The Proofread digs up a literary past that most of you have not witnessed.
Allison starts off our theme with an essay about a courtroom drama. It's from her college days, but old man time hasn't dulled these words.
Enjoy.
Showing posts with label Allison. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Allison. Show all posts
Monday, August 02, 2010
They Rode the Bus for Fun
My first few days as full-time custodian last summer reminded me of exactly why I decided to go to college. It was a combination of things that did it, really: the actual cleaning, yes, but more so the cattiness among the custodians, the boss’s air of superiority, and even the way the kids looked at me like it was explicitly in my job description to wipe their fecal matter off the walls. But I had received my official jury duty summons letter from the county months before, and had informed my boss that I had been called to a possible two-week term of civic duty. At that point, it was all I could do to pray that I would be picked, rather than be sentenced to scraping gum off desks, cleaning floor-to-ceiling Venetian blinds, and cleaning up after classroom pets. I didn’t consider that my passion for social justice would cause problems in a courtroom.
I was the opposite of most other candidates, who found it a burden to be called away from work or their families. During selection, they looked for any excuse to show bias toward the lawyers, the parties involved in the case, or the nature of the accident that was up for judgment. I, however, avoided any response to the preliminary questions that would jeopardize my chance of showing up at the courthouse every day for the next two weeks. I practically willed myself to be selected; my ultimate dream was to be sequestered for the entire summer.
The best I could get was a small, two-day civil case. Still, it was something, and I looked forward to a brilliant and unique educational experience.
Michelle was a 20-something-year-old woman who lived with her mother in a nearby town. She claimed she was injured on a city bus because of the driver’s recklessness, and was only asking for the bus company to pay her medical bills and a small amount of pain-and-suffering. Her mother was the only other person on the bus at the time of the alleged incident, and apparently this bus was the only bus left in America with no video camera on board.
Michelle and her mother were both “slow” – that’s the best way I can describe it. Had they had the means or awareness to get evaluated, they probably could have been diagnosed with some formal type of mental retardation.
Not only did these people have no jobs and no money, they also did not have a case. After two years of waiting, they finally got to testify about Michelle being hurt on the bus. Because of their mental capacities, the time lapse, and the amount of coaching they had probably received, it was easy to understand how they could mix up their stories. They just didn’t have a chance against the slick-talking bus driver. The same simple questions, repeated a thousand times, were repeatedly answered, “I don’t remember.” Despite definite responses given on their depositions months earlier, the prosecutor made them jumble and twist their stories around until I’m sure they couldn’t understand that their case was being severely worn down.
The verdict was plain and simple: The bus driver was not guilty. While it was plausible that Michelle probably had received some type of injury sometime (and as a result, substantial medical bills), negligent driving was not the cause. She and her mother would not receive any money.
But during the deliberation, most people had a hard time ignoring the knot in their gut — the one that kind of feels like a conscience — despite the strict order to bar any personal feelings from the decision-making. It was obvious that every person took their role seriously; it was important to be consistent with the law that has been solidified in our country for so long. But one woman summed up what all of us in that jury room were probably thinking, despite the evidence laid out for us: “I just feel like something happened on that bus.”
Maybe it was Michelle’s untamed hair, acne-ridden face, or Goodwill-bought clothes that did it for me. Maybe it was the nearly inaudible way both Michelle and her mother spoke. Maybe it was the way their eyes always gazed downward, showing an utter lack of self confidence, that convinced me that the suit wasn’t a charade to extort money from a bus company. Or, maybe it was the fact that I thought the bus driver was a sleazebag, and I wanted to make him pay.
But what had struck me most about Michelle and her mother was the reason they had been on that bus in the first place: for fun. It was one of the only things they articulated clearly and consistently during their testimony. A lot of people say that riding the bus is an “experience,” mostly for the variety of characters they encounter, but there is a difference between riding the bus for enjoyment and saying that riding the bus, when you have to do it, is fun. Nobody rides the bus specifically for their afternoon entertainment, except for “simple people” (as their attorney called them) like Michelle and her mother, who really had nowhere else to go.
I’m not stupid. I know that a legal system can’t be driven by sympathy; there isn’t enough money to go around for that. I know that some people lie through their teeth just to get money, and we can’t let feelings overtake the systematic approach to justice. But while I’m all for systems and organization and being logical, my stomach rarely lies. I still wonder about Michelle and her mother, which usually ends up bringing back that same sick feeling. I wonder, too, how I could feel so disgusting for doing the right thing; but somehow, on that day last summer, in an atmosphere that should embody all that is fair in the world, doing the “right” thing felt really, really wrong.
*Written in January/February 2007
I was the opposite of most other candidates, who found it a burden to be called away from work or their families. During selection, they looked for any excuse to show bias toward the lawyers, the parties involved in the case, or the nature of the accident that was up for judgment. I, however, avoided any response to the preliminary questions that would jeopardize my chance of showing up at the courthouse every day for the next two weeks. I practically willed myself to be selected; my ultimate dream was to be sequestered for the entire summer.
The best I could get was a small, two-day civil case. Still, it was something, and I looked forward to a brilliant and unique educational experience.
Michelle was a 20-something-year-old woman who lived with her mother in a nearby town. She claimed she was injured on a city bus because of the driver’s recklessness, and was only asking for the bus company to pay her medical bills and a small amount of pain-and-suffering. Her mother was the only other person on the bus at the time of the alleged incident, and apparently this bus was the only bus left in America with no video camera on board.
Michelle and her mother were both “slow” – that’s the best way I can describe it. Had they had the means or awareness to get evaluated, they probably could have been diagnosed with some formal type of mental retardation.
Not only did these people have no jobs and no money, they also did not have a case. After two years of waiting, they finally got to testify about Michelle being hurt on the bus. Because of their mental capacities, the time lapse, and the amount of coaching they had probably received, it was easy to understand how they could mix up their stories. They just didn’t have a chance against the slick-talking bus driver. The same simple questions, repeated a thousand times, were repeatedly answered, “I don’t remember.” Despite definite responses given on their depositions months earlier, the prosecutor made them jumble and twist their stories around until I’m sure they couldn’t understand that their case was being severely worn down.
The verdict was plain and simple: The bus driver was not guilty. While it was plausible that Michelle probably had received some type of injury sometime (and as a result, substantial medical bills), negligent driving was not the cause. She and her mother would not receive any money.
But during the deliberation, most people had a hard time ignoring the knot in their gut — the one that kind of feels like a conscience — despite the strict order to bar any personal feelings from the decision-making. It was obvious that every person took their role seriously; it was important to be consistent with the law that has been solidified in our country for so long. But one woman summed up what all of us in that jury room were probably thinking, despite the evidence laid out for us: “I just feel like something happened on that bus.”
Maybe it was Michelle’s untamed hair, acne-ridden face, or Goodwill-bought clothes that did it for me. Maybe it was the nearly inaudible way both Michelle and her mother spoke. Maybe it was the way their eyes always gazed downward, showing an utter lack of self confidence, that convinced me that the suit wasn’t a charade to extort money from a bus company. Or, maybe it was the fact that I thought the bus driver was a sleazebag, and I wanted to make him pay.
But what had struck me most about Michelle and her mother was the reason they had been on that bus in the first place: for fun. It was one of the only things they articulated clearly and consistently during their testimony. A lot of people say that riding the bus is an “experience,” mostly for the variety of characters they encounter, but there is a difference between riding the bus for enjoyment and saying that riding the bus, when you have to do it, is fun. Nobody rides the bus specifically for their afternoon entertainment, except for “simple people” (as their attorney called them) like Michelle and her mother, who really had nowhere else to go.
I’m not stupid. I know that a legal system can’t be driven by sympathy; there isn’t enough money to go around for that. I know that some people lie through their teeth just to get money, and we can’t let feelings overtake the systematic approach to justice. But while I’m all for systems and organization and being logical, my stomach rarely lies. I still wonder about Michelle and her mother, which usually ends up bringing back that same sick feeling. I wonder, too, how I could feel so disgusting for doing the right thing; but somehow, on that day last summer, in an atmosphere that should embody all that is fair in the world, doing the “right” thing felt really, really wrong.
*Written in January/February 2007
Monday, July 12, 2010
Summer Reading
You've had a little bit of sun, a little bit of sand, now fulfill your summer reading needs with the literary stylings of the Proofread.
Allison jumps starts our current theme with a story about something that is flying in disguise.
Enjoy.
Allison jumps starts our current theme with a story about something that is flying in disguise.
Enjoy.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
The Merry-Go-Round in the Sky
I was flying.
I am a bird, I thought. But I quickly realized I was not a bird, partly because I wasn’t actually flying and partly because the idea of a person trying to be a bird reminded me too much of that line from the movie The Notebook, where Allie is in the ocean water and crazily yells at her boyfriend, Noah, to “Say I’m a bird! Say it!” (I think that scene had something to do with them being birds in another life so they could fly away together. Gag.) So yes, confirmed: I did not feel like a bird. Birds don’t fall, for the most part — they glide or coast or majestically soar through the air. Horizontal movement versus vertical movement is the key. Even though I was in flight territory, what I was doing was not flying. It was falling. I was free-falling out of the fly zone. And fast.
But I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t feel a pending death. My life did not flash before my eyes. In fact, I felt pretty glorious, all things considered. Free, somehow. Falling, falling. Wind rushing up and trying to support me, and me going down anyway. Atmosphere! I thought, you are awesome! How do you let me fall but make it feel so pleasant?! Oh, but haha, wind! You cannot use your resistance to make me float upon you forever – I will cut through you and keep falling!
This was physics at its finest. For a moment, I thought it was too bad that I didn’t really care about physics — but just for a moment. Gravity exists and I can’t control it, and knowing how it works won’t really help me much, for my general purposes. So I let it be, and instead focused selfishly on myself, determined to cement the current feelings and sensations in my mind. I was parallel with the ground, flattened out against some invisible force. I spun, like I was splayed out and plastered on a merry-go-round that had come off its bearings and just kept spinning. Unlike being face down on a merry-go-round, where I would inevitably be staring right into the cold metal (or probably closing my eyes), I tried to look around so I didn’t miss it. I was forced to squint, for it was a very sunny day. Tears collected on my eyeballs – I strained to see through them. Was I happy? Was I exhibiting a reaction to a latent fear I was experiencing? It really was super windy, which was probably the culprit. The tears slipped upward on my face. Well, that’s new, I thought. Crying up. Tears streaming up. I wondered if they’d fly off my face and fall down eventually, too, or if they would evaporate. What happens to the salt, then? I wondered, trying to recount my elementary knowledge of the water cycle.
Indeed, I felt glorious; maybe at that moment some type of healing light was shooting out of my body toward other people many thousands of feet away from me, and I just couldn’t see it. That’s what I felt like I had the power to do in those few moments. And if I only had a few more moments in this rushing bliss, I’d best take advantage of whatever special powers I had suddenly gained and would probably lose just as quickly.
I then realized that when those few moments had passed, when I no longer felt like a superhero, I would have lost out on the opportunity to ask what I had planned to ask while I was up there, to someone or something, or maybe to nobody or nothing (and yes, before my fall I had planned out a speech, to both plead for guidance and to show my desire to be altruistic, just in case anyone else was listening in). And so, presumably geographically closer to whatever being or thing could answer my questions, I thought my speech in my last free-falling moments: “So, Universe, while I’m up here, got any answers for me? Where am I on the continuum of me, and which way am I supposed to be going? Who am I going to influence? Who will I help? I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to do something great for other people at some point, right? But when? And why?”
I barely made it in time; I think it was too late to get any answers. It’s funny how the mere act of falling — doing it, feeling it, trying to observe it from both inside and outside myself — caused me to so easily forget what I had assumed would be the most important things to contemplate while I was ground-bound.
Whoosh! Open. Parachute. Actual falling time slowed down. I began to regain a sense of realness for the next nine or so minutes.
It’s now hard to believe I could fit so many thoughts into 60 seconds; another thing I never bothered to try to learn or comprehend, and that also is related to physics (errr, maybe?), is when you get that feeling that time has slowed down. I also wonder how I managed to feel so free when I was probably as constrained in harnesses as I’ve ever been in my entire life. I wonder if experiencing a fall and not dying is as great a victory as flying would be.
Will my life be different? Will I be different, after experiencing just such a fall in itself? As I said before, the act of falling seemed to have distracted me a bit from my original purpose. But I still gained an experience — a flash, an adrenaline rush, an aberration of my normal life. Maybe I was expecting too much from the experience. Maybe it’s that way for a reason.
If my actual, future attempt at skydiving is not as I’ve imagined — how I’ve been imagining it for months now — I’ll be utterly disappointed. Intellectual, curious, exhilarating, confirming, though probably not totally enlightening (but at least the whole thing would help me contemplate the idea of enlightenment). It could be all those things and more, really.
I could just remain grounded; I probably wouldn’t lose out on anything (and I wouldn’t risk getting injured, I suppose). Except then I still would not have felt my cheeks flap in the wind, in that frenetic way that’s pretty funny to watch. It probably feels funny, too. I’d like a picture of my cheeks doing that.
Monday, January 25, 2010
All in the Game of Chuck
Question # 298: Can God make a mustache so wonderful that even he would envy it?
Allison revisits her high school days and unearths the memories of a book of questions and its owner's infamous ‘stache. Remember, all things are fair in love and war, but not necessarily in “The Game of Chuck.”
Enjoy.
Allison revisits her high school days and unearths the memories of a book of questions and its owner's infamous ‘stache. Remember, all things are fair in love and war, but not necessarily in “The Game of Chuck.”
Enjoy.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Writing Outside the Mustache
Question #118: If your friends and acquaintances were willing to bluntly and honestly tell you what they really thought of you, would you want them to do so? (Stock 103)
Gone are the days of Advanced Placement English as it used to exist at my high school, and I will tell you why. AP English, one of those “college-level” high school courses where you were supposed to work your ass off, take one huge test in the spring, and get enough credits to skip a class or two once you actually got to college, was defined not by the subject matter, but by the instructor, as classes often are. A teacher almost always affects how much you enjoy a class. Favorite subject + shitty teacher (where shitty teacher = particularly brainless, apathetic, patronizing or boring) = I hate this subject. Or, least favorite subject + awesome teacher (where awesome teacher = smart, caring, innovative, mindful) = I can dig this subject.
And there are, of course, some teachers who split the difference, maybe the teacher who is completely knowledgeable and probably cares that he gets his students to learn, but is un-personable.
That’s exactly where I’m headed — to an explanation of Chuckness. I say AP English is no longer the same because Chuck, the class’s long-time instructor, retired a few years back, but not before he imposed his Chuckness on me and my classmates.
The 4-1-1 on Chuck:
• He taught English.
• He was nobody’s favorite teacher.
• He was a lot of people’s least favorite teacher.
• He had a mustache.
When Chuck was my teacher, it wasn’t his mustache that interested me, not in the slightest. But now, it represents entirely what interests me about Chuck. This is because of what I now know about Chuck and his mustache, and what I deduced from what I have learned. Ready for a heavy dose of metaphor?
When I knew him five or six years ago, Chuck’s life was neither too big nor too small, but it represented what he perceived to be perfect normalcy. His manner of dress: classic khakis and a short-sleeved polo. Hair: short, light brown, naturally graying a little. Our class schedule was always pre-planned and adhered to: The first half of class was book discussion (for which Chuck kept tally marks next to our names for each comment we made, to effectively measure participation), the second half of class was vocabulary — ten words each week, with a quiz on Fridays — then preparing for the AP English exam by studying sample passages or learning and practicing the proper format to achieve a score of 7 or above on the essays (on a scale up to 9; that’s how you earned A’s in class).
But part of him must have known that he was so tidy (almost a little weenie-like; not full-on weenie, just a little) that he should make himself less so, maybe to have more in common with the rest of us in that we all have natural quirky differences, which are usually unobvious to us until someone else points them out. They make us human. It was my conclusion that he purposely integrated quirks into his personality to make himself seem more lax. The problem was that they were so obviously calculated that they never seemed natural, rather more like an automaton programmed to “be human.”
There was the golf swing, for one. Every once in awhile, he mimed a golf swing.[1] He didn’t say anything about it, before or after the act. He merely stood in front of the classroom and did the golf swing. Then he continued with whatever had been happening. The first couple of times this happened, the class reacted with confused chuckles, and then it continued to happen without reaction.
Chuck also forever played the devil’s advocate, especially when it came to the occasional “treat” class activity: The Book of Questions. That’s where Question #118 came from. Questions in the book largely fit into categories like wagering what physical attribute you would trade for an intellectual attribute (and vice versa), considering how mean you could be, or calculating how much of a risk-taker you are.
He would choose respondents for the questions he selected. When you answered, you were really answering to convince him, not to spark lively debate with the rest of the class. Whatever your answer, he always found another angle and used it to challenge you (some people really are just like that, I guess, but Chuck’s version of devil’s advocate was entirely manufactured). For many questions, different students would have various opinions, so Chuck would end up agreeing with someone. But for some questions, it would be almost inconceivable to hold any opinion but one; Chuck, however, was never fazed. Here’s another made-up but completely realistic and plausible book-of-questions moment:
“Absolutely not.”
“But don’t you feel like your role as a friend in that situation would be burdensome? And then what happens if you remain invested and he dies — that affects your emotions negatively. I think I would probably just say ‘So long, Jack.’ ”
As I sit back and read what I just wrote, I’m thinking to myself: Did not most of what I just said describe Chuck’s mustache? That mustache, the more I think about it, was not just neat and tidy, it was forced and calculated, too. Well, obviously every mustache is somewhat calculated; unless he’s a wild mountain man, a man grooms his ‘stache. But Chuck’s mustache was more than groomed — it was militarized. It obeyed his every command, rank and file with the rest of his neatness so that it did exactly, precisely what it was supposed to — act as a mustache — without really standing out. Maybe the mustache was originally a failed attempt at another quirk that ultimately blended in instead.
And many of us, as Chuck’s students, followed suit. You had very little time to play The Game of Chuck before he decided whether you’d win or lose, because in the beginning, you showed whether you would adapt to his grooming tactics or try to combat them. He decided, consciously or subconsciously, whether you had the potential to be the way he wanted you to be in his class. There were some students who were favored beyond a doubt, and others who seemed to be perpetually luckless in Texas Chuck’em, because of their willingness (or lack thereof) to conform to his style (at this juncture, it was quite important to a bunch of honors students to keep a good GPA). And his style never changed; his classes never changed. Nobody was naturally like Chuck because Chuck wasn’t completely, humanly natural. But lord knows Chuck would never change, like his mustache never changed, like the format for one of his AP English essays never changed. What, Chuck, was so bad about somebody thinking or being outside the boundaries of that too-perfect mustache? Why, Chuck, couldn’t you figure out that this very idea was the essence of being human?
When we met Question #118 many words ago, it was still just a question in need of an answer.
“Hmm, maybe. On one hand, they are my friends for some reason, which should logically be positive reasons that outweigh any potential criticisms. I know that everyone is bugged by little things about other people, and I would be no exception. Understanding this and knowing that it’s no reason to be angry, I could use their comments to improve upon myself. On the other hand, I could just assume the things people don’t like about me and try to change them, so they’d never have to bring it up at all. Or, what if I’m worse at reading people than I’ve thought, and I’ve really picked backstabbing, conniving friends who want to kill me and take all my possessions? That would be devastating to know.”
That’s me. Chuck’s approach, however, tended to be more black and white, and of course, in contrast to my answer. Chuck would have said no, definitely, because learning that others thought he had flaws would have ruined the pleasant equilibrium in which Chuck could perceive himself as ideal. I believe if Chuck would have thought of this metaphor as I am, he would agree; he would see himself like his perfectly balanced mustache, not too big and not too small, not drawing too much attention, but still smart and neat and functional and having enough character to be considered human.
I don’t know how long Chuck had had that mustache, or if he was different before he grew it. What I know is what I described: that I can represent Chuck and his mustache using many of the same descriptors.
What shakes me up a little is what has happened since he shaved it off.
Yes, Chuck shaved off the ‘stache. This was after my high school tenure, of course. Shortly after, he ran away with the school librarian, they got married and retired.
This whirlwind of events seemed dramatically un-Chucklike; first, it was pretty dramatic, for him (not to mention sort of made for a movie). Second, it was both uncharacteristic and natural, not like his other quirks, which were uncharacteristic but unnatural (as I explained before, like he made his quirks happen on purpose).
When Chuck shaved off his mustache, it suddenly became clear what his mustache represented – that the mustache was Chuck, and vice versa. Was this the end of Chuck as we had known him, we all wondered? It was definitely the end of his mustache, but the beginning of the legacy of his mustache, almost like an artist becomes famous post mortem. He could grow it back, sure, but he and I and other people would always remember that he had shaved it off for awhile — that even for Chuck, it was possible to change, even just for the sake of change itself.
It’s refreshing to know that not even the most constant of irksome constants will stay that way forever, because Chuck’s ability to maintain his Chucknicity sort of freaked me out. Maybe that’s what we all need — to shave off our mustaches and run away and get married and write an AP English essay that doesn’t look like every other person’s AP English essay, just to show that it’s possible — at least once in a while, to ensure that we aren’t destined to be stuck.
Question #132: If you went to a beach and it turned out to be a nude beach, would you stay and go swimming? Would you swim nude? (Stock 114)
Me: “I probably would stay, because nudity doesn’t really bother me — it’s a more modern thing, to make public what used to be considered private, and to be accepting of it and even nonchalant about it. Plus, I’d probably never see the people again. In light of that, I might even swim nude.”
Chuck: “But there would undoubtedly be people there whose bodies were better-looking than yours. Wouldn’t that make you self conscious? I wouldn’t do it. That’s just too personal.”
Well, Chuck, did you ever think you’d shave off your mustache?
***
Works Cited
Stock, Gregory. The Book of Questions. Workman Publishing Company, 1985.
Works Referenced
Kuehl, Matt. E-mail correspondence. 17 Jan. 2010.
[1] Matt Kuehl told me this could be imitative of the golf swing Johnny Carson did at the end of all his monologues, but how many high school students in the 2000s have watched a Johnny Carson Tonight Show?
[2] This question kind of gives away that the book was written in 1985, I think.
Gone are the days of Advanced Placement English as it used to exist at my high school, and I will tell you why. AP English, one of those “college-level” high school courses where you were supposed to work your ass off, take one huge test in the spring, and get enough credits to skip a class or two once you actually got to college, was defined not by the subject matter, but by the instructor, as classes often are. A teacher almost always affects how much you enjoy a class. Favorite subject + shitty teacher (where shitty teacher = particularly brainless, apathetic, patronizing or boring) = I hate this subject. Or, least favorite subject + awesome teacher (where awesome teacher = smart, caring, innovative, mindful) = I can dig this subject.
And there are, of course, some teachers who split the difference, maybe the teacher who is completely knowledgeable and probably cares that he gets his students to learn, but is un-personable.
That’s exactly where I’m headed — to an explanation of Chuckness. I say AP English is no longer the same because Chuck, the class’s long-time instructor, retired a few years back, but not before he imposed his Chuckness on me and my classmates.
The 4-1-1 on Chuck:
• He taught English.
• He was nobody’s favorite teacher.
• He was a lot of people’s least favorite teacher.
• He had a mustache.
When Chuck was my teacher, it wasn’t his mustache that interested me, not in the slightest. But now, it represents entirely what interests me about Chuck. This is because of what I now know about Chuck and his mustache, and what I deduced from what I have learned. Ready for a heavy dose of metaphor?
When I knew him five or six years ago, Chuck’s life was neither too big nor too small, but it represented what he perceived to be perfect normalcy. His manner of dress: classic khakis and a short-sleeved polo. Hair: short, light brown, naturally graying a little. Our class schedule was always pre-planned and adhered to: The first half of class was book discussion (for which Chuck kept tally marks next to our names for each comment we made, to effectively measure participation), the second half of class was vocabulary — ten words each week, with a quiz on Fridays — then preparing for the AP English exam by studying sample passages or learning and practicing the proper format to achieve a score of 7 or above on the essays (on a scale up to 9; that’s how you earned A’s in class).
But part of him must have known that he was so tidy (almost a little weenie-like; not full-on weenie, just a little) that he should make himself less so, maybe to have more in common with the rest of us in that we all have natural quirky differences, which are usually unobvious to us until someone else points them out. They make us human. It was my conclusion that he purposely integrated quirks into his personality to make himself seem more lax. The problem was that they were so obviously calculated that they never seemed natural, rather more like an automaton programmed to “be human.”
There was the golf swing, for one. Every once in awhile, he mimed a golf swing.[1] He didn’t say anything about it, before or after the act. He merely stood in front of the classroom and did the golf swing. Then he continued with whatever had been happening. The first couple of times this happened, the class reacted with confused chuckles, and then it continued to happen without reaction.
Chuck also forever played the devil’s advocate, especially when it came to the occasional “treat” class activity: The Book of Questions. That’s where Question #118 came from. Questions in the book largely fit into categories like wagering what physical attribute you would trade for an intellectual attribute (and vice versa), considering how mean you could be, or calculating how much of a risk-taker you are.
He would choose respondents for the questions he selected. When you answered, you were really answering to convince him, not to spark lively debate with the rest of the class. Whatever your answer, he always found another angle and used it to challenge you (some people really are just like that, I guess, but Chuck’s version of devil’s advocate was entirely manufactured). For many questions, different students would have various opinions, so Chuck would end up agreeing with someone. But for some questions, it would be almost inconceivable to hold any opinion but one; Chuck, however, was never fazed. Here’s another made-up but completely realistic and plausible book-of-questions moment:
“Now Miss Wickler, if you found that a good friend had AIDS, would you avoid him? How about if it was a brother or sister?[2]
“Absolutely not.”
“But don’t you think it would be too difficult to maintain a relationship without the subject of the disease making things uncomfortable?”
“But don’t you feel like your role as a friend in that situation would be burdensome? And then what happens if you remain invested and he dies — that affects your emotions negatively. I think I would probably just say ‘So long, Jack.’ ”
As I sit back and read what I just wrote, I’m thinking to myself: Did not most of what I just said describe Chuck’s mustache? That mustache, the more I think about it, was not just neat and tidy, it was forced and calculated, too. Well, obviously every mustache is somewhat calculated; unless he’s a wild mountain man, a man grooms his ‘stache. But Chuck’s mustache was more than groomed — it was militarized. It obeyed his every command, rank and file with the rest of his neatness so that it did exactly, precisely what it was supposed to — act as a mustache — without really standing out. Maybe the mustache was originally a failed attempt at another quirk that ultimately blended in instead.
And many of us, as Chuck’s students, followed suit. You had very little time to play The Game of Chuck before he decided whether you’d win or lose, because in the beginning, you showed whether you would adapt to his grooming tactics or try to combat them. He decided, consciously or subconsciously, whether you had the potential to be the way he wanted you to be in his class. There were some students who were favored beyond a doubt, and others who seemed to be perpetually luckless in Texas Chuck’em, because of their willingness (or lack thereof) to conform to his style (at this juncture, it was quite important to a bunch of honors students to keep a good GPA). And his style never changed; his classes never changed. Nobody was naturally like Chuck because Chuck wasn’t completely, humanly natural. But lord knows Chuck would never change, like his mustache never changed, like the format for one of his AP English essays never changed. What, Chuck, was so bad about somebody thinking or being outside the boundaries of that too-perfect mustache? Why, Chuck, couldn’t you figure out that this very idea was the essence of being human?
When we met Question #118 many words ago, it was still just a question in need of an answer.
“Hmm, maybe. On one hand, they are my friends for some reason, which should logically be positive reasons that outweigh any potential criticisms. I know that everyone is bugged by little things about other people, and I would be no exception. Understanding this and knowing that it’s no reason to be angry, I could use their comments to improve upon myself. On the other hand, I could just assume the things people don’t like about me and try to change them, so they’d never have to bring it up at all. Or, what if I’m worse at reading people than I’ve thought, and I’ve really picked backstabbing, conniving friends who want to kill me and take all my possessions? That would be devastating to know.”
That’s me. Chuck’s approach, however, tended to be more black and white, and of course, in contrast to my answer. Chuck would have said no, definitely, because learning that others thought he had flaws would have ruined the pleasant equilibrium in which Chuck could perceive himself as ideal. I believe if Chuck would have thought of this metaphor as I am, he would agree; he would see himself like his perfectly balanced mustache, not too big and not too small, not drawing too much attention, but still smart and neat and functional and having enough character to be considered human.
I don’t know how long Chuck had had that mustache, or if he was different before he grew it. What I know is what I described: that I can represent Chuck and his mustache using many of the same descriptors.
What shakes me up a little is what has happened since he shaved it off.
Yes, Chuck shaved off the ‘stache. This was after my high school tenure, of course. Shortly after, he ran away with the school librarian, they got married and retired.
This whirlwind of events seemed dramatically un-Chucklike; first, it was pretty dramatic, for him (not to mention sort of made for a movie). Second, it was both uncharacteristic and natural, not like his other quirks, which were uncharacteristic but unnatural (as I explained before, like he made his quirks happen on purpose).
When Chuck shaved off his mustache, it suddenly became clear what his mustache represented – that the mustache was Chuck, and vice versa. Was this the end of Chuck as we had known him, we all wondered? It was definitely the end of his mustache, but the beginning of the legacy of his mustache, almost like an artist becomes famous post mortem. He could grow it back, sure, but he and I and other people would always remember that he had shaved it off for awhile — that even for Chuck, it was possible to change, even just for the sake of change itself.
It’s refreshing to know that not even the most constant of irksome constants will stay that way forever, because Chuck’s ability to maintain his Chucknicity sort of freaked me out. Maybe that’s what we all need — to shave off our mustaches and run away and get married and write an AP English essay that doesn’t look like every other person’s AP English essay, just to show that it’s possible — at least once in a while, to ensure that we aren’t destined to be stuck.
Question #132: If you went to a beach and it turned out to be a nude beach, would you stay and go swimming? Would you swim nude? (Stock 114)
Me: “I probably would stay, because nudity doesn’t really bother me — it’s a more modern thing, to make public what used to be considered private, and to be accepting of it and even nonchalant about it. Plus, I’d probably never see the people again. In light of that, I might even swim nude.”
Chuck: “But there would undoubtedly be people there whose bodies were better-looking than yours. Wouldn’t that make you self conscious? I wouldn’t do it. That’s just too personal.”
Well, Chuck, did you ever think you’d shave off your mustache?
***
Works Cited
Stock, Gregory. The Book of Questions. Workman Publishing Company, 1985.
Works Referenced
Kuehl, Matt. E-mail correspondence. 17 Jan. 2010.
[1] Matt Kuehl told me this could be imitative of the golf swing Johnny Carson did at the end of all his monologues, but how many high school students in the 2000s have watched a Johnny Carson Tonight Show?
[2] This question kind of gives away that the book was written in 1985, I think.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Good [Enough] Riddance
Lost: Inspiration. If found, please return to Allison. Reward: Really entertaining, creative, thoughtful essays for years to come.
In order for you to understand this, you need to know the following:
I used to wear eye makeup all the time. In fact, eye makeup may have been a part of me. As my friends will attest, I rarely left the house without my fully painted, multi-layer eyeliner/mascara combo, or at least some of yesterday’s still smeared raccoon-like around their rims. (I once wrote a creative essay about the meaning of meticulously applying eyeliner and mascara every day, which I still considerably enjoy reading.)
Now, it is rare that I wear any. Why? Because going without is good enough. I wake up in the morning, and I think about what I must do that day. Mostly, it will be nothing extraordinary, but that’s not necessarily the problem. I have come to a point where I don’t even feel capable of creating or happening upon an extraordinary situation in which I would connect with a person of viable romantic interest. The aforementioned creative essay talked about using eyes to make people think about me when they saw me, even if for a brief moment on the street. While I certainly consider made-up eyes a greater physical advantage than my naked ones, I am not interested in employing them here and now, based on my surroundings (plus, I’ve heard actively questing for a boyfriend doesn’t work). I do, however, miss the artistic aspect of the morning ritual. So, looking like myself, but not (in my opinion) my best self, is good enough.
Good enough. Maybe ‘good enough’ is all right when applied to certain things, like my eye makeup. Homework for high school physics class, the subject I knew 100 percent that I would never use, also comes to mind. Note that I’m not talking about failing or producing crap.[1]
When I say ‘good enough,’ that is what I mean — it gets the job done. In the case of my homework, the ‘good enough’ came from me, not my parents or my teachers who constantly pushed me to be better. But what I have now realized, four sentences later, is that my physics work could have affected others. It could have reflected on my teacher or my parents; not only that, they could have felt discouraged knowing they pushed me to be better, and I just settled. So maybe ‘good enough’ really is not okay, but especially when it comes to doing things you care about.‘Good enough’ should be, well, good enough, right? Frankly, it seems to me that ‘good enough’ discourages improvement. It doesn’t have movement. It sounds stagnant. It sounds like the language of settling, which it is. You will no doubt feel shitty about the end result of that task or project if you really adhere to the ‘good enough’ mantra. The engineers and mechanics who built the next airplane I fly in better not have settled for ‘good enough.’
When it comes to things you care about doing (if you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to involve you in this plight. Is it working?), you don’t want to settle, do you? You want to resist that urge when ‘good enough’ is upon you. More importantly, you want to resist the urge to submit when ‘good enough’ gets bigger and more influential (Kuehl). You want to beat ‘good enough,’ and care. What you don’t want to do is become so lax that your ability to care slips away. You want to improve so that you keep caring, and you ideally want to be the best if that’s ever possible.
Writing is something I care about. Writing is my job, and writing is my hobby. Writing is something I want to get better at. Now, enter, ‘good enough.’
‘Good enough’ has infiltrated my lifestyle, and it stole my writing inspiration and sent it into hiding. (It also stole my desire to wear eye makeup.) Really, I haven’t written anything worth anything since I started getting regular, prolonged exposure to ‘good enough.’ And since we all are ever-changing products of our lifestyles, it must be the case that ‘good enough’ is to blame for my predicament.
Where did ‘good enough’ come from? For small things, it can start inside us. But for me, ‘good enough’ is presented as a general philosophy for my main daily activities. (To avoid oversimplifying: ‘Good enough,’ in this case is actually supposed to mean ‘Do the best you can with the time and resources you’ve got.’)
‘Good enough’ has been in my life before now (remember physics?), but never with this prominence. My parents, every teacher I’ve had, previous employers — all pushed me pretty hard to do better, even on small things or things that didn’t seem particularly important. ‘Good enough’ usually came from myself, and there were plenty of outside forces to overcome it. Now it’s coming from the outside, too, and that can be harder to beat down.
Flash forward: I am sitting, once again, in the warm and cozy circus tent that is Jenn’s Java. I am happily curled up on a cushy leather couch, mug in hand, racks of bright, handmade scarves and blankets in the background. A nest-like formation of fluffy kittens surrounds me. Ahh, comfort. I am writing. Words are flowing. My tea stays hot. All is right in the world.
Flash back: How do I get to the previous paragraph? Obsessive positive-thinking gurus would tell me to visualize what I want, and it will come to me. HELLO! That is what I have been doing with my inspiration for the past two months! How long do I have to wait?! Plus, I feel stupid doing it and it really doesn’t make any sense – close my eyes and think it, and it will happen? What, may I ask, occurs in between those two steps, unbeknownst to me, to connect all the dots? There must be a logical cause and effect. I must think harder.
Inspiration often is portrayed as an “Ah ha!” derived from a solitary occurrence – someone tells a touching story on the nightly TV news that makes you want to go out and volunteer, or you see a something curious on your walk through the neighborhood. Some historical figures have had muses who they claimed provided sparks of inspiration, and in turn they became very successful people.
I, too, have thought I felt the spark of inspiration. Most recently, it was seeing the movie The Blind Side, the story of NFL football player Michael Oher and how he was homeless and then taken in by a loving family and helped into success. Love those inspirational sports movies, and this one was definitely a crier. I thought maybe Michael Oher would inspire me to write something about selflessness – something meaningful and reflective that would change the way people thought or acted. Unfortunately, he did not. While his story was powerful, it was so far from my experiences that I couldn’t connect with it to write something meaningful, or even entertaining (Kuehl).
Sometimes, I suppose, I have felt a connection to a movie or other work of art, but I’ll argue this isn’t consistent enough to become a constant inspiration. I’ve written some creative pieces that I liked quite a bit that were “inspired” by what I thought were certain moments. But looking back, those creative essays have been a product of my lifestyle, and thusly the people, places and ideas that shaped that lifestyle (whatever type of lifestyle it was at the time). My essay about the time I was a juror and the final verdict, to this day, hangs heavy on my heart: Not just “inspired” by being on the jury, but by the sense of sympathy and humanity I acquired. My essay about the eye makeup: Not derived from an “Ah ha!” moment while applying my eye makeup one morning, but from the ideas and habits I had formed by doing it as a routine. My essay about men enjoying the sight of two women kissing: Not the result of a solitary moment, but of a cultural practice that seemed to surround me during my college years.
Inspiration is derived from elements of lifestyle. ‘Good enough’ is a significant element of my lifestyle. This is a dilemma, but as luck would have it I recently received a package that could serve as a coping mechanism. Inside this package, from a person I consider a creative influence, were written two messages. One was, “The world cannot make you mediocre, for you alone determine the quality you strive for. Dare to be great, no matter how terrifying the journey” (Volpe). The second was, “Sometimes you just have to tell the world to fuck off” (Volpe).
I am more inclined to heed a snide bit of encouragement than a sincere, P.C. sentiment, but the source of the words can really make or break the deal. In this case, I thought about the first statement and felt bad — like I’m weak or submissive — for letting my less-than-ideal situation continue to mold me. But I decided to buck up a little, and it started to make a lot of sense.
Just as I care about being better than ‘good enough,’ so too must I consciously care about inspiration itself in order to acquire it, even if it is as much as terrifying to do so. Me. I have to do it. I have to create my own destiny, as they say. (Before this uplifting revelation makes you sick, think about clichés —phrases used so often that they’ve lost their punch. But, they’re used often. So they must mean something relative to everyday life — quite a lot, in fact.)
I feel like I just discovered some weird, cyclical, chicken-and-egg thing that I really can’t define. Stay with me. I might be on the verge of something.
I thought I needed inspiration to write this essay. What I really needed was to work on this essay to bring back my inspiration. Things like The Proofread are what I really care about; as I failed at constructing essay after essay, I kept coming back because I thought it was important and worthy to do better than ‘good enough’ (or worse, not do it at all). I’m feeling more confident by the word that I can find the part of me that, when my lifestyle and surroundings were a bit different, cared a lot about the job that I now do. It is my hope that my inspiration to keep caring can lead me to be overcome being ‘good enough.’ True, it might be safer to be ‘good enough’ of your own accord if everyone around you is pushing you to be better — they might just save you from yourself. But when ‘good enough’ constantly surrounds you and permeates your thoughts and actions, it is a detriment to let more things fall to ‘good enough.’ For me and for everyone: The desire to overcome ‘good enough’ must inspire you to action, and the desire to be inspired must make you care to be better than ‘good enough.’
Perhaps this essay was not terribly riveting, but dear sweet lord, I hope it was better than ‘good enough.’
Eh. Really, this essay wasn’t for you at all. It was for me. Sorry. You can feel free to consult it in the future, should you need to. But by allowing this one essay to be for me, you’re allowing me to write another 23 all for you.
Thanks. Time to go paint on my eyeliner.
[1] I’d have to check my records, but I’m fairly certain I ended up with A’s in Physics. When I decided the answer I got was ‘good enough,’ it was usually 1 a.m. and I was about ready to throw my book at the wall.
Works Cited
Kuehl, Matt. E-mails to the author. 4 Dec. 2009, 6 Dec. 2009.
Volpe, Angelo. Quotes mailed to the author. 28 Nov. 2009.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
About Allison
Allison Wickler is now a less recent graduate of a fine collegiate journalism program who should have practiced the piano more diligently as a child. After a brief stint Woodward and Bernstein-ing it in Wisconsin on the lovely shores of Lake Michigan, the grammar goblin and perpetual list-maker is back in the Twin Cities conquering digital media. Otherwise, she’ll try to develop some hobbies and will relish her heated underground parking accommodations every time it snows.
Oh, and she's since given up trying to get a submission posted on textsfromlastnight.com—apparently she just isn’t ridiculous enough. Whatever.
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