing seemed to be working. We listened with glee as, outside, we heard the host at the entrance warning families that this part of Hauntingdon might be too scary for their little ones.

And then there was Reggie. A rambunctious ten-year-old I’d worked with week in and week out at the tutoring gig. He came without parental guidance and without any friends. Contrary to all of the kids who had edged through the haunted house slowly, weary of the next threat, he espoused something closer to my old strategy for the levels of Super Mario Bros. that I found most challenging—running straight through.

Except Reggie didn’t just run. He fought. I heard him yell at the trash monster, “I ain’t scared of you!” Then he came us zombies. Rather than freeze or scream, he looked me in the eye. I thought he might recognize me from Monday nights—and maybe he did. Regardless, he kicked me hard, straight in the shin, and bellowed “Take that, motherfucker!”

And he was gone.

Thus I discovered in the city of Baltimore, the bevy of people--children and adults alike--who might make perfectly reasonable horror movie fodder, freezing in their terror, stopping in their tracks. And I found Reggie.

He would be a survivor.

Sunday, October 15, 2017

My Grandmother’s House

My grandmother lived in a little, one-story ranch-style house, with seven rooms.

The Front Room
There was what we referred as the front room—a substantial foyer that easily could have been a living room, but where we hardly spent any time, and that I get the impression Grandma didn’t put to much use. The carpeting was all forest green circles with orange leaves interspersed. There was a bar on the far end that I imagine previous owners might have used for entertaining, and that my sister and I occasionally used for play, creating imaginary scenes that riffed off of Cheers. I think of this space largely as excess, though—for my grandmother who had spent her first sixty-something years in New York City apartments, a luxury that she rarely put to the use.

Most of my memories set in the front room happened on Christmas. The space was larger than the proper living room, affording space for a Christmas tree, presents, and comfortable seating for not only our normal Sunday visit crew of Grandma, my mother, my father, my sister and me, but also my Uncle John who visited just once a year and came to stay with Grandma. Once we were through with presents, we typically migrated to the kitchen or the living room, but for the overwhelming majority of my Christmas presents, it’s that front room where the holiday happened.

Secondarily, I remember New Year’s Eves, and that five or six year period when my sister and I made a tradition out of spending the night at Grandma’s. Fetching the crystal punch bowl from the crawl space above the bar. Sleeping on the fold-out couch in the front room.

The Guest Room
Those New Year’s Eve nights my sister would sleep in the guest room. All considered, this room, with its red-white-and-blue shag carpeting, an old armoire, a little television, was probably the room I spent the least amount of time in, though I do recall certain Sundays in the early 1990s stowing away in there for an hour to watch episodes of Global Wrestling Federation show on ESPN.

What I remember best about this room, though, was that each Christmas, when Uncle John came to stay, my grandmother retreated to the guest room, giving her son the bigger space, the bigger bed.

The Master Bedroom
I remember the master bedroom clouded in smoke, not from my grandmother, who didn’t smoke (at least in my lifetime) but from my uncle’s stays, and that each time he left and we visited the room, I imagined it wouldn’t be the same again, but somehow it always was within a week’s time.

I remember the dresser where, somehow or other--probably from my sister’s keener observational skills--we deduced that Grandma hid our Christmas presents, and sneaking peeks at Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures.

The Bathroom
Grandma’s bathroom always smelled better than the bathroom at home, for just a single regular user who was more attentive cleaning than anyone in my immediate family. Everything in that room was blue--my grandmother’s favorite--from the tile floor to the tub. I remember that she had a shower head that detached and could be used like a hose and that seemed novel and tremendously fun to experiment with on those occasions when I showered at Grandma’s.

I remember taking the latest issue of TV Guide into the bathroom with me and reading the better part of an issue over the course of a half hour on the toilet.

The Kitchen

No one would mistaken me for an expert chef, but what kitchen knowledge I have has its roots in my grandmother’s kitchen. In my own house, my father maintained tight control over the kitchen, protective against making messes or anyone hurting themselves to the point that I don’t believe I ever cracked an egg in my childhood home or preheated the oven.

At Grandma’s house, I recall collaborative efforts to make Hungarian Goulash and Cornish game hens; routinely cutting the lettuce for salad into impossibly small pieces after Grandma complimented me the first time I did it, saying that’s how professionals prepared salads in fancy restaurants (it would be years before I recognized it as a way of keeping me occupied while she and my sister tended to more pressing tasks).

And I remember concoctions. More often than not, mixtures of sodas, and a New Year’s punch that included juices and, one ill-advised year, milk. The freedom to decide what went in.

I don’t drink soda all that often nowadays, but a couple times a year, the mixture of Mountain Dew and Diet Coke, patented in that kitchen, will still hit the spot.

The Living Room
The living room sticks with me, in part because it’s the spot from which the most furniture was salvaged. End tables that made it to my house, a sofa and TV that made it to my childhood home.

The room had a fiery orange carpet and a great big front window that looked out on the driveway. We rarely used the front door there, in favor of the side door and mudroom that afforded room to take off shoes and coats before heading into the house, but there was a door to the living room, too, that I remember my father sprinting out of when neighbors from across the street backed into the door of his Oldsmobile, leaving a crater of a dent in the front driver’s side door. They settled without using insurance, but my father never actually had the door repaired, instead pocketing the cash and still parking the car in full-view of the neighbors on a weekly basis.

The living room was littered with ceramic cats. My grandmother had kept cats for years, only to have to give it up when she discovered my mother was allergic. She had a modest sampling of cat figurines to decorate her living room. My sister and I latched on to this interest, and more cat-centered things became the focal point of every gift giving occasion. Cat calendars. Books with pictures of cats. A truly ridiculous number of ceramic or stone cats in a collection overwhelming enough that she eventually had to ask us to stop giving her that gift. (In an instance of what may be karmic payback, my sister’s love for stuffed frogs yielded an unwieldy collection after a series of Christmases and birthdays in her own adult years, until she, too, had to ask family and friends to stop. Somehow, I’ve gone unsaddled with such a collection—thus far.)

The Construction Room Of all of the spaces in my grandmother’s house, the one I remember best is the Construction Room.

It might have been an office, a spare bedroom, or storage space. But Grandma was dedicated enough to my sister and I, her only grandchildren, that it instead became a space dedicated to us, called the Construction Room for our drawing and painting and Lego projects.

The room contained an old wooden table with leaves that folded up or down to double or triple its surface area. As we grew up, we made a little less at Grandma’s house and focused more on games. Pinochle, Scrabble, Canasta, and Double or Triple Solitaire were our steady favorites, but Uno, Skip-Bo, Pitch, Poker, and Clue each had their days as well. I developed some of the best and worst parts of myself in those games. A sense of play and curiosity that I fear I too often forget in my adult life; early semblances of strategizing as I schemed triple-word-scores and how enough well-planned freezes and natural canastas might allow me to win a game in a single hand. Just the same, I also learned a competitiveness that wasn’t entirely healthy, and an excessive commitment to plans that left me disproportionately disappointed when games didn’t proceed as I had anticipated. I remember not wanting to clear the Scrabble board after one game, when I had achieved a particularly high scoring word, because I wanted to show it to my parents when they came to pick me up, as invested in impressing them as I could be as a kid.

And Construction Room had our mailbox—a department store box relabeled with my name and my sister’s where my grandmother left chocolatey treats, or the issues of the wrestling magazines she subscribed to for me as gifts. Where we left hand-drawn magazines we wrote and drew on lined paper for her. Where, in time, I left my grandmother stories, and eventually manuscripts of full novels, and where she left me notes “From the Editor’s Desk” praising what I had done, telling me to keep going.

Leaving The House
Early in my high school years, my grandmother moved out of the house, into an senior citizen’s apartment building. A smaller, more manageable space for her to maintain, with access to emergency help at the pull of a string if she fell or hurt herself.

I still saw her there for a period of years. Through the end of high school. Through visits back home most of my college years.

Then she fell.

I forget the exact sequence of events, but Grandma started using a green metallic walker she named Esmerelda. She grew tired, falling asleep in the middle of conversations, between turns at board games, watching television shows. She had a stroke.

Toward the end of my college career--probably junior or senior year--she decided to move into a nursing home.

Days later, she told my father, her last steady connection in town, that she had made a horrible mistake. That they were going to steal her money and she wanted to go back home.

Her house had long been sold. She’d made a financial commitment to the nursing home, too, and it wouldn’t be feasible to go back to the apartment building. The only option would have been for her to move into the downstairs space of the house that my mother and father had originally intended for her to live in when they put in the electricity and plumbing, back when she'd preferred her independence. My father made mention of that as a possibility, I think to show her that the nursing home was still the better option. By then, she said yes, she would move in. It never happened.

He was on the front line to recognize her changes. That she was deteriorating and that the process accelerated after she moved into the nursing home--a combination of age, a brain rattled by a stark change in environment, and, we suspected, medications that the staff might pump into their charges to keep things calm and quiet.

Though I caught glimmers of my grandmother as she once was, in a hug, in a clever play on words, after she moved into the nursing home, I never saw her in her right mind again.

Three years out of college--the same year I had moved out of state and stopped coming home to visit more than a couple times a year--Grandma passed away.

I sent a thank you card to the nursing home staff, in appreciation for taking care of my grandmother in her final days. A feeble gesture. In visits home to follow, here and there, I swung by her apartment building. Just above every visit, I made a slow, late night drive past the old house.

The house--once white--is now painted tan, the black shutters replaced with blue. The pavement space where my sister and I drew in chalk, and where I played spin the bottle with school friends for my fifteenth birthday party, is now host to a basketball hoop. A minivan parks out front. I assume there are children. A family.

Sometimes, the living room lights were on. I wondered if, inside, the carpet were still orange. If anyone scotch taped drawings to forest green wood-paneled walls of the kitchen anymore. If kids run to that side door with a sense of wonder at the world waiting inside.

Sunday, October 1, 2017

We Were Warriors

I was in the second the grade. Back when gym class still mixed boys and girls and an absence of athleticism could go unnoticed because, well, what seven year old is especially coordinated? This was two grades before the school assigned us gym lockers and required that we changed into a school t-shirt and shorts, I suppose under the rationale that the littler kids were running around constantly anyway so it didn’t matter if they sweated into their normal day-to-day clothes and they wouldn’t find their normal day-to-day clothes too restrictive because that’s what we would wear for all manner of chasing and throwing and climbing anyway.

It was at this blissfully innocent and ignorant age, lined up against a padded wall, waiting for my turn “at bat” in kickball that I first heard the chant. Two slaps of the wall pad, followed by a clap, in the approximate rhythm of “We Will Rock You.” Then the words:

We are the Warriors!
Couldn’t be prouder!
If you can’t hear us,
we’ll shout a little louder!

A series of na-na-na-na-nas followed at a steady crescendo.

I was confused. I hadn’t heard this chant before, but it was infectious and before long I had joined in. Nick Samson had been among the first to start the chant. Nick, who I had bonded with kindergarten when we discovered our mutual love for the World Wrestling Federation. The annual Thanksgiving-time Survivor Series pay-per-view event was around the corner, scheduled to feature the four-man team The Warriors—The Ultimate Warrrior, “The Modern Day Warrior” Kerry Von Erich, and The Legion of Doom (formerly known as “The Road Warriors”)—facing off against a crew of bad guys.

It didn’t surprise me that Nick would invent such a chant, or that his boisterous personality would prompt him to break into it in public. It did surprise me the volume of boys and girls who partook, even my budding first crush Pattie, who I couldn’t imagine cheering The Ultimate Warrior as he press slammed a hapless foe.

And yet there she was, red-brown hair and pig tails, four feet tall, screaming along, even giving me a little smile when I caught her eye, in a look I could interpret to be a subtle acknowledgement of the absurdity at the both of us quieter, bookish kids joining the chant.

I’m not sure when the realization hit that the second grade class of Westmoreland Road Elementary was not, in fact, chanting about professional wrestling, but rather in tribute to our schools sports team and broader sports culture. That we were, quite literally, The Warriors—a part of the Whitesboro Central School District, in one of four elementary schools that would feed into a unified junior high four years later, and then into a bigger high school.

I suspect that my classmates, bound to older brothers and sisters, or parents with lingering school pride from their youths, had gone to a football game the preceding Friday night, and come away with this chant in tow. I wouldn’t attend one of these Friday night rituals for another seven years, a high schooler myself, when the games became a backdrop against which to socialize, flirt with girls, and eat soft pretzels.

I came to accept school pride. While I didn’t have any real investment in the school’s sports teams, and wouldn’t call many of the student athletes friends, it still felt abstractly important, when they advanced to a state championship game, that I root for them to win. Moreover, I came to accept the Warrior identity. The school’s logo portrayed a Native American in a headdress—noble and strong. I recognized the na-na-na-nas as an imitation of an Indian war chant. For a mascot, a boy would dress in brown faux-leather regalia with fringe, war paint, and a headdress.

None of this registered as meaningfully problematic to me. There would be the occasional rumbling in the local paper about the mascot and team name appropriating, exploiting, or poking fun at Indian culture. Such concerns were promptly shouted down with cries of it’s a tribute, it’s a tradition, and don’t be so sensitive, ya goddamn pussy!

And though I wouldn’t recognize it until years later, I was indoctrinated in all of this—from the second grade on, even when I associated “The Warriors” not with our football team in white and blue, but rather bare-chested men who wore face paint and spandex. I was surrounded by Warrior culture, and though I was never the most vocal or devout supporter of our school’s athletics, neither did I see a meaningful problem. I joined the chorus of dismissing the overly sensitive, overly PC naysayers who wanted to stir up trouble over the most benign borrowing from Indian culture.

I look back at all of this in my thirties. And, man, that was messed up.

To crystallize the issue, consider the very seal of Whitesboro—the village that lends the school district its name (though the middle school and the administration building—not the high school or any of the elementary schools actually fall within Whitesboro proper). It portrays a white man strangling an Indian. Conquering the primitive savage. Establishing the reign of white people.

I have heard attempts at retconning this image. Claiming it portrays a white man and an Indian in good-spirited competition. That it all comes back to wrestling. But when we look at something so basic as the nomenclature of Whitesboro, I don’t buy it. Boro—a shortening of borough, an area, region, or township. Whites—there’s not an apostrophe, though I think you could argue it’s implied, and thus the borough belongs to white people; alternatively, it establishes the plurality of white people in this village, and the implicit exclusion of people of any other color.

To put a finer point on it, I remember a downtown, outdoor concert that I attended with my father, the summer between sixth and seventh grades. The Orleans—most famous for “Still The One” played on stage. As I transitioned into full-fledged adolescence, I imagined that one of my crushes from school might come to the concert, too, and hold my hand or rest a head on my shoulder.

I remember the tinny sound of the band over an aged speaker system. I remember the smell of beer—it seemed like every adult except for my father had a clear plastic cup of it, drinking sloshing foam over the brim as they danced, offering friends and wives dollar bills for them to buy another cup so they wouldn’t lose their spots in the crowd.

My father, a full-blooded Chinese man, stood out amidst a crowd of white faces. A pot-bellied, red-bearded man in a plain white t-shirt, stained in smudges of tan and brown, dirt and beer, made his way toward him and asked my father, “Are you one of those Indians?”

My father responded that he was Chinese.

The man looked back to his buddies, five or six of them in a row behind us, and made the A-OK sign with his fingers. “He’s a Chinaman.” He turned back to my father. “I was going to ask you how you felt about all this shit at the reservation.”

This shit at the reservation referred to the still-new Turning Stone Casino that a Native American tribe had opened on a reservation in Verona, a half hour drive away. A point of controversy for the gambling culture that it fostered in the area, not to mention that they didn’t charge the state sales tax, which gave them an advantage over local gas stations, restaurants, and retailers—a hot topic of debate in the local media.

I don’t remember what my father said in response—only that he smiled and laughed and kept his answers short. I don’t suspect he shared that he was, himself, a gambler who had taken to visiting the casino on a weekly basis. I suspect he kept things more neutral and to the point. Before long, the bearded man walked away.

I don’t know what would have happened had my father identified himself as Indian, or had he declined to disclose his background. As an eleven-year-old who was prone to both worry and to concocting dramatic stories in my mind, I foresaw the worst. A vocal argument at the least. The potential for fight, or, given the man-advantage, a beating.

I don’t hate my hometown. Despite having little interest in returning to live in Utica, New York, I enjoy my stops back to see family and friends, to eat the local delicacies, to wander through my old stomping grounds. I don’t even look back on my high school years with the sort of distaste that a lot of people as nerdy as myself might—there was a lot that I enjoyed about my school life by the time I reached my last couple years there.

But I also remember those smaller moments and bigger messages, embedded in the place where I was born and raised. The more I reflect, the more I realize, and the more I accept that I can never truly go home.

Sunday, September 17, 2017

Meditation on Tattoos

I spent years on Meddletown.

I wrote a four-hundred-page manuscript my senior year of high school. A story of androids and love and betrayals. The promises of dystopia and maybe an apocalypse.

In a moment of striking maturity, I realized I wasn’t ready to do this novel justice and elected to table it over my college years. After college, I returned to it, faithfully. I recognized half of the manuscript was crap, and slashed and rewrote. I showed it to a professor I had bonded with at the university where I worked next, and he made vague and sweeping recommendations that led to the next major overhaul after I had moved to Baltimore.

I rewrote it. And I rewrote it. And I rewrote it.

The concept of the decagon became central--a ten-sided figure with hugely complicated ramifications that are too specific to justify a full explanation here. Rest assured, it was an integral part of the android technology that I wrote about, and doubled as a symbol for resistance to what amounted to a campaign for robots to replace humans, to the point that members of the secret resistance corps marked their skin with decagon tattoos.

Around this same time, I reached the point in life when people start asking one another about tattoos. There’s a period in my late twenties when it became less in vogue to actively show ink, as opposed to allusions that you had it, but it was covered on the back of a shoulder on a hip or a thigh. Sometimes it was a hint to more going on in someone’s life than meets the surface, sometimes a tease in a flirtatious exchange about such a tattoo not being visible now, with the implication it might be visible to you at another time.

Thus it came into fashion to ask if someone had any tattoos.

When I answered no, the follow-up questions tended to fall somewhere along the spectrum of why not? and well, if you did have one, what would you get?

My default (and true) answer was that I didn’t have an aversion to tattoos, but I also didn’t feel confident enough in my love of anything that I would have feel comfortable branding my skin with it. I can only imagine the Creed lyrics or pro wrestling slogans or symbols I might bear had I been pressed to choose the subject of a tattoo at any given point in my past. I’ve cited the example of a friend, who at one point badly wanted a tattoo of a bowling pin to symbolize his love of that sport.

A veritable sea of hypothetical regret.

In regards to what tattoo I would have gotten, I came to respond with the decagon. A manifestation of my commitment to the Meddletown project over the course of a decade, not to mention a symbolic reference to my own work, replicating a symbol from it in the real world. I even thought to myself that, if the novel were to see the light of day and achieve any noteworthy success, that might be the occasion to actually get the tattoo.

Of course, in reality, the novel still wasn’t working. I tabled the project again—this time, perhaps, for good, given my level of pleasant surprise at how many other, objectively better, creative projects opened up for me after I put that one on the shelf.

Still, I think of the tattoo every now and again. I consider former pro wrestler CM Punk, one of my favorites, who went on record to say that he pitied anyone without tattoos because it means they don’t believe in anything as deeply as he does. Amidst a field of ink that litters his hands and arms and chest and back, one of the most prominent a completely un-ironic Pepsi logo over his left shoulder that represents not only his enjoyment of the soft drink but his straight edge lifestyle.

I think of my fiancee’s tattoo of the word “breathe” as a reminder to take a deep breath when life gets to be too much, that she translated into a very visual reminder for kids who had trouble resisting the urge to express themselves with their fists at camp. I think of my friend with a tattoo that looks like a stamp from the post office, denoting her hometown, love of writing, and sense of nostalgia for an era of sending letters in one compact space above her heart. I think of any number of esoteric symbols on other friends, to denote inside jokes, pop culture references, and important moments in their lives. Names. Dates. Faces.

And then I land back on the Jordin Sparks song, “Tattoo.” Saccharine, cliché pop music, exactly the likes of which one might expect from an American Idol winner, that repeats, “just like a tattoo, I’ll always love you.” The appropriation of something cool and personal to translate into some both popular and fundamentally uncool. How quickly the meaning of the word tattoo might change, let alone any given tattoo itself.

And so, my skin remains unmarked for now, save for birthmarks and a handful of scars, most of them too small or to faded to spot without close inspection. I may tattoo my body one day, but still await that word, symbol, or moment that I not only believe in or find worthy, but that feels befitting a permanent mark all its own.