Cross-Country Blog

Out of all the Nick Adams Stories we read this semester, “Cross-Country Snow” was one of my favorites. In classic Hemingway style, it read as a one last outing for Nick and his buddy, George, before they each went their separate ways. I couldn’t help but feel nostalgia creep into my mind as I read this story. Just as George went off to school after the went skiing, I left my home and friends to come to TCU. Of course I was ready for the freedom and independence that comes with college life, but any step into the unknown comes with it an air of uncertainty. There is a certain comfort that I felt, and still feel, about my time in high school and before. Looking back, even the events like the English class I wrote about in another blog, which were horrible, it was still a part of that life. Going home now over breaks has just been weird, because it feels more like a vacation than anything else. It sounds drastic but I’ve realized I have gotten to a “point-of-no-return” in my life where, if I can’t make this work, I can’t really go back to anything. There is just something beautiful about coloring and nap time in kindergarten that I miss, but can never do again.

On a much scarier note, I found myself relating to Nick in some ways. George gives him a hard time about how much Nick must hate the idea of settling down with a family, to which Nick replies, “No. Not exactly.” In no way am I saying that I’m ready to settle down with a family, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to it. Seeing my older sisters’ friends getting married and knowing my parents met in college, I have thought that this may end up being the place where I meet the person I spend the rest of my life with. That is terrifying. What makes it even more terrifying is that I may not even know if it’s happening to me.

I finish this last blog with a comment on how much I have enjoyed writing these. It has been cool to get some of my thoughts down on paper (metaphorically). Thanks for the great class this semester Dr. Williams and anyone else who reads this. Merry Christmas!

A Halloween to Remember...

October of 2010 was about the time I had finally settled into college life at TCU. I had established some of the best friends a guy could ask for, and, academically, I was in a fairly good place. As Fall began to settle in, well places that get that season, which apparently isn’t here, my friends and I began to brainstorm ideas for Halloween costumes. I am not one of those guys that usually goes “all-out” for Halloween, but I figured since this was my first Halloween in college, I would actually try. So, because I always try to plan ahead, I started to think of ideas that Friday, the thirtieth. As chance would have it, I wasn’t feeling to well, so I decided I would get plenty of rest that night, wake up on Saturday and go get a costume that morning.

Well, I woke up on Saturday not feeling well at all. I actually spent most of Saturday morning throwing up and watching football on my bean bag in Milton. Around three o’clock I began having these really random convulsions where I couldn’t control different limbs of my body. The health clinic was closed, so I asked Brandon take me to an immediate care clinic. We went to a clinic by the Super Target off of Overton Ridge Blvd. Apparently they don’t accept BlueCross BlueShield insurance past four o’clock, and they weren’t sure they could even see me before they closed at five, so we left to find another clinic. Brandon thought he found one off Bryant Irvin Rd. just south of Overton Ridge, but apparently they had moved or closed because we never found it. While he was looking for another place, I lost feeling in all of my extremities and could barely speak, so we decided that it would be best to just call an ambulance to our location, which, at that point, was some random parking lot. Brandon, however, couldn’t describe where we were so he had to put me on the phone. I somehow was able to spit out enough coherent thoughts to get the ambulance there, and they took me to a nearby hospital without being able to decipher what was wrong with me. After being admitted and giving me an IV with a morphine drip, they began to run various tests on me, one of which needed to be a urine sample. I hadn’t kept fluids down in nearly fifteen hours, so I really couldn’t give them one. The nurse told me that I had twenty minutes to make it happen or else they were going to have to put in a catheter. For the next fifteen minutes Brandon was Googling different ways to make someone have to urinate while I tried any tactic he could find. Finally, literally five minutes before the nurse returned with the catheter, we were finally successful in our task. I must say that having Brandon cheer me on as I urinated in a bottle took our friendship to another level. They discovered I had a rare stomach virus that threw my body into complete dehydration causing my body to quit functioning properly. I was allowed to return to my dorm room later that night, and spent the next two days in bed recovering. Guess it was a good thing I didn’t get a costume. Best. Halloween. Ever.

When in Rome...Illuminati!

            While in Rome, Italy, two men choose to accept a quest to discover whether Dan Brown actually uses real landmarks in Angels and Demons. One, a cunning Kansan, hell-bent on discovering the truth, Tyler Vincent; the other, the Lebanese Wonder, himself, Brandon Somerhalder. We left the group of fifty that we traveled with for the afternoon for the voyage could only be completed by two. Our tour guide had given us a map of the city of Rome that morning, and this would be our resource to find the four different locations that make up the “path of the Illuminati.” Base camp was set up at the Pantheon, so, due to convenience, we began our journey with a trip to the Piazza Navona. Although only a ten minute walk, the crowds of people proved to be a formidable opponent. We arrived at the Piazza, found the Fontana delle Quattro Fiumi, took a picture and headed towards Vatican City and St. Peter’s Square. We had actually made this walk earlier in the day, a peaceful walk across and along the Tiber River. I remember St. Peter’s Square was busy, as usual, and how peculiar I felt to be the only person to be taking a picture of the ground while everyone else was focused on the architecture. (We needed a picture of the West Wind stone at the base of the Vatican obelisk) The next stop on our epic adventure took us to the statue of Habakkuk & the Angel in the Church of Santa Maria del Popolo. This was by far our longest trek of the afternoon, and the most difficult location to find. The Piazza Del Popolo is a fairly large oval shape with an obelisk in the middle. There is also two churches there, both of which were undergoing construction on the faces of each building so we didn’t think either were open, but we would not be denied. We located the correct church and snuck in the side door, attaining the picture we so desired. Our final stop took us to the Church of Santa Maria della Vittoria to see the statue of The Ecstasy of St. Teresea. It was powerful to visit these different places and reliving the scenes from the book at each site. There were many moments of “reality-checks” where we could barely believe we were in Rome, Italy visiting these places that were in Angels and Demons.

On the way back to the Pantheon, we were in no hurry so we had no real planned path. As chance would have it, we walked by the house of the President of the Republic of Italy, which is on a hill in west Rome. The view from the steps in front of his estate captured the entire city of Rome, including St. Peter’s Basilica. It was late in the evening and there was an orange-creme colored sky as the backdrop to one of the best views I will never forget. We got back to the Pantheon a little before dark to the shock of the rest of the group. It was an experience I will never forget with one of my best friends of all time.

Life is a Series of Choices, Refuse to Be Stupid

Even though it might be a little cheap to write about the story I presented on, I am going to anyway. When I first started to read “The Man Who Was Almost a Man,” I started to write it off as just another coming-of-age story, but it turned out to be more than that. The more I thought about Dave’s decision to leave, the more I was unsure of what I thought about that decision. My first reaction was to think of him as a coward. His parents gave him the opportunity to show some responsibility by owning a gun, and he quickly showed him that he wasn’t mature enough for that responsibility. My parents always taught me that it is far better to accept the consequences of my actions and channel my embarrassments and frustrations into something constructive. Never let a mistake hurt you twice.

On the other hand, I could see where Dave’s choice to leave might actually be better for him than staying. In class we talked in depth about how a man’s choices define what kind of man he is. I got the sense that there were some really oppressive qualities about the community around him. At some point, if a man thinks that the people he has around him aren’t the kind of people that share similar values or challenge him to be a better person, then he should remove himself from that situation. I can guarantee that Dave will grow up quickly once he is on his own. Now the real question is whether he can make the correct decisions when he is away from his family. Just as a high-school student going off to college, that new freedom can lead down a better or worse path. I know I have loved the opportunities and experiences I have had so far at TCU, but I can also tell you that I have not always made the right decision, but I learned from it. This story reminded me that, yes, taking responsibility for my actions is an important part of being an adult, but, if I think I can do better under different circumstances, I shouldn’t be afraid to leave the disfunction of my current situation.

My Room

        I used to be embarrassed to tell people about my room at home because it looks like it consistently is having an identity crisis. Over time, I finally realized that it is actually the perfect representation of who I am. My room actually sits over the garage, which is annoying because my bed shakes anytime the garage goes up or down. It also means my the temperature of my room is heavily dependent on the weather outside. Because I am on the top floor and the side with no attic, the triangle-shaped roof forms the outline of my ceiling. This means that my actual walls rise only about three feet before the white ceiling begins to slope towards the center of the room about seven feet off the ground. It is accurate to assume I have hit my head numerous times in the morning when I first wake up. The wall paper has been the same since I picked it out in 1994. It is an athletic print that is striped with blue, red, yellow and white with a border at the top that is made up of squares that say things like “Your #1” and “Go Team!”.

As you walk in the door, you would most likely be greeted with clothes scattered all over the brown-carpeted floor. I have a thirty-two gallon fish tank that hasn’t been used in years sitting against the wall on the right, and a big blue denim love-seat is against the wall on the left with a reading lamp behind it. Beside the fish tank is my closet which takes up the remainder of that wall. In a little alcove there is a desk with a trendy, light-blue chair. Above my desk is one standard window that overlooks the driveway. As you continue to the back of my room, my dresser and bed are the next pieces of furniture. A few years ago, my sophomore year of high school, my parents bought me new furniture, which I assembled myself, that looks like lockers. The frames are a dark steel with colored, metal drawers that are changeable. These, plus the love-seat, are really the only semi-adult objects in this room. Once you snake around my bed into the back portion of my room, another dresser holds more of my clothes and has a stereo sitting on top. Behind my stereo sits a two large windows overlooking the trees in my front yard that shade the driveway. There is also another collection of white shelves that hold my various gadgets, as well as a white cabinet that has all of my golf and basketball trophies/metals on top, but which (I’m pretty sure) is empty on the inside. There is also a night stand next to my bed that supports a lamp and dozens of water-rings from all of the drinks that I have left on there over the years. That sums up my room pretty well, don’t judge.

What a View

       It’s a drive I have made every summer of my life, through the intersection of Kansas, Oklahoma, Missouri, and down into northern Arkansas. Four out of the five hours is nothing more than flat plains and the occasional hill, but the last hour is beautiful. Just before the Missouri-Arkansas border, highway 71 enters the Ozark Mountains. The highway is framed on either side by large walls of stone swirled with creme and rose, peppered with remnant holes of the dynamite used to create the pass. It winds through the little town of Bella Vista before entering Rogers, Arkansas.

After exiting onto Highway 62, Tyson headquarters and the regional airport are comforting signs that thirty minutes separate me from Beaver Lake. A fighter-jet and combat-helicopter are mounted at the entrance of the airport, posed mid-battle as if they were reliving their finest moments. A couple miles later, one stoplight sits between my car and twenty miles of my favorite stretch of road anywhere. The undulated road is hugged on each side by huge trees, green and powerful, so dense that fifteen feet deep is all that a passerby is allowed to see. Each rise in the road offers a glimpse of the vast forest with no inclination of what lies ahead.

After passing the Buss Stop in Garfield, I turn the music up (Country, obviously) and roll the windows down to get the first whiff of crisp, clean air. A couple miles later, a sharp right turn, quick incline and break in the trees gives the first glimpse of the lake I have so longed to return to. Perched high above the water, the road clings to the side of the mountain with precarious turns that I take too fast, a familiar habit I picked up from riding with my Dad along that road so many times. The final turn down to the house greets me with the steepest, tightest s-shaped turn, lined with a stone wall about three feet high. This is the only stretch of road I slow considerably because, on the other side of the wall, is the view I have waited five hours to see. The trees frame my view as if taking a picture that only few will ever see. The horizon rises from the water, past the rocky shoreline, up the dark green trees and meets the light blue sky. The water lies a few hundred feet below, crystal clear and sparkling from the sun. Boats and Jet-Skis glide smoothly, effortlessly across the water probably on their way to no where in particular, the perfect destination. What a view...

The Cask of Monte Cristo? That Doesn't Sound Right.....

       Edgar Allen Poe offers a dark story depicting cold, calculating revenge in “The Cask of Amontillado.” It wasn’t the first time I had read this story in a Literature class, however this is the first time I have had the opportunity to write about it. Whenever I began reading, I thought back to how I had felt about it after I had read it the first time. The story had been part of a unit on Poe, and so I viewed this story as merely another example of his writing. Poe’s writing style paints a vivid and realistic picture that causes the reader to live the different situations he puts forth. I remember shuddering at the chills running down my spine when I thought of being chained to a wall and watching my friend seal my death meticulously with stones and mortar. I have to admit I was also impressed with the meticulousness Montresor shows throughout the situation, thinking of every last detail and choosing each word so carefully. Poe does an excellent job of constructing this dark deceit, making the dialogue drip with irony from beginning to end.

Having read it before, I was more aware of the little details throughout the story as I combed through it another time. The subtlety which Poe uses to get his messages across is genius. I get the impression that his subtlety is accompanied with cynicism in stories like “The Cask of Amontillado,” reflecting his attitude that if you can’t pick-up on his little objectives then you are most likely guilty of said offense. For instance, the fact that Montresor is trying to finish his masonry by Ash Wednesday at the end of the story. The irony that accompanies a man trying to finish the task of killing his friend before a holy day is enormous, and, yet, it is mentioned only as a quick remark that he wants to finish before midnight. People, myself included, have a tendency to stick to our rigidities of dogma, but often overlook how our daily actions reflect those same beliefs. Poe, amidst all of the other ironies and entertainment of this story, throws in a slight towards those people who mistake righteousness for self-righteousness. Well played, Poe, well played.

Mmmmmm Tasty

       I walked out of the doctor’s office that May morning, got in my car and drove the ten minute drive back to school. I thought about how my day had started with a check-up appointment for my allergies, but had turned in to a commitment to have surgery on June eighth. The doctor informed me that tonsils and adenoids had become swollen, nearly blocking my airway causing my ailments. Nasal polyps peppered my sinuses, making the issues worse. Fast forward about three weeks and I was walking back into that same building on an unusually cold morning at ten. The waiting room was a warm relief, which nearly put me to sleep before I went into the back of the building. When my name was finally called, I stumbled back to the room, slipped on the awkward gown and climbed into my bed. I was promptly hooked into an IV, cleared for surgery, and gently put to sleep by the warm surge of anesthesia.

Two hours later I awoke to find what felt like a hand around my throat and a feeling that I had been hit square in the face by a baseball bat. Apparently that is what is deemed a “success” for that procedure. Luckily, I was allowed to go home only an hour or so later, carried out in a wheelchair and loaded into the front seat of my Dad’s car with my Mom driving. The anesthesia wore off about three hours later and the recovery, from what I thought was a relatively surgery, began. Immediately I questioned why I had gone through this surgery. Designed to make it easier to breath, I now felt like someone had stuffed my trachea full of cotton and plugged my nose with carrots. For two straight days and nights my time would consist of nothing but watching television on my couch in my basement. Well, that isn’t entirely true because the bleeding started. Television came between the nearly hourly vomiting sessions. The bleeding from my throat would trickle quietly down to my stomach, eventually causing me to vomit nothing but blood and whatever little Gatorade I could stomach. Those really were some of the most colorful vomits I have ever had. The comical part was that I had to be sure to keep an out for any of my stitches amidst the vomit, so I would know if one came out. I didn’t keep liquids down consistently for three days, and didn’t eat solid food for five. In a matter of seven days I had lost thirteen pounds. So, if you are looking for a quick way to lose a couple pounds, get your tonsils taken out!

The Bitter, Bitter Grapes of Wrath

        Fifth period, farthest row to the right, against the cabinets, three desks back. The room smelled of a toxic mixture between a child’s daycare and a senior-citizen home. Looking back, God showed me great mercy by only putting me in that room for forty-five minutes a day, except that one day out of every eight that I was imprisoned for an hour and a half. Time seemed to be warped during those fateful minutes. The clock in that room malfunctioned so that the second-hand would move faster than usual from the twelve to the six, but would literally slow to a near halt as it climbed back up to twelve. Each day was the same: “Wordly Wise”, followed by a reading quiz on a 3 x 5 notecard and then a “discussion” of the reading for that day which always consisted of her asking a question, and then standing there in silence until some martyr filled the air with generic mumblings to pass the time.

Her voice flowed at a perfect frequency so as to lull even the most awake into a slumber so deep, drool would readily collect on any desk. Don’t be fooled with my kind words, kind comments rarely were spoken by this voice from she-who-should-not-be-named. The only entity more cruel than her words was that red pen that never knew a hand more scrutinizing. Even a paper overflowing in content and analysis, graced with perfect grammar and varying sentence structure, was no match for that mighty pen. A lack of material could not have been at the roots of her frustrations for she was given works like The Great Gatsby, Life of Pi, and A Farewell to Arms to educate the fragile minds she was bestowed. Maybe she didn’t possess the appreciation that the masters of literature like Mark Twain or the great Dan Williams had, maybe her passions focused elsewhere, or maybe she just didn’t like us, but, for whatever reason, her attitude ruined my junior year of high school English.

Hope For Me Yet

A story narrating the necessity to find meaning in the monotony of life, “The Cathedral” caused a number of different emotions in me. Raymond Carver does an excellent job of instilling a sense of pity in the reader for a character who has absolutely nothing special about his life. I reached the point where I was almost disgusted with the attitude of the narrator who disliked so many aspects of his life but did nothing about it. At the same time, it also touched on a fear that I have as I go through life. As humans we aspire to be great; those aspirations eat at us. What happens when that drive is worn down and we lose sight of the meaning in our lives? Even those who do the most spectacular things day-in and day-out, like a doctor or firefighter, fade in the repetition of their work. The narrator can’t even look at his wife without thinking of everything that is wrong with his relationship. He immediately stews over Robert’s influence on his wife’s life, commenting on their relationship, fuming about anything except his own jealousy. How can he let his self-loathing get to the point where he can’t even talk about it?

However Carver offers the narrator a light in the darkness, ironically from the man who is at the center of his disdain, Robert. In a unique scene, Robert offers the narrator a choice. Carver carefully constructs a transformation of the narrator that leaves him unaware of anything tangible, transcending the mishaps of his life to a clarity that Carver is careful not to explain. As the reader, I was left to infer what this new found understanding was. Spirituality lingered throughout this story, even acting as a catalyst in the climb to the narrator’s realization, but what the finally narrator felt was a sense of independence. He understood that, in spite of what his life had been previously, he had a choice to change. That recognition met the narrator like a cool breeze offering him a glimpse into another life, one that could be his; it gave him hope. It dawned on me that the narrator could never have changed his life before that moment. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the drive to change his life, rather he didn’t have the foresight to see how he could change it. Carver challenges the reader to find meaning in the potential for greatness, rather than the certainty that it will because life so rarely offers us any certainties.

No Translation Necessary

        James and I met again at Potbelly this time after quite a long break. The reason it had been so difficult for him to find a time to meet was the fact that he had been spending so much of his time studying for his language exam. He did say that he has also been busy with his friends of the weekend, going to movies, the state fair and different places around the city if Fort Worth. I could see the anxiety on his face about his language exam, so that is what we talked about for the majority of our lunch. Apparently it’s a comprehensive exam basically focused on grammar, vocabulary and overall writing. One of the most interesting facts I learned during our conversation was the the course taught by TCU actually has no verbal exam to it, which is astonishing to me. James actually has excellent diction and can speak English very well so I’m sure he wouldn’t have any trouble, but I still find it puzzling.

The reason he was so nervous for this exam was because if he passes it then he can take classes at the actual University next semester, rather than only language courses. He thinks he wants to be a business major or possibly engineering because he loves math. I told him that if he can pass his language exam and do well in the business school then he will have so many opportunities after college. Being fluent in Mandarin and English would give him an unbelievable advantage in international business with the two most influential economies of China and America.

We finished our conversation just talking about what we both like to do in our free time. Coincidentally we share a passion for movies. His favorite kind of movies are definitely action movies like The Dark Knight at the top of his list. It was crazy for me to think about how something as trivial as a movie can span so many different cultures and tie us together as people. Explosions are badass in any language.

Meeting PengTao (James)

PengTao and I had our first meeting at the bookstore midway through the semester. He is from a smaller city in China which is just a little bigger than Fort Worth. We exchanged the usual pleasantries like him being an only child, and how he misses his parents and how much he loves America. One of the most interesting facts I took away from our conversation was the fact that age is counted differently in China. Apparently, in China, they start counting age from conception in the womb so people are technically 9 months older than someone who from America who is born on the same day. It was just a fun fact that sparked an interesting thought in my head about the ignorance I sometimes have of the global community around me. Something as common as the age of a person can vary around the world just as easily as the language or food.

I asked James (which is the American name he has adopted) what one of the things he wants to do most while in America. He immediately responded that he wanted to learn how to drive. Whenever I asked him, “why?”, he responded that he had actually never driven a car before in China because it isn’t the most popular form of transportation. It just made me think how much time I spend in the car, whether it’s just driving around Fort Worth, or home, or even to California for the Rose Bowl. It seems like I have been driving forever, when in reality it has been barely five years since I began to drive. One of my favorite things to do is take long road-trips listening to music and admiring the scenery. It’s crazy to me to think that the time it takes me to pass through a state in the USA, someone in Europe could be in a totally different country. 

James seemed like he had made such a seamless transition to life in America, but when he first arrived in August, I can’t even imagine what it must have been like. I left our first meeting really wondering how differently our childhoods were and what we were going to talk about at our next meeting.