Aaron Polson's Blog, page 5
September 18, 2013
Big Writing Dreams
I'm going to visit a friend's student this morning, a young man who has Big Writing DreamsTM. Once upon a time, I had such aspirations.
Early on, way back in the summer of '07, I was going to be a Famous AuthorTM. My career as an author would be awesome and well-paying. When I started my first book, this is exactly how I felt. It didn't take long for the awesome/well-paying fantasies to give way to "please publish my short story pleeeeeease". I wanted my name in print, ANYWHERE. I didn't travel far down this road until I realized it wasn't about my name in print, but telling stories. Readers crawled from the proverbial woodwork and gave writing a purpose. My real goal surfaced: to tell the best story I could. Sometimes this meant trying to crack tougher markets (Shimmer? What did I send them, eleventy-billion stories before an acceptance?). My stories improved. My writing improved. I learned how to make words do what I wanted.
Self-publishing via Kindle Digital Platform became a thing. And then money showed up. Fear crashed the party--real fear about Real Stuff (words feel more important when you capitalize them). I had a pile of published stories, a couple of novels with small presses, and "need" to make writing pay. Elliot was on the way, and I was scared sh*tless. Post-partum threatened. Writing needed to start paying, and paying big or I would have to stop. I made some bad choices and worked on some bad novels. I puked a bunch of garbage words all over KDP. I stopped writing to tell stories, but to make money. Love disappeared.
After more than a year of hiatus, I've started writing again. With all of my family/other commitments, I might be looking at a story a month--or maybe a couple of flash. But the love is there. The characters are speaking to me again. Words beg me to touch them.
What will I tell this anonymous student, the one with Big Writing DreamsTM? Know why you want to write. For me--when I loved writing--it was always about the story and the audience. Once upon a time, I could make words sing and dance and make love to the page, even if it was a dark and slightly dysfunctional love (most of my stuff WAS horror).
I know who I am as a writer, and it feels good. So good.
Early on, way back in the summer of '07, I was going to be a Famous AuthorTM. My career as an author would be awesome and well-paying. When I started my first book, this is exactly how I felt. It didn't take long for the awesome/well-paying fantasies to give way to "please publish my short story pleeeeeease". I wanted my name in print, ANYWHERE. I didn't travel far down this road until I realized it wasn't about my name in print, but telling stories. Readers crawled from the proverbial woodwork and gave writing a purpose. My real goal surfaced: to tell the best story I could. Sometimes this meant trying to crack tougher markets (Shimmer? What did I send them, eleventy-billion stories before an acceptance?). My stories improved. My writing improved. I learned how to make words do what I wanted.
Self-publishing via Kindle Digital Platform became a thing. And then money showed up. Fear crashed the party--real fear about Real Stuff (words feel more important when you capitalize them). I had a pile of published stories, a couple of novels with small presses, and "need" to make writing pay. Elliot was on the way, and I was scared sh*tless. Post-partum threatened. Writing needed to start paying, and paying big or I would have to stop. I made some bad choices and worked on some bad novels. I puked a bunch of garbage words all over KDP. I stopped writing to tell stories, but to make money. Love disappeared.
After more than a year of hiatus, I've started writing again. With all of my family/other commitments, I might be looking at a story a month--or maybe a couple of flash. But the love is there. The characters are speaking to me again. Words beg me to touch them.
What will I tell this anonymous student, the one with Big Writing DreamsTM? Know why you want to write. For me--when I loved writing--it was always about the story and the audience. Once upon a time, I could make words sing and dance and make love to the page, even if it was a dark and slightly dysfunctional love (most of my stuff WAS horror).
I know who I am as a writer, and it feels good. So good.
September 9, 2013
What Your Beer Ad Says About Your Character
A new Guinness ad and discussions of the forthcoming "Anti-Bullying Week" have collided to dust off the trusty blog. Blog, I've missed you. I have some things to say.
First of all, if you haven't seen the now-viral Guinness ad, take a moment to watch. Go on. I'll still be here on the other side:
A good deal of praise has circulated for this ad on the trusty Interwebtm, and rightfully so. It departs from traditional beer ads--yes, these are big, tough, men, but they aren't acting stupid or belligerent or sexist. There are no bikini-clad models here. Just dudes playing ball and enjoying beers afterwards.
Now some have suggested it isn't an appropriate or sensitive portrayal of a disabled person using a wheelchair. (See "Just One of the Guys" on Emily Ladau's blog, Words I Wheel By, as an example.) Here's the thing--and this is my opinion based on my life experience--this ad wasn't about disability or wheelchair users. Its intent is to sell beer. Even the famous Nike ad featuring NWBA star Matt Scott from a few years back was designed to sell Nike apparel. Neither of these companies can surely believe they are advocates for disabled rights, can they? Both use a man in a wheelchair to foster emotional appeal because emotional appeal works. Ads sell products--but sometimes they do so with dignity and respect and make us feel good.
I love an ad which can make me feel positive without deriding anyone. Nothing in the Guinness ad puts down the man in the wheelchair--in fact, he says "You guys are getting better at this," before the others step out of their wheelchairs. It's a beer commercial which shows guys being guys without negative stereotypes, oafish behavior, sexism, or other negative "guy" stereotypes. In fact, it promotes something I wish could become a "guy" stereotype: camaraderie. Friendship. Being good to each other--not pity for the guy in the wheelchair (I didn't read pity in the ad at all), but genuinely being good to each other.
Bullying has been on my mind quite a bit lately. It's a large part of my job as guidance counselor and a large part of life for too many kids, boys and girls alike. Beer ads are often bully ads, the cool kids (usually oafish, over-muscled men) drinking the right beer and landing the hot chicks. Beer ads often encourage the worst in us. Beer ads are notorious for being "generally pretty juvenile" as Aaron Taube at Business Insider explains in his discussion of the Guinness ad. I don't celebrate the Guinness ad because it includes a man in a wheelchair. I applaud it because it is about positive stuff--the good stuff--friendship, loyalty, hard work...
For me, the ad isn't about the disability; it's nice to see men who don't have to be ignorant, insensitive, sexist jerks enjoying beer. That is all.
First of all, if you haven't seen the now-viral Guinness ad, take a moment to watch. Go on. I'll still be here on the other side:
A good deal of praise has circulated for this ad on the trusty Interwebtm, and rightfully so. It departs from traditional beer ads--yes, these are big, tough, men, but they aren't acting stupid or belligerent or sexist. There are no bikini-clad models here. Just dudes playing ball and enjoying beers afterwards.
Now some have suggested it isn't an appropriate or sensitive portrayal of a disabled person using a wheelchair. (See "Just One of the Guys" on Emily Ladau's blog, Words I Wheel By, as an example.) Here's the thing--and this is my opinion based on my life experience--this ad wasn't about disability or wheelchair users. Its intent is to sell beer. Even the famous Nike ad featuring NWBA star Matt Scott from a few years back was designed to sell Nike apparel. Neither of these companies can surely believe they are advocates for disabled rights, can they? Both use a man in a wheelchair to foster emotional appeal because emotional appeal works. Ads sell products--but sometimes they do so with dignity and respect and make us feel good.
I love an ad which can make me feel positive without deriding anyone. Nothing in the Guinness ad puts down the man in the wheelchair--in fact, he says "You guys are getting better at this," before the others step out of their wheelchairs. It's a beer commercial which shows guys being guys without negative stereotypes, oafish behavior, sexism, or other negative "guy" stereotypes. In fact, it promotes something I wish could become a "guy" stereotype: camaraderie. Friendship. Being good to each other--not pity for the guy in the wheelchair (I didn't read pity in the ad at all), but genuinely being good to each other.
Bullying has been on my mind quite a bit lately. It's a large part of my job as guidance counselor and a large part of life for too many kids, boys and girls alike. Beer ads are often bully ads, the cool kids (usually oafish, over-muscled men) drinking the right beer and landing the hot chicks. Beer ads often encourage the worst in us. Beer ads are notorious for being "generally pretty juvenile" as Aaron Taube at Business Insider explains in his discussion of the Guinness ad. I don't celebrate the Guinness ad because it includes a man in a wheelchair. I applaud it because it is about positive stuff--the good stuff--friendship, loyalty, hard work...
For me, the ad isn't about the disability; it's nice to see men who don't have to be ignorant, insensitive, sexist jerks enjoying beer. That is all.
April 19, 2013
Starving the Wolf
An old Cherokee story was brought to my attention yesterday, one you may have heard. There are several minor variations, but the basic story goes like this:
An old Grandfather said to his grandson, who came to him with anger at a friend who had done him an injustice, "Let me tell you a story.
I too, at times, have felt a great hate for those that have taken so much, with no sorrow for what they do.
But hate wears you down, and does not hurt your enemy. It is like taking poison and wishing your enemy would die. I have struggled with these feelings many times." He continued, "It is as if there are two wolves inside me. One is good and does no harm. He is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. He lives in harmony with all around him, and does not take offense when no offense was intended. He will only fight when it is right to do so, and in the right way.
But the other wolf, ah! He is full of anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.. The littlest thing will set him into a fit of temper. He fights everyone, all the time, for no reason. He cannot think because his anger and hate are so great. It is helpless anger, for his anger will change nothing. Sometimes, it is hard to live with these two wolves inside me, for both of them try to dominate my spirit."
The boy looked intently into his Grandfather's eyes and asked, "Which one wins, Grandfather?"
The Grandfather smiled and quietly said, "The one I feed."
Is there really any question which wolf to feed? Of course I would feed the good wolf, right? Of course. Always. But the other wolf, the anger, envy, sorrow, etc... he's wily. Those feelings will come without wishing them. They come because they are inside me--inside all of us. I feed the bad wolf when I wallow in them, when I let them hold too much of my energy and attention. It's easy to do so... too easy when I'm tired or lonely or hungry... He's quick and sharp, this bad wolf, and he can snatch a meal so quickly.
It is especially easy to feed the bad wolf when it comes to those most dear to us. Those we love most can offer the juiciest morsels because our feelings for them, our emotional investment is so great. We toss anger, envy, resentment, self-pitty and the like in his dish. If we aren't vigilant, he'll snatch scraps right from our hands.
But there's more. There's always more. Maybe, just maybe I can take those scraps which fall to the bad wolf and boost the good wolf's diet with them. I can steal them back from the bad fellow. Any tidbit the good wolf can salvage will strengthen him. Those things on which the bad wolf might feed can serve as food for the good wolf just as well. Better, in fact, knowing they come from a place of love and only exist because of love.
Can you understand jealousy as an expression of love? Can you harness anger and know it only feels so raw because of the bond you share with the person with whom you are angry? How about morphing self-pity into ache and longing--a good, pleasant ache?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
It takes vigilance. It takes effort to make feeding the good wolf a habit. It takes patience and time and commitment. It takes love, but the good wolf thrives on love.
An old Grandfather said to his grandson, who came to him with anger at a friend who had done him an injustice, "Let me tell you a story.
I too, at times, have felt a great hate for those that have taken so much, with no sorrow for what they do.
But hate wears you down, and does not hurt your enemy. It is like taking poison and wishing your enemy would die. I have struggled with these feelings many times." He continued, "It is as if there are two wolves inside me. One is good and does no harm. He is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. He lives in harmony with all around him, and does not take offense when no offense was intended. He will only fight when it is right to do so, and in the right way.
But the other wolf, ah! He is full of anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.. The littlest thing will set him into a fit of temper. He fights everyone, all the time, for no reason. He cannot think because his anger and hate are so great. It is helpless anger, for his anger will change nothing. Sometimes, it is hard to live with these two wolves inside me, for both of them try to dominate my spirit."
The boy looked intently into his Grandfather's eyes and asked, "Which one wins, Grandfather?"
The Grandfather smiled and quietly said, "The one I feed."
Is there really any question which wolf to feed? Of course I would feed the good wolf, right? Of course. Always. But the other wolf, the anger, envy, sorrow, etc... he's wily. Those feelings will come without wishing them. They come because they are inside me--inside all of us. I feed the bad wolf when I wallow in them, when I let them hold too much of my energy and attention. It's easy to do so... too easy when I'm tired or lonely or hungry... He's quick and sharp, this bad wolf, and he can snatch a meal so quickly.
It is especially easy to feed the bad wolf when it comes to those most dear to us. Those we love most can offer the juiciest morsels because our feelings for them, our emotional investment is so great. We toss anger, envy, resentment, self-pitty and the like in his dish. If we aren't vigilant, he'll snatch scraps right from our hands.
But there's more. There's always more. Maybe, just maybe I can take those scraps which fall to the bad wolf and boost the good wolf's diet with them. I can steal them back from the bad fellow. Any tidbit the good wolf can salvage will strengthen him. Those things on which the bad wolf might feed can serve as food for the good wolf just as well. Better, in fact, knowing they come from a place of love and only exist because of love.
Can you understand jealousy as an expression of love? Can you harness anger and know it only feels so raw because of the bond you share with the person with whom you are angry? How about morphing self-pity into ache and longing--a good, pleasant ache?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
It takes vigilance. It takes effort to make feeding the good wolf a habit. It takes patience and time and commitment. It takes love, but the good wolf thrives on love.
April 2, 2013
Measuring a Year
Aimee Ziegler, my first wife and mother of my children, took her life one year ago today.
These are facts. They are not the only facts which measure her life. One could count the years she coached basketball and soccer. One could number the students which graduated local high schools who benefited from the WRAP program Aimee helped found. One could account the millions of dollars WRAP brought into our community and schools. One could even count the runs she scored in local kickball games.
Each time I'm reminded life must come to an end--each time a loved one dies or an anniversary of a death arrives on the calendar--think of more than endings. I think of now and how precious it is. Lives shouldn't be measured with numbers. Lives shouldn't be measured at all. Lives are for living and loving and staggering blind through a land which is at times strange and scary but all the while littered with love and miracles.
Hug somebody today. Love hard today. Remember with grace and move forward with courage.
Live.
These are facts. They are not the only facts which measure her life. One could count the years she coached basketball and soccer. One could number the students which graduated local high schools who benefited from the WRAP program Aimee helped found. One could account the millions of dollars WRAP brought into our community and schools. One could even count the runs she scored in local kickball games.
Each time I'm reminded life must come to an end--each time a loved one dies or an anniversary of a death arrives on the calendar--think of more than endings. I think of now and how precious it is. Lives shouldn't be measured with numbers. Lives shouldn't be measured at all. Lives are for living and loving and staggering blind through a land which is at times strange and scary but all the while littered with love and miracles.
Hug somebody today. Love hard today. Remember with grace and move forward with courage.
Live.
March 27, 2013
A Certain Ache
Let me tell you a story. Sometimes it’s the only thing I can do.
Kim and I met three months after Aimee died. While we’ve had support from our closest allies from the very beginning, the naysayers gave us plenty of action.
"Too soon."
"He can't be ready."
"Don’t they know they have six kids?"
Some weren’t ready for me to move on. Aimee was a public figure in Lawrence. She was well known and well loved by those in the mental health and education communities. I felt restricted. This was my life, after all, but some folks felt like they owned a piece of it--folks who knew little or nothing of my home life and the struggles Aimee and I faced during her illness. Few people knew the grieving process I started long before she took her life.
But this story isn't about Aimee. It's about two people who love each other and are committed to one another being able to marry. I easily fell in love with Kim. It's easy to love her. We are kindred spirits, and we've known that kinship from the beginning. When you meet your kindred spirit, there's no going back. Those are Kim's words and I wish they were mine.
No, there is no going back. Only forward. While naysayers may have been a little more vocal months ago, they've quieted their voices. If they still speak of reasons why Kim and I shouldn't be together, those conversations take place where even their whispers don't find my ears. Kim and I are marrying. We've been taking steps with our kids to prepare them for step-family life for months now. There will be growing pains, but we will have them together, in love and committed to one another.
The United States Supreme Court hears the second of two cases regarding marriage rights today. I look at my experience with Kim and wonder what I would do in a world where I couldn't marry my partner. What would I do in a world where I couldn't vow of my love and commitment to my kindred spirit in a very public way? What would we do without the legal protections granted us by the institution of marriage--how would it affect our kids and their future?
Two of my closest friends are gay men. The boys call them "Uncles." They helped when Aimee struggled, they were there when she died, and they've been the biggest supporters as Kim and I came together. They have never once questioned my commitment to Kim or my plan to marry her. And I want them to have the same gift that I do.
All I can do is tell stories--and I'm happy to tell this one. Regardless of the decisions the Supreme Court hands down, I will continue to know in my heart that love is love, commitment is commitment, and two adults who wish to marry should receive constitutionally protected liberty to do so.
January 21, 2013
Know This
I proposed to Kim on Saturday.
I want the world to love her like I do. My best tools are these words--even when they fall short.
So how can I tell you about Kim? Where are my best words?
I hold three of my stories very close to my heart. They were autobiographical in a way (as most good fiction can be). Real events, locations, and people inspired them. I won no awards for these stories (one was nominated and made a very short list), although each has garnered a fair share of attention.
The Battered Suitcase published "Reciprocity" way back in September 2008. Yes, it's my big fish story, and yes, there might be spoilers. It's a story of struggling to fit in, a story of understanding who you are and trying to find a way for that you to fit with the rest of the world. It's a story which could have been tragic, but ends with a flash of gold.
I remember the idea for "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable" (published first at A Fly in Amber in September 2009 and later, in a slightly revised version, in Triangulation: End of the Rainbow and my collection, The Saints are Dead) coming to me while I shuttled the family to and from church one Sunday. I think we forgot our donated Christmas gift that morning and I had to run back to the house to grab it.The extra doorways and disappearing townsfolk became one of my favorites. The protagonist makes a hard decision in the end--choosing what may appear a rockier path to remain true to himself. It might be a rockier path, but it leaves the protagonist, Andy, an entire town to cover with spray-painted murals. "The World in Rubber" was a finalist for the Million Writers Award and a story which moves me each time I read it.
And finally, one of my most personal tales, "Wanting It" from Shock Totem #3 (2011). This little tale took several revisions and gallons of blood/ink. I'm proud of the way it reads, the feelings it evokes, and the lasting impression in the final lines. It's a story about losing something you hold dear--and how that loss colors the rest of the world. Like "The World in Rubber," I wrote it in first person. It's autobiographical, even if fiction. Ellen Datlow was kind enough to include "Wanting It" as an honorable mention in The Best Horror of the Year (even mentioning my name in the introduction... me=humbled).
These stories are my children born from some of the hardest years of my life. They each tell truths about love and loss, grief and hope. They're special to me. They're a part of me.
So who's Kim?
She's the magic goldfish from "Reciprocity"; she's every mural Andy paints in "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable"; she's the ghost who comes after the end of "Wanting It" and tells the narrator his dreams are true. She leans close and whispers in his ear.
Who's Kim? Read the stories when you have time and you'll understand.
Who's Kim? She's seen all my scars and called me beautiful. Everyone on the planet should be so blessed.
And by the way--she said yes.
I want the world to love her like I do. My best tools are these words--even when they fall short.
So how can I tell you about Kim? Where are my best words?
I hold three of my stories very close to my heart. They were autobiographical in a way (as most good fiction can be). Real events, locations, and people inspired them. I won no awards for these stories (one was nominated and made a very short list), although each has garnered a fair share of attention.
The Battered Suitcase published "Reciprocity" way back in September 2008. Yes, it's my big fish story, and yes, there might be spoilers. It's a story of struggling to fit in, a story of understanding who you are and trying to find a way for that you to fit with the rest of the world. It's a story which could have been tragic, but ends with a flash of gold.
I remember the idea for "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable" (published first at A Fly in Amber in September 2009 and later, in a slightly revised version, in Triangulation: End of the Rainbow and my collection, The Saints are Dead) coming to me while I shuttled the family to and from church one Sunday. I think we forgot our donated Christmas gift that morning and I had to run back to the house to grab it.The extra doorways and disappearing townsfolk became one of my favorites. The protagonist makes a hard decision in the end--choosing what may appear a rockier path to remain true to himself. It might be a rockier path, but it leaves the protagonist, Andy, an entire town to cover with spray-painted murals. "The World in Rubber" was a finalist for the Million Writers Award and a story which moves me each time I read it.
And finally, one of my most personal tales, "Wanting It" from Shock Totem #3 (2011). This little tale took several revisions and gallons of blood/ink. I'm proud of the way it reads, the feelings it evokes, and the lasting impression in the final lines. It's a story about losing something you hold dear--and how that loss colors the rest of the world. Like "The World in Rubber," I wrote it in first person. It's autobiographical, even if fiction. Ellen Datlow was kind enough to include "Wanting It" as an honorable mention in The Best Horror of the Year (even mentioning my name in the introduction... me=humbled).
These stories are my children born from some of the hardest years of my life. They each tell truths about love and loss, grief and hope. They're special to me. They're a part of me.
So who's Kim?
She's the magic goldfish from "Reciprocity"; she's every mural Andy paints in "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable"; she's the ghost who comes after the end of "Wanting It" and tells the narrator his dreams are true. She leans close and whispers in his ear.
Who's Kim? Read the stories when you have time and you'll understand.
Who's Kim? She's seen all my scars and called me beautiful. Everyone on the planet should be so blessed.
And by the way--she said yes.
January 18, 2013
Chew on This
Me at Fern Lake in 2007...
Me at Fern Lake in 2012... Funny how the world tilted a little, but I'm looking for the same thing in the sky.Guess which one is the more hopeful me. Go on, guess.
January 16, 2013
Tackle Football
On my last day of high school, a group of senior parents hosted a picnic. The idea was to keep us sober for a few hours, I suppose. I stayed away from booze in high school--read Monday's post and you might understand why--so the picnic didn't make much difference to me. It was just time to socialize. Act stupid. Learn a few more lessons about life before graduation.
Some classmates started a game of two-hand touch football. A tackle happened when someone on the other team touched two hands to the back of the ball carrier. No one got hurt this way, right? The quarterback had a "five apple" count to get rid of the ball before he could be rushed. At some point, while I was playing quarterback, a kid on the other team (let's call him Bob) quickly growled his count, charged forward, and threw me to the ground before I could ditch the ball.
Bob--a classmate since 8th grade--had suffered a lot of insults during high school. He'd been the brunt of too many jokes. I wasn't innocent, but I wasn't the ring leader, either. Regardless, Bob chose me to be the lightning rod for his rage. Nearly twenty years later, I still remember the look of anger on Bob's face when he tackled me--as if he took all the pent-up frustration from the last four years and clobbered me with it.
I haven't thought of that moment in years, but as I sit here, trying to say what needs to be said, it is the moment which comes to me. Two lessons came alive in that moment, two vital lessons I understand now.
The first lesson is fairly obvious and somewhat overplayed: some people will not like me. Bob sure didn't. Maybe he burned through all his anger in that one, fiery moment because we've had cordial conversations since. Maybe he, like me, grew up and now understands high school students do stupid things. Mean things. Reckless, thoughtless things. And while we certainly felt like adults at the time, decision-making wasn't our chief skill. I gave Bob plenty of reasons to be angry. I made fun of him. I'm not proud. But--and this is perhaps the most important part of the lesson--I wasn't the only one to say hurtful things. He simply chose me and that moment. I didn't "earn" it any more than anyone else.
As I've grown older and a touch wiser (I hope), I know it's not just the Bobs of the world who will find reasons to dislike me. We all want to be liked--maybe it's some primal, evolutionary tic--but seeking universal acceptance is a lost cause. It's something I've fought most of my life. I've hurt myself in the pursuit of "likeability". And poor Bob never asked for all the abuse we hurled at him. He never did anything to earn our "dislike" but be who he was.
Now, at 37, I know we all have to be who we are regardless of how others receive us. Polonius might have been a bearded blow hard, but his advice to Laertes is as sound today as when Shakespeare penned it: to thine own self be true. At least when you are true to yourself those who like you--and love you--will do so for you. One must be honest with him/herself before sharing with the world. It's an old lesson, not one I invented, but a good one. If you're honest with yourself and the world still tries to hold you back... that's about them--not you. Keep moving forward past the sea of doubters. You don't have to be like Bob and knock one to the ground, but keep moving forward.
The second lesson which Bob taught me, the most important lesson, is simple, but it's a rare human who can take it to heart. When you want something, really want it, you have to throw yourself at it body, heart, mind, and soul. You have to go for it, dive, hope, and if you land in the dirt, bloodied knees and bruised shins, at least you've lived.
Look, Bob took plenty of abuse before he knocked me down. Life kicked him around enough before that afternoon in May of '93. If he missed the tackle, what was one more trip to the dirt, one more bruise when his ego had taken a beating? But he didn't miss. He hit me, hard. And the look of satisfaction on his face... priceless. Priceless enough that I can close my eyes now, twenty years later, and still see it. Bob was really alive at that moment, really living.
I'm living, too. I'm throwing myself into the tackle, going for it all or nothing, throwing my mind, body, heart, and soul into it. And yes, it's about more than me; it always is. I want my boys to understand how precious life is and not cower from it when bad shit happens. I want resilient kids who can love and laugh and live through all the hard stuff. I want them to grow up with minds that hope, hearts that love, and bodies that wear enough scars to tell good stories. In the process, I suspect each one of them will earn a beautiful soul.
I want them to know that when someone amazing comes along, you love her as hard as you can and you move forward with no attention to those who would hold you back.You throw yourself into the tackle whether you make it or not, all or nothing. Life is too precious not to.
Yes, there's more. There's always more.
Soon.
Some classmates started a game of two-hand touch football. A tackle happened when someone on the other team touched two hands to the back of the ball carrier. No one got hurt this way, right? The quarterback had a "five apple" count to get rid of the ball before he could be rushed. At some point, while I was playing quarterback, a kid on the other team (let's call him Bob) quickly growled his count, charged forward, and threw me to the ground before I could ditch the ball.
Bob--a classmate since 8th grade--had suffered a lot of insults during high school. He'd been the brunt of too many jokes. I wasn't innocent, but I wasn't the ring leader, either. Regardless, Bob chose me to be the lightning rod for his rage. Nearly twenty years later, I still remember the look of anger on Bob's face when he tackled me--as if he took all the pent-up frustration from the last four years and clobbered me with it.
I haven't thought of that moment in years, but as I sit here, trying to say what needs to be said, it is the moment which comes to me. Two lessons came alive in that moment, two vital lessons I understand now.
The first lesson is fairly obvious and somewhat overplayed: some people will not like me. Bob sure didn't. Maybe he burned through all his anger in that one, fiery moment because we've had cordial conversations since. Maybe he, like me, grew up and now understands high school students do stupid things. Mean things. Reckless, thoughtless things. And while we certainly felt like adults at the time, decision-making wasn't our chief skill. I gave Bob plenty of reasons to be angry. I made fun of him. I'm not proud. But--and this is perhaps the most important part of the lesson--I wasn't the only one to say hurtful things. He simply chose me and that moment. I didn't "earn" it any more than anyone else.
As I've grown older and a touch wiser (I hope), I know it's not just the Bobs of the world who will find reasons to dislike me. We all want to be liked--maybe it's some primal, evolutionary tic--but seeking universal acceptance is a lost cause. It's something I've fought most of my life. I've hurt myself in the pursuit of "likeability". And poor Bob never asked for all the abuse we hurled at him. He never did anything to earn our "dislike" but be who he was.
Now, at 37, I know we all have to be who we are regardless of how others receive us. Polonius might have been a bearded blow hard, but his advice to Laertes is as sound today as when Shakespeare penned it: to thine own self be true. At least when you are true to yourself those who like you--and love you--will do so for you. One must be honest with him/herself before sharing with the world. It's an old lesson, not one I invented, but a good one. If you're honest with yourself and the world still tries to hold you back... that's about them--not you. Keep moving forward past the sea of doubters. You don't have to be like Bob and knock one to the ground, but keep moving forward.
The second lesson which Bob taught me, the most important lesson, is simple, but it's a rare human who can take it to heart. When you want something, really want it, you have to throw yourself at it body, heart, mind, and soul. You have to go for it, dive, hope, and if you land in the dirt, bloodied knees and bruised shins, at least you've lived.
Look, Bob took plenty of abuse before he knocked me down. Life kicked him around enough before that afternoon in May of '93. If he missed the tackle, what was one more trip to the dirt, one more bruise when his ego had taken a beating? But he didn't miss. He hit me, hard. And the look of satisfaction on his face... priceless. Priceless enough that I can close my eyes now, twenty years later, and still see it. Bob was really alive at that moment, really living.
I'm living, too. I'm throwing myself into the tackle, going for it all or nothing, throwing my mind, body, heart, and soul into it. And yes, it's about more than me; it always is. I want my boys to understand how precious life is and not cower from it when bad shit happens. I want resilient kids who can love and laugh and live through all the hard stuff. I want them to grow up with minds that hope, hearts that love, and bodies that wear enough scars to tell good stories. In the process, I suspect each one of them will earn a beautiful soul.
I want them to know that when someone amazing comes along, you love her as hard as you can and you move forward with no attention to those who would hold you back.You throw yourself into the tackle whether you make it or not, all or nothing. Life is too precious not to.
Yes, there's more. There's always more.
Soon.
January 14, 2013
Some Things the World Needs to Know About My Mom
Hello again, blog.
The beauty of the internet (and the inherent danger, some may say) is the words put out here can last for a long time. I've heard people use words like "forever" but forever is a long time. That EMP coming from a giant comet will probably take care of the internet some day.
I digress.
This is about my mom. I'm writing it understanding these words might last a long time. They may reach far. They may not. But I'm writing it all the same.
I need the world to know a few things about my mom, especially why I respect her as much as anyone on the planet--even when we disagree. I need to world to know because Mom has been there and helped shape how I approach life.
My father had an "episode" in 1980, near the beginning of the school year. Paramedics rushed him to Clay County Memorial Hospital, and then on to Topeka for tests at a larger hospital. He had a brain tumor, malignant, and the cancer/treatment would slowly eat him away over the next nine years. He died in November, 1989. I was a freshmen in high school.
Mom filled those nine years with patience and caring. She took care of an ailing man--a man who was often out of touch with reality, a man who accused her of many awful, untrue things. A man who made all of us feel just a little unsafe from time to time. We made sometimes bi-weekly trips to Topeka so he could see specialists at the Menninger Clinic. She fought a legal battle, went to graduate school to increase her earning potential as the only salary in the house, and coached three sports to add a few dollars to each paycheck. I rode more buses than I care to count with the middle school girls' basketball team as an elementary student. Still, she rose early on Saturday mornings and made doughnuts for me to munch as I watched cartoons. I always had clean clothes, a full belly, and a warm home. She did all this while the man she married slipped into a grey shadow of who he was.
This is how I knew my mother and father.
She taught me about resiliency and toughness. She taught me how to put your head down and continue on when life hurled unimaginable horror at you. She taught me how to take care of your kids when things were eating away at you. She taught me about love.
She's helping me with the boys, now. She takes care of them when I am busy with my job, when I'm not able to be there, and when I need to be gone for me. She gives me breaks she never received. I've joked that she's my au pair. My nanny.
We don't always see eye to eye--we don't share the same outlook on life, but she's been there. Always stubborn. Always loving.
My mother never remarried--not yet, anyway. In fact, even though Dad died in '89 and I didn't graduate until May of 1993, she didn't go on a date until I was out of the house.
Mom and I are different people. We've made some similar choices and some very different ones when confronted with harsh realities. We are different people, but I will always hold the utmost respect for her.
I've been blessed to have her in my life. I wouldn't be where I am now without her.
I've been blessed in many ways.
Stay tuned.
The beauty of the internet (and the inherent danger, some may say) is the words put out here can last for a long time. I've heard people use words like "forever" but forever is a long time. That EMP coming from a giant comet will probably take care of the internet some day.
I digress.
This is about my mom. I'm writing it understanding these words might last a long time. They may reach far. They may not. But I'm writing it all the same.
I need the world to know a few things about my mom, especially why I respect her as much as anyone on the planet--even when we disagree. I need to world to know because Mom has been there and helped shape how I approach life.
My father had an "episode" in 1980, near the beginning of the school year. Paramedics rushed him to Clay County Memorial Hospital, and then on to Topeka for tests at a larger hospital. He had a brain tumor, malignant, and the cancer/treatment would slowly eat him away over the next nine years. He died in November, 1989. I was a freshmen in high school.
Mom filled those nine years with patience and caring. She took care of an ailing man--a man who was often out of touch with reality, a man who accused her of many awful, untrue things. A man who made all of us feel just a little unsafe from time to time. We made sometimes bi-weekly trips to Topeka so he could see specialists at the Menninger Clinic. She fought a legal battle, went to graduate school to increase her earning potential as the only salary in the house, and coached three sports to add a few dollars to each paycheck. I rode more buses than I care to count with the middle school girls' basketball team as an elementary student. Still, she rose early on Saturday mornings and made doughnuts for me to munch as I watched cartoons. I always had clean clothes, a full belly, and a warm home. She did all this while the man she married slipped into a grey shadow of who he was.
This is how I knew my mother and father.
She taught me about resiliency and toughness. She taught me how to put your head down and continue on when life hurled unimaginable horror at you. She taught me how to take care of your kids when things were eating away at you. She taught me about love.
She's helping me with the boys, now. She takes care of them when I am busy with my job, when I'm not able to be there, and when I need to be gone for me. She gives me breaks she never received. I've joked that she's my au pair. My nanny.
We don't always see eye to eye--we don't share the same outlook on life, but she's been there. Always stubborn. Always loving.
My mother never remarried--not yet, anyway. In fact, even though Dad died in '89 and I didn't graduate until May of 1993, she didn't go on a date until I was out of the house.
Mom and I are different people. We've made some similar choices and some very different ones when confronted with harsh realities. We are different people, but I will always hold the utmost respect for her.
I've been blessed to have her in my life. I wouldn't be where I am now without her.
I've been blessed in many ways.
Stay tuned.
December 5, 2012
Dearest Blog, We Haven't Spoken for a While
Hey Blog, it's me. Aaron.
We haven't spoken in a while. It's nothing personal--really. It's just, well, I don't need to talk to you as much as I did in the past. I really needed you then. We had so much to say to each other. Some of it was nonsense. Some of it was blood drawn from our veins. Sometimes, I performed open heart self-surgery for the world. I don't regret a moment we've spent together, Blog. I know our time has helped others know me better. I can't hide the words we've shared and I'd never want to...
Please understand this isn't you, Blog. It's me. It's where I'm at in life. When I started you, I was coping with some pretty heavy stuff. We've traveled miles together. We cried together. We shouted at the big, dark night together. We held each other when things were really, really bad.
But, dear Blog, I've grown. I'm not the same man who posted for the first time on December 9, 2007, almost five years ago. I've grown, but you're still here. You'll always be here. You'll be here when I need you again--should I need you again. I hope I won't. I don't want to need you in the same way I had before.
Is this goodbye?
No. Not really.
It's just... time for me to acknowledge my heart is somewhere else. My words are somewhere else. And it's good, Blog. It's so very good. When my words were with you, they had no where else to go. They were homeless and cold and frightened--and that, dearest Blog, is no way for words to live. Now, they have a home. A good, warm home where they can grow and play without fear, without loneliness, without terrible thoughts driving them into dark corners.
So long, Blog, for now. You'll always be right *here*.
We haven't spoken in a while. It's nothing personal--really. It's just, well, I don't need to talk to you as much as I did in the past. I really needed you then. We had so much to say to each other. Some of it was nonsense. Some of it was blood drawn from our veins. Sometimes, I performed open heart self-surgery for the world. I don't regret a moment we've spent together, Blog. I know our time has helped others know me better. I can't hide the words we've shared and I'd never want to...
Please understand this isn't you, Blog. It's me. It's where I'm at in life. When I started you, I was coping with some pretty heavy stuff. We've traveled miles together. We cried together. We shouted at the big, dark night together. We held each other when things were really, really bad.
But, dear Blog, I've grown. I'm not the same man who posted for the first time on December 9, 2007, almost five years ago. I've grown, but you're still here. You'll always be here. You'll be here when I need you again--should I need you again. I hope I won't. I don't want to need you in the same way I had before.
Is this goodbye?
No. Not really.
It's just... time for me to acknowledge my heart is somewhere else. My words are somewhere else. And it's good, Blog. It's so very good. When my words were with you, they had no where else to go. They were homeless and cold and frightened--and that, dearest Blog, is no way for words to live. Now, they have a home. A good, warm home where they can grow and play without fear, without loneliness, without terrible thoughts driving them into dark corners.
So long, Blog, for now. You'll always be right *here*.
