Bouncing Stories

Before I made the migration back to Texas from Missouri, I was living in my friends basement. Where some people might consider that a step backwards in life, I felt myself blessed to have friends that would take me in. All in all, those few months were very happy for me. Mostly, because of my friends children. He had a little boy and a little girl. I enjoyed playing with them both, building Legos, being their horse to ride around the den, and watching shows on Nickelodeon. But the little girl took to me more easily and more quickly. I think this was mostly because she wanted attention, and I was a willing listener. Every day when she'd get home from school, she'd come into my room, plop down on my bed, and tell me all about her day. What they were serving for lunch, what so-and-so said or did that day, what she liked the best about dance class, etc. I listened as she talked about her life. I enjoyed her perspective on things, and I asked her appropriate questions to prompt her and keep her talking. It would go on like this until her mom would call her back upstairs, so she wouldn't bother me anymore. Sometimes now, I come home from work, and I miss that little girl bouncing on my bed, telling me about her day. I wonder if she misses me too.

The Comb-Under

I have a bald patch right under my chin where no hair will grow. Consequently, I have bald patches on my cheeks too, which prevents me from growing a full beard. And they're not symmetrical, so I could at least act like I did it on purpose, like one of those cool sculpted R&B beards. BD says it's because I have English blood in me, and no Englishman can grow a proper beard. This is very unfortunate, because I like to keep a goatee, which means that to do it properly I have to grow part of my goatee out longer and then slick it back to fill in the bald spot. I call it my comb-under.

I'm With Stupid - Part 2

A few years ago, I wrote a post about how accomplished my wife was on paper. Throw in the exotic aspect of her coming from Greece, and basically everyone we meet here is so enamored with her that I fade into the background. But there is one place in this world where I can outshine my wife while just being myself. A place where I'm the star that everyone is falling over themselves to talk to. That place is Greece. Because in Greece, my wife is just like everyone else...she's not exotic, and she's just as accomplished as the man selling t-shirts in Monasteraki. But me, well I'm exotic in Greece! And over there, my education is fascinating to people. "You only have a bachelors degree?! I've never met someone with such a low degree of education. How do you function in normal society being that stupid?" Well, maybe not.

The Last Bonfire

Continuing my theme of "Where were you when..." I'm going to write about the last Bonfire at Texas A&M. Some people might want to start with the fall of Bonfire, but I want to start a year earlier. I was in my first year at Texas A&M, and I was still thrilled and awed by the tradition that ran rampant through the school. It seemed like every week I was experiencing something new. I'd said "Howdy" more times than I could count, and I was serenaded every morning by the music practice of the Fighting Texas Aggie Band. But Bonfire was going to be the pinnacle to top them all. The anticipation had been building for weeks as guys would run up and down the halls every morning at 5 am, trying to rouse other guys for cut and stack and finally build. Never having been an early riser, I never got my lazy carcass out of bed to help, but I certainly wasn't going to miss the final product. The night we gathered on the polo fields was a nice night...clear, calm, and seasonably warm. The murmur of hundreds of conversations permeated the air. The strong odor of jet fuel wafted on the slight breeze. The stack was roped off so no one could get close and accidentally torch themselves, but crowds of people were packed right up as close as they could get. My girlfriend at the time, Kristy, and I were a little ways off, having arrived "late" even though we were half an hour early. We had found an open pocket, where we weren't crowded but still had an unobstructed view. This proved to be the perfect place when the first sparks were applied and the fuel caught fire. In mere seconds, the fire raced up the thoroughly saturated logs, and the entire structure, including the longhorn outhouse on top of the 55 foot structure, was engulfed in flames. The heat radiating off the stack was intense, even back where we were standing. Many eager people toward the front quickly began to back off as the fire grew hotter and hotter, building to a climax. The smell of jet fuel was soon replaced by the sweet, earthy scent of burning wood. The area, relatively dark before, lit up with an orange brilliance. Light flickered and glowed on the smiling faces of thousands of people who had gathered to witness the event. The flames twisted and writhed trying to reach their fiery fingers up to Heaven. The whole sight was bathed in majesty and awe as early cheers were replaced with an eerie quietness. We stood watching for quite a while watching the stack succumb to the relentless flames trying to tear it apart, never knowing that it would be our last.

Dealey Plaza

Today I visited Dealey Plaza and The Sixth Floor Museum...the memorial area dedicated to the assassination of John F. Kennedy. I was amazed to see how many people were lined up to take pictures. Maybe they were like me, and they were curious about a historical moment that they had heard about all their lives. Maybe they wanted to experience the scene for themselves. But unlike me, they were smiling, giddy, and genuinely entertained by someone's death. What is wrong with our culture? Why do we build monuments, preserve buildings, and sell tickets to be entertained by death? Think about how many places like this we have...Ford's Theatre, the Vietnam Memorial, the Oklahoma City Bombing Memorial, the 9/11 Memorial, Gettysburg. I could go on, but I think you get the point. Why don't we just build memorials to celebrate someone's life or acts of heroism and bravery? Why are we also so fascinated with death? Why do we want to remember the tragedies?

9/11 To Me

Everyone always asks, "Where were you when such and such happened?" They want to know what you were doing when you heard about the tragedy; how you reacted, what you did. So I wanted to write about where I was when 9/11 happened. I was a student at Texas A&M, just beginning my second senior year. There was some whispering in class about some big event on the news, but I didn't pay attention, because I usually didn't care about world affairs. I lived by the philosophy that if it didn't affect me personally, then I didn't care. It wasn't until I was walking through the Student Center during a break in classes that the exact nature and enormity of the situation hit me. They had erected large TVs all over the big room in the Student Center, broadcasting the news. Images of the smoking Twin Towers were being flashed across the screen. Ominous news reports were echoing through the halls of terrorists taking over planes and crashing them into buildings, killing everyone on board. Updates and new pictures and footage were streaming in live as people tried to get their minds around what had just happened. We thought we were untouchable. We thought we were safe. Nobody attacked us on US soil! Nobody brought war and unfeeling violence to our very doorstep! This had to be a dream. People around me were openly weeping as they watched the screens. Strangers huddled together in crowds, needing the companionship, the support, and the safety of numbers. Nobody talked. Nobody had words for what they were seeing. The shock, the disbelief, the horror. Nobody looked away. We stood there, rooted in place for hours. Classes and appointments were forgotten. I vaguely remember hearing an announcement about classes being cancelled. But it wasn't like I was going anyway. Who could focus at a time like this?! At some point, I did make it back to my apartment. My roommate had the news on, sitting on the edge of the couch staring at the same images being flashed over and over again. I sat down next to him to watch them again with the same shock and awe as if I was seeing them for the first time. We sat like that for hours, changing stations to see if someone else had something new...something that explained how this could happen. Pictures of the planes moments before impact, of the smoke from the crashes, of the debris and dust caking people, roads, everything for miles around...all permanently etched in my mind forever. A heart full of sadness at the unnecessary loss of life. A feeling of helplessness that there was nothing I could do but pray as I sat watching from my couch. That is what I remember of that day. That was 9/11 to me.