The American Male at Age Ten

This piece, by Susan Orlean, was also an easy read. Though it was far lighter a subject than "Shadow of a Nation", it was hilariously relatable, despite there being a bit of a time lapse between my 10th year and young Colin's 10th year. Orlean does a terrific job of capturing the passion and spirit of a young, energetic boy, who has seen too little to be tainted with cynicism and coldness brought on by reality, but seen enough to know some thing about how the world works. His perplexing ability to observe and make rather true observations about the world and the things in them remind me very much so of my 8 year-old (going on 23) cousin, Charlie. This whole story cracked me up, especially with topic of girls.

Shadow of a Nation

I really enjoyed this piece by Gary Smith. As a former athlete, it touched home on a lot of issues I dealt with in high school, though not nearly as extreme as in Takes Enemy's case. But still very similar in certain ways. I come from a tiny town as well where high school sports are it, they are the pinnacle of one's hometown existence. Certain kids are good enough to continue on with their passion in college, others are not as fortunate, but Gary Smith does a great job of portraying this contradictory little reservation town and the stress and mixed signals it sends to its youth. He also does tremendous job of describing just how short termed and temporary that pinnacle of high school sports stardom really is in the grand scheme of life. Especially when explaining how a lot of people from the reservation don't always make it back to the peak they had at one time been on, when it seemed their whole life was ahead of them. It was very relatable and easy to read for me, I love reading things like this story.

Things I Hate

Though hating on things is generally not one of my favorite past-times, I do occasionally look forward to compiling lists of things I can't stand. With that being said, here goes nothing…

I hate in competence. There is nothing in the world more frustrating than incompetence. I also hate helplessness. Few things in this world are as pitiful as a helpless person, or even a helplessly incompetent person. I hate Skylar White (and her sister Marie for that matter). I hate self-righteous social media users, who shove their views down people's throats on a consistent enough basis that they have almost become infamous for said posts, in certain circles. I hate the whole culture Twitter and Facebook have brought about for our generation. I hate hash tags. No seriously, I really hate hash tags. You won't ever catch me tweeting #anything. I hate prejudice. Not just the obvious forms, but the reverse forms that kind of get ignored and happen quite frequently. I hate ignorance. I hate laziness. I hate a loud mouth and most certainly I hate know-it-all. As more times then not, I find the "know-it-all" to make lofty assumptions and claims that often have zero credibility or academic integrity. I hate "selfies". I also hate that it is now an accepted, dictionary word. I hate drama. Especially on public forums. It shines more light on your insecurities than you may ever know (shout out to all my sub tweeters out there, yes I'm talking about you). Not to mention, the overwhelming majority of people that see those sub tweets either don't give a shit about what you're saying or have a clue what those tweets are in reference to. I hate the frizzy perforations on the end of notebook paper. I hate winter. I hate country music. Seriously, though how often can you create the exact same song? I hate that "Turn up" and "ratchet" and "bae" are a part of the parlance of our times. I hate fake celebrity accounts. I hate vine. I hate the war on drugs. I hate my landlord. I hate small-town gossip. Where I'm from, it's runs rampant like deer in a new, cookie-cutter, housing development. I hate many more things I'm sure, but all this hate is putting me in quite the mood. I'm going to stick to love for the rest of the night.

The Pit

"The Pit" was what we called it. It was a little drainage ditch that in the winter, the city would fill in as an ice skating rink (which saw little use).  To us, what it really was was the ultimate pick-up football game venue. It was roughly 40 yards by 30 yards, with 5 foot tall grass hills surrounding it. It was the perfect size for fourteen 12/13-year-olds to run around and take each others heads off. It was like clockwork when the 3:15 bell would ring, ending the school day, "You guys wanna play football?" a group text would read, minutes after getting on the bus home. The park was a short, three minute bike ride away from my house, so obviously I never missed a game.

I loved to play here. It was the one part of my day (even though I was young with literally almost zero 'real' problems) where nobody could touch me. Nothing really mattered. It would get heated from time-to-time, but a lot of that was a combination of immaturity and competition. I was almost always the first to get picked, and if I wasn't, you regretted it instantly. I was a lot more fluid and agile then most of the still pre-pubescent, uncoordinated, soccer players that just loved to try and prove superiority over our crappy football team. But, not me. I was a one-man wrecking crew back then. I had instinct, power, vision… Must've been the Irish-catholic, tough nosed, parochial school in me. Most of the kids I was playing with/against were still trying to figure out how to hold the ball when you throw it. Those were some long afternoons of legendary performances. I miss "The Pit".

Those Who Stay & Those Who Go

I really enjoyed Ann Daum's "Those Who Stay and Those Who Go". Though she and I come from completely opposite sides of the country, and the images of her home town are completely different from my hometown, I know the feeling she is talking about. I haven't really noticed it too much until this past Christmas break, but this is exactly how my hometown is. It's small, everyone knows each other. Kids become fake, "too cool", and bland all at the same time. The same families have all the political pull in whatever programs their children take part in, until their kids have all graduated. Families become "Bay Royalty" when two prominent community members have either a son or daughter in a relationship with another prominent community member's son/daughter. Things just become very redundant and almost timeless. No matter how far removed I am from that place, I hear all the same old stories about the same old people. Daum is very right about the whole not knowing "what to say when you see people you went to high school with", and were friends with, only never really maintained contact with. It has happened to me a number of times since high school, but none more prominent than going to my little brother's basketball games over break. It's just so funny how true, yet cliche, it is. People really do grow and change, and some may not. But, one thing is for certain, I am definitely one of the "leavers".

Confessions

I thought Amy Tan's essay, "Confessions" was a very heavy, very dark subject for her to bring to light. By the way she explains it in the story, she had a very troubled youth. Starting with the consecutive deaths of her father and brother, there is a deep, traumatizing sense of sadness instantly in this story. I could only imagine the hurt that those two deaths would cause me and the rest of my family, that's something nobody should have to experience in such a short period of time like that. However, the darkest and heaviest part of the story is most definitely the conflict she has wither mother, in which she proclaims that she'd rather have had the narrator dead than both her son and husband. And then as if those words couldn't cut a deep enough wound into her psyche, her mother in a heinous and crazy act of some form of depression I could not ever comprehend, puts a meat cleaver to her 16 year-old-daughter's neck all the while threatening to kill her. Very tough subject to even think about, let alone put into writing.

Cracks & Creaks

I had known and spent years deciphering every single crack and creak sound there was to hear, from the top floor of my house, to the basement. It was particularly rickety as you reached the kitchen. I was always sure to take a big, gentle step over the spot right as you enter the kitchen (which was always the loudest spot). My Dad, god bless the man, has terrible sleep apnea and was always an early to bed kind of guy, so he was never really a threat to my mischief. My mom, however, was always been a light sleeper and was liable to catch me in the middle of my secret, moonlight mission if I wasn't careful, so stealthiness was a necessity.

It's a nerve racking feeling as a 16-year-old trying to break curfew and sneak out of your house late at night for the first time. There's a constant anxiety for the 3-4 minutes it would take for me to properly excuse myself in the desired stealthy manner. My stomach buzzes, I breathe slowly and carefully, as my body tenses up just enough to crack the back door open. I begin to hear the door creek -- I stop. Breathing deeply and slowly, pausing to listen for any movement in my parents' room right above me. The silence is deafening, I cautiously begin opening the door again slowly. I finally reach pay dirt, as I have made my way safely and quietly outside, and nobody in my house has the slightest clue I'm even out of bed.

I get my bike out of the garage, after tip-toeing myself off the deck. Send the "I'm on my way" text message to the neighbor girl down the street, that I am meeting. I become giddy with devious pleasure, fully aware of the stealthy performance I just put on, to dance my way out of the blue house on the corner. I ride away to enjoy a brief moment of invincibility, with my headphones, only to come back in a couple hours (usually intoxicated, although not always) and sneak myself back into my house, avoiding all the cracks and creaks along the way.