Behemoth Rising

I have decided to undertake a venture of cosmic proportions.

Actually, I'm just trying to piece together a beautifully written and meaningful assessment of my life thus far. And it's hard. Frankly, it's hard as hell and I don't know where to begin.

You should have seen me this summer. I strategized with reckless abandon. I spent hours, literally hours of several days, several weeks, and several months creating outlines, discussing form, attempting beginnings. I even have a fairly serviceable first page or so, though it ends there. It ends before it gets too personal, because I am afraid, so very afraid, to lay my soul bare.

I have done a lot of things in my life I am not particularly proud of. I have done a number of things that anyone who has only met me in the last few months would probably have no idea. For those that aren't familiar, there's a game people sometimes play called, "I've never," wherein a group of people lists, in a circle, things they've never done. If you have done the mentioned thing, you get a "point." Depending on the length of the game, (generally dependent on the general level of boredom) you get five or ten strikes, points, before you're out.

As is often the case with late-teen-early-twenty-somethings, topics often settle on the vaguely sexual and subtly rebellious bemoanings (braggings?) of past mistakes. To this date, I have never won "I've never." If we played, "I have" I would be the gloriously shameful champion.

Even so, I think the scariest part is not exposing me, but exposing my family. My family is not a pretty matter, frankly, but it is what I have. What I have is broken and terribly flawed; within our immediate history is of course that which is tragic but understandable: cancer, high blood pressure, severe arthritis, mysterious brain diseases (stumping even the Mayo Clinic), and more. But among the uglier items lie alcoholism, insanity, an amazingly complete history of divorce, brokenness, and bitterness. Depression. Homosexuality. Et cetera.

This is who I am. I am all of these things, all of them are in me, specters that brush against my existence in one form or another, at one time or another. Things I gander even may get me fired, and certainly would have barred me from being employed in the first place by the conservative Christian school that employs me.

And yet this place, this school, for all its flaws, for all its opportunities to explores the phantoms of my heritage, is also the field in which I have sown seeds of faith. My Christianity is very imperfect. I often forget to read my Bible, and my best prayer times come when I realize I have just sped past a police car on the highway. But my faith is a thousand times stronger than it was when I entered this school just a few long and hard years ago, and I have never loved or appreciated my God more than I do today. To me, this faith is more valuable than year some might see as wasted. To me, this faith is bigger than all of my perpetual faults. To me, this faith is, I suppose, worth putting into words, even worth losing everything, because it is only by losing everything that I found it in the first place. This story is a behemoth I am not sure I can lift, but am, perhaps, fool enough to try.

Come On

Or, the death of journalistic integrity

So we had this SGO election. That's great, give the students a voice, let them make a fair, informed decision. Right?

Apparently not.

First off, let me vent: people complain that this election is just a popularity contest. Really? We string a couple of contestants up, pan them, poke them, prod them - and then we vote. And, get this guys, the person who more people want to vote for (i.e. the more popular one) gets the office. Oh, wait, Democracy is a popularity contest. Ever wonder why we don't have ugly presidents? It's not because they did a bad job in the past (I'm thinking Honest Abe had facial warts). It's because every election, everywhere, goes to the person who wins the popular vote. Do I have to say it again? The more popular person. And the people who supported the primary losing candidate, well, I'm frankly embarrassed by their vitriol. Both candidates said they want to be the voice of the student body. The student body spoke, and in record numbers. And now, they both have a chance to fulfill their primary goal: Stephen by stepping into office, and Hogan by stepping away (which he has done, and I have no beef with Hogan), and their respective supporters realizing the campaign is over, and it's time to stop slinging garbage.

And now the meat.

The Sojourn has never been a great paper. They're pretty limited in interesting topics, and pretty limited in the pool of writers to draw from. It's never going to be an A-level paper unless IWU becomes an A-level school. And that's fine.

But.

That doesn't mean it can't be an A-level embarrassment. I think, in the right circles, that it is well-documented that Adam Wren, editor of the Sojourn, and Aaron Baker, SGO President, do not get along. It is also a well-propagated rumor that Stephen ran as a puppet figure for Aaron (who I'm sure, after graduating, has nothing better to do than manipulate the political happenings at IWU. Oh, wait, that's ridiculous). Apparently two people can't be friends without political manipulations. Whatever.

So apparently Adam must have decided to use his clout against Stephen, as a surrogate for his interpersonal squabble with Aaron. That's fine. He can have a political opinion, I guess, though it's hard to know how vocal the press should be. But, he's also a student, so fine. But the clout he decided to wield, or perhaps the staff as a whole just happened to wield, was the Sojourn, which is, frankly, garbage. I am embarrassed to admit I am graduating with the same degree as such yellow journalists.

And for the record, I'm not trying to attack Adam. I've had classes with him, plenty, and I like him. And I don't know Nick Rambo, and I'm not one to judge someone I don't know. I'm not saying they're crappy journalists or editors or people, just that somehow, partisanship steeped into a supposedly unbiased source. And that, frankly, is appalling.

First off: publishing lies. This could be just a mistake. However, when the Sojourn printed, it said Jake's stance on study abroad was the same as Stephen's. However, anyone who paid attention to the debate would remember Jake's flippant response to Stephen to be that the program is fine; in fact, one of his cabinet members is participating this semester.

Second: irresponsible use of charged words. Under Stephen's position on opening the Library on Sunday, the illustrious paper listed, "Undecided, cabinet divided." This is terrible, charged wording, and any editor worthy of headlining the crappiest paper should recognize a line crossed. In reality, Stephen articulated that he's not willing to tell the school what it should do, but rather would like to work both with student, administration, and library staff to figure out what is best for the school. Stephen took this stance because of the concerns of both administration members and library staff, who frankly were offended at Hogan's rogue attack on their sabbath. He did this because he refused to run on a promise that he knew he may not be able to keep. And the Cabinet? The individuals within had different opinions, yes. But differing opinions are a lot different than divisiveness. Petty semantics? Maybe. But it feels irresponsible to me. A writer should know, as Mark Twain said, the difference between the right word and the almost-right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.

Third: Shady editorials. Shaun Waymire wrote an editorial attacking Hogan. Shaun is a muckraker. He cares nothing for Cady, he simply did not want to see Jake in office. Which is his right, and I'm sure people feel the sane way about Stephen. In fact, I know people do. Shaun, though, is involved in SGO, and is a good source for some things, and and editorial can be biased - it's an editorial. When Shaun submitted it, it was signed by five senators. When it was published, it was signed by three - one of whom has removed her signature, at the urging of Jake and (Sojourn Editor) Adam, and then, at the tug of her conscience, or maybe just Shaun's zeal, put her name back on. I'm sorry, but it is not okay for an editor of a paper to go to individuals who sign on an editorial and ask them if they're sure. And it's not okay for an editor to show the candidates one editorial, the one that bashes his particularly preferred candidate, but ignore other editorials that attack, in subtle ways, the others, including one that outright lied about Stephen and Patrick. The editorial implied that neither had (1) important administrational connections, or (2) relevant SGO experience.

(1) Are you serious? I can't speak for Patrick, but I know Stephen. I know that he came to IWU largely after being convinced by now President Henry Smith. I know he was babysat as a child by people who are professors at this school. I know he works for Julie Voss, Todd Voss's wife, and both works and runs with Emily, his daughter, and is familiar to and comfortable around him. I also know that Stephen has met the new Academic Provost for next year, and discussed with him the importance of differentiating the CAPS program from the traditional CAS program. This while Hogan was complaining about Sophomore Curfew - something that exists only for sophomores who weren't responsible freshman year, something that administrators he is apparently so connected with have said is not going away. But of course, Stephen had no chance to rebut this.

(2) Stephen, yes, had no SGO experience. That's fair. But Grindlay does, and the statement implicated them both, and I'm guessing Grindlay had no idea this editorial was going to run.

Further, I know for a fact that there were better quality editorials, from a writing standpoint, that were rejected. I'm not sure why, honestly. And I am not holier-than-thou; I admit I know little about how a paper works. But it seems to me an Editor with respect for his paper would want to publish the best available editorials, for every candidate. I could not say how many people mentioned, off-hand, how it had seemed like Hogan got a lot more thorough coverage. Seriously, guys, did you think you were invisible?

I have nothing against the staff at the Sojourn. I'm not even angry, really; Stephen ran a good, clean campaign, was straightforward and honest, and from what I can tell, so did the other candidates. And Stephen won, and I think (sure, I'm biased, my writing's on the internet, not in the media) he deserved to. I think he is poised to do great things, and I think his cabinet is stacked with important, productive voices. So Stephen, congratulations. And Sojourn, well, that was sloppy. Believe me, I know all about sloppy work. But I've also learned that at some point, you have to stop sliding, and have some respect for what you're doing. Honestly, come on.

Weird time of life

Today I turned in my first professional application. Cover letter, resume, references, all of it. Suddenly life is becoming life, and not just preparation. I'm looking at Admissions, a two-year commitment here in Marion. Steve is committed to Chicago, and is talking to some of the best marketing firms in the world. Zack and I are both looking at journals, books, publications of any sort to try to get published in. And I might write a book. College is over.

A professor, who is becoming a friend, approached me and asked me to think and pray about writing a book. I remember someone once told me before (during a group project for Contemporary Lit) that I should write about my life, and I always thought maybe, maybe someday, but not now. That seems so ambitious for me, far too ambitious for where I am at. I have no idea to write a book.

Mary Brown says you write it one page at a time, just like you run a marathon: one foot in front of the other. She says if I can write a page, I can write a book. But how do I write something that will make people care?

New friends, roommates, passions, jobs, houses, everything. It's all changing so suddenly, and I feel like I'm living someone else's clothes - clothes I haven't quite grown into yet.

I'll post a paper I'm proud of.

How We Played in Peoria

Nestled between two apartment complexes in Peoria, Illinois sits Carver Pool. Peoria is a mid-sized city in a mid-sized state, large enough for big-city problems but small enough to lack big-city glam and prestige. I spent fifteen summers in Peoria, four of them working at Carver: slide monitor then lifeguard, guard then head guard, and finally, assistant manager. The pool is new, bright – a rainbow of umbrellas, toys, boards, a slide – all ringed in the spray of waterpark sprinklers. You can look at its big, pink slide climbing high above neighboring buildings and imagine prosperity. Imagine.

But the city is old, tired. Cityscape Apartments and The Village Green are government subsidized housing – projects. Romeo B. Garrett Avenue, John H. Gwynn Drive, Richard Pryor Place – the names you might not know, local black men who attained some degree of national fame. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Drive, Richard Allen Drive, and the George Washington Carver Center round out the list of famous black names. We are not in a nice part of town.

Carver Pool's proper name is John H. Gwynn Jr. Family Aquatic Center. The local kids still call it what their elders always called it, though, Carver Pool – a dilapidated old lap pool Gwynn replaced. Family Aquatic Center is a bit of a stretch, considering the general clientele. Poor, black, young. The same kids came day after day, though I'm sure the generation of swimmers I knew is long gone. Most came because the two dollar admission was bargain babysitting. Many didn't even have these two dollars and begged daily for free admission. Some were locked out of the house all day, nowhere else to go. One ten year-old looked me dead in the eye and tell me he was locked out “cuz Momma's f----n her boyfriend.”

* * *

Life's a bitch and then you die; that's why we get high
Cause you never know when you're gonna go

- Nas, “Life's a Bitch”

“Where's DeAndre?” we asked. Kenny showed up without his older cousin, which had never happened before. While kids under seven weren’t allowed in alone, we usually let the eight year old DeAndre “parent” his five year old cousin. It was an abuse of the rules, but they were good kids, and staggeringly cute. Rules are far-sighted anyway.

“He on punishment!” yelled the irrepressible Kenny, eyes ablaze with anticipation of cool water on a warm day. Most kids would have run off immediately, jumped in the water, but not Kenny. Kenny always lingered around the office, saying hi to the staff, reveling in attention. And so we were able to draw the story out of the excited five year old, still a difficult task. When we pieced it together, we were shocked. The eight year old DeAndre had done drugs.

I've always been taught that some great ugly monster of peer pressure, some tall, dark, sinister (yet so cool) character standing on the corner, some first-hit's-free manipulator is the one pushing drugs. I've always been taught that “no” is the kryptonite of the drug culture – sure death to the beast of pressure. Not for DeAndre, though; he was his own monster.

In the morning he'd left his cousin's cramped apartment, easing out into a fresh summer day, the sheepish sun still reeling from the abuse of winter, proud to be shining and still too grateful to be oppressive. DeAndre grabbed a scrap of newspaper and went out into this new day. Sitting in the parking lot, on the very edge, where some grass has managed to grow in the cracks and damage of ill-maintained housing, he pulled the blades and stuffed them into the paper. This he rolled up into a homemade joint, and lit it with a lighter he had stolen. His eyes glowed watching the flame, nervous, eager, proud. His throat stumbled over noxious, ill-formed puffs of smoke.

* * *

Instead of war on poverty,
they got a war on drugs so the police can bother me.
And I aint never did a crime I aint have to do.

- Tupac Shakur, “Changes”

I had seen him around the pool for a few days. He had shown up around the time the criminals did – occasionally a bus would show up from State in Joliet, and drop off released convicts not far from the pool. He had all the traits of a burnout: the stilted, painful walk, the mumbling speech, the deep lines on his face and the cataract-like dullness of his eyes. Some days he would stand for hours at the fence of the pool, staring vacant, longing.

I opened the pool in this heavy, late-summer morning. I unlocked the fence gates, disarmed the alarms, checked the water levels, and filled out paperwork. I found myself standing then, staring out of the cashier's booth, waiting for the day.

He approached, not quite looking at me. Bored, I lingered, waiting to see what he would say. One hand in his jacket pocket, he finally looked at me directly, tired determination in his eyes. “Give me all the money,” he mumbled, gesturing with his hidden hand, “I have a gun.”

I must have supposed a man who couldn't afford a change of clothes also couldn't afford a gun. “I'm sorry, man,” I lied. “We're not open yet. There's no money.”

Confusion blitzed through his eyes, chased away by disappointed relief. I turned my back, walked away, and never saw him again.

* * *

They demonize welfare,
Middle class eliminated,
Rich get richer til the poor get educated.

- Sage Francis, “Slow Down Gandhi”

Scooby was unique. He grew up in the projects and loved skateboarding. He often got in trouble for fighting in the pool, but it was never fighting for himself. Scooby would see other kids getting picked on and throw himself in the fray, splashing like a maniac, dunking heads underwater, darting in and out of the action. I watched him, on multiple occasions, disperse a pack of five or more kids, bullying the bullies.

Scooby was smart, too. He was articulate, and easily held a conversation with guards six to ten years older than he was. It was so apparent talking to him that his brain was working, really working to figure out the things about him. He liked school, he liked to read, and he seemed to be good at about everything he tried.

“So what are you going to be when you grow up, Scooby?” asked Jordan, a manager.

“I wanna be a rapper,” he said, looking you straight in the eye, with a matter-of-fact, this-should-be-obvious look. “That or a basketball player.”

* * *

Never let them see you down

Smile while you bleedin

- K'naan, “Smile”

Donzell was fat, though his tongue was fatter. His speech was barely decipherable, his movements awkward. He looked like a black manatee. And he loved the pool: underwater there is no weight, there is no speech, there is no awkward. Underwater, it didn't matter that he didn't have a swimsuit – his stretched-out shorts worked just as well.

For a long time, Donzell safety-pinned his shorts together, bunching the dead elastic tight enough to stay at his waist. Eventually, though, chlorinated water and rapid movement eat away at metal. One day Donzell lost his pin and ran home, clutching the monstrous shorts as tight as possible.

The next day, Donzell shocked our world. He walked through the locker room and out onto the pool deck, a steely determination in his eyes, tinged with shame, but blazing with insistence.

His stretched shorts hung loosely around his waist, drooping down between three glinting metal anchors. Donzell's black mesh shorts hung from blazing red suspenders.

* * *

Now all the teachers couldn't reach me

And my momma couldn't beat me

Hard enough to match the pain of my pop not seein me

- Jay-Z, “December 4th”

Everyone called him May-May. It came from Tremayne, his given name, but his nickname was better suited for him anyway: short and simple. May-May couldn't have been any older than five, though he found himself alone most days. Oversized sandy-brown leather boots, long jean shorts, plaid boxers peering out overtop, and a stained wifebeater. He never had a towel, and rarely had money for admission. Yet he would show up, begging, sneaking, and crying to get into the pool. And daily, someone would take pity on his dirty, baby-fat face and pleading eyes.

“Lemme help,” he'd ask, tugging on my uniform. I was head guard; it was my job to walk laps and make sure the guards on duty didn't need anything: water, shade, sunblock, or disciplinary back-up. May-May liked to help, so I put my “LIFEGUARD” visor on his head and we took off on rounds.

In between rounds, we stood by the office, surveying our pool. He looked at me, a thousand cities of sadness in his graceful, glowing eyes. I bent to pick him up, fat little Tremayne, and held him in one arm. His eyes scrunched in the close warmth, his black face pressed into my white skin, a moment of puerile bliss. “You're my daddy now,” he claims me. “I love you.”

I've been told to blog.

Lately I've gotten from three sources an urging to blog. So I'm trying it, though I'm not sure how long it will last. I'm also slightly hesitant to put some of my writing online. Honestly, my journal is a sacred place to me - its violation would probably be the most damaging thing someone could to to his or her relationship to me.

So it's hard for me to think about writing for the whole world to see. Sometimes I think my ideas aren't important enough to throw out on the web. Sometimes I think my ideas are too important to not be better guarded.

And now starts the experiment. I will probably post writings I am particularly proud of, with the hope of every writer - that someone will read them and care. I will probably post some of my more social thoughts, the ones that confront the state of mind we are in now, today, as twentysomethings. Probably some Jesus things too, that seems to be a pretty lasting part of my life.