West Texas Fire

I feel that it’s important to remember how memories and past experiences shape who we are.  That is the purpose of this exercise.  In that vein, I would like to thrust us all into the present.  Who are you now?  What are you now?  Where are you going?  And why are you here?

I’m exhausted.  I’m sun burnt.  My feet hurt.  But when I wake up in the brisk mountain breeze at 7:00 in the morning, I can’t help but feel refreshed.  In August, I start a job with the Boy Scouts of America in the Big Bend region of west Texas, and until then, I’m working at the camp I’ve been working at the past couple summers.  My job at camp is meant as training for my job in August. 

Even so, I am terrified.

I am terrified of jumping headfirst into a job without being prepared.  I hate “baptism by fire,” being thrust into a duty without the proper training to do it.  My job here at camp is full of duties and responsibilities I’ve never had and haven’t been trained for.  I’m terrified of working here at camp, and that doesn’t even approach the level of terror I am feeling for my career as a District Executive.

My terror is fueled by my fear of failure in my new career.  That, and I have already left my home and my family without knowing when I’ll be back, and Alpine is not a cultural center of diversity and commerce like Houston, and I’ll be apart from Kristen for unknown intervals of time, and I’m facing the onslaught of new added responsibilities like feeding myself and sheltering myself.

Many areas of my life are soon approaching a critical junction.  I have stated that I am scared of a job where I haven’t had training.  I am dreadfully frightened of “baptism by fire.”  But now, I’m realizing, my life is a job where I haven’t had the proper training.  I don’t know how to hold a long-term career, I don’t know how to feed or shelter myself, and I don’t know how to maintain relationships with my family and my girlfriend from thousands of miles away.

Every facet, every crook, every turn of my entire life in two months will be an inferno.  I will be baptized, through fire, into my existence.  I’ll miss rent, I won’t meet quotas, I’ll eat fast food late at night, and my family and loved ones will miss me, as I will miss them.  The failures will come like blisters and scars in the blaze of experience.  But those imperfections will be smoothed out like leather over my skin and I will grow to be stronger through my baptism.  I will repent of my failures, and through them, I will be cleansed to a whiter, purer form of myself.

An older “me” will die, to make way for a newer “me.” Toughened by the fires of the forge of being, hammered and shaped into a sharper and more efficient “me.”

Gifted and Talented

Remember everyone:  "can" has a short 'a' sound, while "can't" has a lifted 'a.'  Now, onward.

Let's return to elementary school.  It has been quite a while, hasn't it?  Let's see.  Currently, I am coming to the end of my sixteenth year of schooling, so elementary school as a whole was between eleven and fifteen years ago.  It sounds gruesome saying it, doesn't it?

In the first grade I took the fateful quiz/test/exam-thing that would determine THE REST OF MY LIFE.  Not really.  It was the test to see if I qualified as a gifted and talented (GT) student.  I remember questions like, "if you were an animal, which would you be?" and lots of analogy questions.  I just remember talking about tigers on my test.  Yes, yes, I was a natural born genius.  Everyone calm down. 

I never felt that different, being a gifted and talented student.  Until, once a week, my afternoon was not spent in the classroom with the other students.  I was, instead, taken with a group of about six other students to a bare, empty classroom where Mrs. Coleman basically let us play games and do puzzles all afternoon.  Math, logic, reading, spelling, all reduced (or elevated, as the teachers would tell you) to puzzles and play instead of tests and homework.  Oh, how I looked forward to 1:30 on Tuesdays, so I could leave the drab and dull lesson of the day to play games and eat candy and watch movies with the other smarties! 

The Gifted and Talented.

In the fifth grade (or fourth, I'm not sure), with the advent of Mrs. Whittington, it got real.  As it turned out, the former years were training for a brutal competition, a clash of the unharnessed power of young minds:  UIL.  The University Interscholastic League.  The arbiters of glory and shame.  The pressure of the UIL weighed down on us all, and the large frame* of Mrs. Whittington served as an ever present reminder of the watchful eyes of the UIL.

The year of training before the competition was grueling.  No longer were we greeted with candy and song.  Assessment after assessment were doled out to us.  Time limits, number two pencils, scratch paper.  The tools of the driver.  When the day of reckoning dawned, the six or seven of us left early in the morning on a full-length school bus to a different elementary school.  I don't even remember what subjects I took the tests for.  I only remember that I didn't win any recognition.  A young, malleable-minded Brittany, on the other hand, cried when she lost her competition.  Our Pegasus group (nice and pretentious, eh?) grudgingly returned to the bus, not a single award among us.  I was happy to have gotten out of school though.  After all, what else matters in the fifth grade?

However, with the pressure of the UIL bearing down, we had been granted several lovely breaks from school, in addition to our weekly adventures.  Because UIL competition was held on the day our elementary school was hosting a vaccination shot hand-out thing, our Pegasus group (it never gets old, does it?) took a half-day field trip to another school to receive our shots.  Basically, we got our shots in about fifteen minutes, then played on their playground toys for the rest of the day.

All of the gifted and talented students from all of the elementary schools were rewarded for their accomplishments (or effort, in our case) in the UIL competition with a trip to The Children's Museum, the holy grail of childhood adventures!  Look at me, while I shop for plastic fruits and vegetables!  Afterwards, we went for a picnic, where I happened to notice The Whittington's downcast look as she talked to her colleagues.

All told, we had four field trips that year that I remember.  Our half-day vaccination field trip, the Gifted and Talented trip to the Children's Museum, UIL competition, and the general fifth grade field trip to Hermann Park to see a live play production of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.  A shabby performance, even from the rough uncritical eye of this group of small-town ten-year-olds.  "With this jump rope, we'll create the magic Circle of Imagination!" and "We have to go through the wardrobe, Edward!" (Yes, I know his name is Edmund.)

I kept up my status as a gifted and talented student through middle school in all subjects except math.  That met an abrupt end in the seventh grade at the hand of Mrs. Garcia-Meitin.  I think I was left traumatized by the red ink that covered my assignments throughout that Algebra class.  It looked like blood.  The next year I played it safe in Mrs. "Big Bird" Christley's regular level math class.  Of course, I would get high A's throughout the year.  In my short stint as a regular level math student in the ninth grade, I learned that to stay at this level meant an intimate understanding of the drug and pregnancy scene with the rest of the students in the class.  I decided to reclaim my place with the other former Pegasi that had left me behind.  My low self-esteem in the area of math was reaffirmed in the subarctic climate of Mrs. Thibodaux's Pre-Calculus class my junior year.

After my first couple months at a private Catholic university, I quickly learned that being a gifted and talented Pegasus means nothing here.  I am a small fish, from a small pond, thrust into a savage ocean of philosophers, activists and intellectuals.  Better make friends with the sharks.




*In one of our fifth grade assemblies, we were visited by an artist, who created an entire creature from the outline of an egg, giving it suggested characteristics from the crowd.  It had a mohawk, muscular arms, and eyes like Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson.  When Kayla was fortuitously called on to name the beast, she named it after our taskmaster, "Mrs. Whittington."

Signs

Have you ever felt that you had a destiny?  Something you knew you just had to do?  Has that calling come and gone with the days, and you wonder where it is now?  Or does it still linger in the back of your mind, knocking on your soul like a door-to-door Bible salesman?

One of the purposes of these writing exercises is to demonstrate the idea that every past experience and every memory has some kind of impact, some kind of effect, on who I am today.  That's why I can't just write an autobiography and be done with it.  My personhood develops and changes every day because of what I do and who I interact with and what I feel.

When I was younger, I wanted to be a priest, and I knew that I would be good at it.

Granted, I went through the phases like any young man.  When I was little, I wanted to marry my mom.  In the third grade, I had a crush on Krystal Plummer (which would last through elementary school).  Middle school was a horror story of failed romances, and in high school, after Becca Janik, everything else went to hell.  It was my junior year when my priorities began to change.  I grew into different leadership positions, focused on school, community service, extracurricular activities, and learning and growing in my Catholic faith.  Maybe it was because of my previous romantic failures that I went through a phase during which I participated in casual dating, but did not actively search or strive for romance or love for myself.

Many friends will tell you, I was quite the romantic guru in my time.  I could offer advice and fix any number of other people's romantic problems (I still can, by the way), but I could never get myself out of my hopeless lackluster rut.

The more involved I got with my church, Boy Scouts, and the high school band, starting my junior year, the more I felt, "You know?  I don't really need a woman to be happy.  I like myself, and I can be happy without a significant other."  Of course, that didn't stop me from dating.  But an inkling kept digging at the back of my throat, like the fuzzy film that grows on your teeth.  An inkling that said, "You know, Travis.  You could be a fantastic priest."  And you know what?  I could.

There were 'signs' everywhere.  More 'signs' than I care to admit.  Many of them I probably put together afterward.  Here are a few examples.  At that time I was the Senior Patrol Leader (SPL) of my Boy Scout troop.  One thing our troop does is, at the beginning of every meeting, the SPL would stand at the front of the room and hold his arms like the referee at a football game for a successful point.  "GOOOOOALLLL!!"  You get the idea.  The gesture served to inform everyone in the group, "It's time to start."  I feel that I did a fairly good job as SPL, seeing as I was voted into that position for three consecutive terms.  I was also the drum major of the band.  As you know, the drum major holds out his arms, forward with palms out, to conduct and keep rhythm.  While both of these arm gestures served functional purposes, I feel that there is an important symbolism that those gestures illustrate.  Both say, "Don't worry.  I am here to lead you to success.  It takes work, but follow me.  Trust me."  The arms come out to encircle and guide the flock to safety and success.

I bet a priest does a 'big arms thing' EVERY DAY.  It is an important symbol.  He does it to pray, to bless, to welcome, to inform, to teach.  He does it ALL THE TIME.  Sign #1:  the 'Big Arms Thing.'

One day, my senior year of high school, I went to a Burger King with my mom, and we talked about all of my 'signs.'  As we left the restaurant, walking towards my mother's car, a pay-phone rang.  Seeking a lucky adventure, I answered the phone.  "Hello?"  No answer.  Oh well.  Not today, I guess.  I took a step towards the car and the yellow pay-phone rang once again.  Lucky me!  "Hello?"  No answer.  Someone out there is laughing at me.  Wouldn't be the first time.  I hang up, and take one more step.  Mom says, "It might be God."  Shit.  Ring, ring, ring.  I answer the channeling device with anxiety.  "Hello?   God?"  No answer, thank God.  Ha, see what I did there?  Mom says it's God, calling me.

My priest at home likes to poke fun at people whose cell phones go off during Mass.  That familiar melody plays, the one that ends in a cymbal crash, and Father Bob says, "That had better be Jesus calling."  I made a little playful bet with myself.  I'm always so good about turning off my phone for Mass.  "If my phone goes off audibly during Mass, I'll be a priest."  A year, a Fellowship of Catholic University Students (FOCUS) Conference, a break-up, and a Catholic university later, I am altar serving during Mass.  I am kneeling in front of the altar, holding a tall candle as the priest elevates the Body of Christ, the bells ringing indicating the solid, real presence of Jesus in the Eucharist, and feel a buzzing tickle on my right thigh.  My phone is on vibrate, and it goes off NOW.  Are you kidding me?  After Mass, I check it.  It's my friend Richard.  He wants to play D&D and watch 300.  I think I'm fine.  Sign #2:  Calls.

Time goes on and I meet a girl.  I see a baby.  I want one.  Not now, but eventually.  She loves me.  I love her.  These are important details for later.

I study Communication, English, and Philosophy at the University of St. Thomas.  I know priests.  I see them all the time, but I'm with her, and she floods and eclipses everything else.  In Mass, we stand together, holding hands, and pray "for vocations to the priesthood and religious life to flourish at the University of St. Thomas."

I know that I'd be a good priest, an excellent priest, a phenomenal priest.  It is a lifestyle that I can live with and flourish in, and it is a noble and honorable calling.

But I don't want it.  Bring those previous details back up to bear.  I want a family, and to be a father.  I am scared of not following through with what could be "God's path" for me.  I'm overwhelmed with a crushing doubt that I might not be able to handle the intense divine intimacy that a priest must have with God.  I told a priest that I was terrified of being a priest, and you know what he said to me?  The little devil.

"If you are terrified of becoming a priest, that's a pretty good sign that you shouldn't be a priest."

Words of Wisdom.

Compromise, though.  I can always be a deacon.  Go Catholicism!

By Order of the Author

I have a hard time remembering when exactly I began to enjoy writing.  For the longest time, reading and writing were things that I hated.  The over-analysis that occurs in schools these days really turned me off from the literary arts when I was younger.  I felt that the conclusions being dug from various books were attributed to the work after the fact, and the author's intentions weren't being considered.  (See the foreword to The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.)  I still have those sentiments about many of my literature studies up through my high school career.

However, looking back, evidence exists to state that I had quite the propensity towards writing and literature in my early days.

In the third grade, Mrs. Taylor (who became the librarian after teaching our class) gave us the assignment to write a ghost story.  A simple assignment to give during the Halloween season.  The classroom was decorated with pumpkins and witches, purple and orange streamers hanging from the corners of the water-damaged tile ceiling.  I don't remember any length requirement.  At the time, I thought of it as busy work.  My story was about a vampire bat, from the point of view of the bat.  I was inspired by a wonderful episode of The Magic School Bus that I had just watched, featuring bats, where the class suspected Mrs. Frizzle of being a vampire.  Hi-jinks ensued.  According to Mrs. Taylor, this shift to the first person perspective was astounding, and she had me spend the next class transcribing my work onto a large laminated sheet outlined with bats and ghosts to display in our classroom.

A few short months later, we were told to write a book report.  We had a week in class to complete the assignment.  My book was one of the childhood favorite "Boxcar Children" series.  I understood the mystery they faced, but I had the hardest time putting my pencil to paper to summarize the book.  I would stare blankly at my wide-ruled notebook paper, my head in my hands, waiting for my pencil to move itself and form words on the page.  As Mrs. Taylor made her rounds, checking on progress, she approached my desk.  "Travis, how are you doing?"  "I have no idea what I'm doing."  She proceeded to ask me about the characters and the plot and setting and theme, all of which I reported to her.  Not a word was written.  On Friday, when the other students were passing in their folders full of papers and pictures, I passed forward only air.  Mrs. Taylor never spoke a word to me about her "missing" report.

The next year, our fourth grade class was blessed with the fortune of taking the Writing TAAS test.  On this wonderfully inaccurate test, we were required to write a "narrative" about "what we would do if we could go back in time."  Luckily for me, I had recently seen a similar episode of Sister Sister, where one of the girls (Tia or Tamara) had to confront Rosa Parks in a dream and convince her not to move from her seat.  I wrote a narrative where I confronted George Washington and Abraham Lincoln and helped to assure them in their times of stress, and bolstered their courage.  At the end of my narrative, I "woke up" from my "dream" in the middle of my history class, ready to face my own trials with courage.  A wonderful piece, I must admit, although its ideas were completely unoriginal.  I was the only student from my grade to receive a 4 on my Writing TAAS test, the highest grade possible.* (See footnote)

Interestingly, previously that same year, in Mrs. Loftin's language arts class, I received my first "B" ever.  EVER.  The reason for this first failure was the familiar writer's block as in the case of the book report the year prior.  It was during the dreaded "Camp Write-a-Long," a week devoted to writing exercises and grammar worksheets.  Strangely, the assignment was to write a ghost story.  Where have we seen this assignment before?  On this occasion, unlike before, I was formidably stumped.  Not a page was put to print, and this time, I did not have the benevolence of my teacher to save me.  I was hounded by the bulldog woman, and I turned in something that my mind has blocked out.  With its tardiness working against the already poor quality of the work, a low grade was recorded, and it was reflected in my record shattering, report-card staining "B." 

The taint of imperfection would follow me forever, haunting my interaction with Language Arts classes to come.  Logan, Farris, Kordsmeier, Drury, Gaconnet, and Krohn were reapers and sowers of my displeasure and angst.  Only a select few would alleviate the pain:  Adams, Ligon, Forbes, Lowery, Barloon, and an honorable mention to Henry.



*I was told by various teachers that I was the only one to receive a 4 from my grade on the Writing TAAS test.  If anyone else was told the same thing, please inform me.  My ego has grown substantially since the fourth grade, likely because of this bolstering.

Dangerous Race

Tonight's pouring of lights and sounds will be quick and crude.  Allow me to set the stage.

I was a Senior in high school, exempt from all of my final exams, but required to be present at the education facility until noon.  On this wonderful May day of freedom, I made modest plans to see a movie with some friends during the afternoon, when the theatre would not be overrun by eighth graders dressed like twenty-somethings.  For the integrity of this story, I must first describe three very important things.



Firstly, my car.  My car is my trusty steed.  I drive a white '96 Nissan Sentra.  My mom drove him first, then my brother, then me.  His name is Benito Juarez.  Benito earned his name effortlessly.  My brother's name is Ben, so, as an homage to his previous driver, the name "Benito" seemed fitting.  "Little Ben."  Secondly, on my sixteenth birthday, when I got my driver's license, my good friend Andrew gave me a twenty peso mark, on which the face of Benito Juarez, the first president of Mexico, glares disapprovingly.  In a moment, we had come to the conclusion that my car was actually only worth about twenty pesos.  And henceforth, Benito Juarez was born, and his name stuck marvelously.

Most of the car has retained its white coloring.  Signs of aging have stained his pure shell, but he still gleams in the sunlight on a blinding yellow day.  His most distinguishing feature is the scar he retains from a front end wreck many years ago when my mom was the driver.  Even though the white paint was replaced after the bumper was repaired, that replacement paint has, since then, chipped away at a startling rate, leaving Benito with a mostly black bumper with specks of white paint clinging and hoping to be remembered.  My friends and I call it his mustache.  Because Benito is easily recognizable, and because I've had him for so long, and because of his catchy name, he has earned a deep place in my heart, and I find that he has a lot of character for a car, compared to most.* (See footnote.)

The second new character in this play is my friend Michael.  Michael and I have been friends since the second grade.  We were in Boy Scouts together from second grade up through high school, and we earned our Eagle Scout awards side by side.  I find now that if I had to name my longest running friendship, it is my friendship with Michael.  Michael is a large man.  He towers at 6'3" and weighs in at over three-hundred pounds.  With these numbers in mind, I have seen Michael perform feats of strength that would make a normal man pale in fear.  On more than one occasion, I have recognized Michael as a "great bronze god," not for his appearance, but for his bravery in the face of danger (or more likely, stupidity in the face of danger).  Michael is also, without comparison, my geekiest friend.  I say that with unbridled love.  When I truly want to play a good game, when that burning desire overtakes my attention to convenience, Michael is the man I call.  With all of this in mind, I must now inform you, reader, that Michael is a man with long, greasy blonde hair, an unkempt, curly blonde beard, and a perpetual gloss of sweat on his brow.  He drives a red Jeep Liberty.  (This is an important detail.)

The third player is my good friend Derek.  At the time of this memory, we had known each other for only about a year, but now he is one of my best friends.  He would want me to tell you that I am friends with him out of fear, but also for protection.  Derek has the uncanny ability to bend the forces of the world to his divine will.  For this reason, I keep him close.  Someday, he will be my mightiest enemy, but for now, his company is intriguing and entertaining.

Call it coincidence, but Derek is also quite large in stature, only slightly smaller than Michael, and also with amazing strength.  Derek fashions himself after Mufasa, the lion king.  He keeps his mane shiny and silky smooth, and his beard formidable.  He prides his beard like a king should.



And now to the play.  The three of us meet in the parking lot, with the sun shining brightly overhead.  Michael saunters to his Jeep, while Derek and I huddle into Benito.  Michael drives in front of us, calling out, "How about a friendly race?  A gentleman's pride bet."

"Agreed."

We both make it to Hwy 288 in inconsequential time from the high school.  Michael's Jeep takes off, spouting forward like the water from a faucet.  It seems at home on this highway.  Benito trails behind, as I pat him on the dashboard.  "Take your time, friend," I say.  Benito has his kick, and executes it professionally at all times.  It is not long before I overtake Michael's little red floozy on the road.  On the short 15 mile stretch from Angleton to Lake Jackson, it seemed Benito had clenched his victory.  The conclusion seemed more and more certain as we were about to pass an 18-wheeler.  Success in that endeavor would leave Michael trapped behind us, and victory assured.

In a frightening turn of events, Michael and his red machine rushed through the small gap between the tanker and Benito, bringing us all an inch or two closer to meeting our respective makers.  Michael's red Liberty imprisoned Benito behind the tanker.  In a few short seconds, we were both clear of the 18-wheeler.  However, after Michael's show of stupid bravery, I reconciled to let him keep his dignity.  He was clearly willing to risk more to win this "gentleman's pride bet" than I was.

In short, I let the foolish man win.



*Benito's personality was only further enhanced when I received an Autobot magnet from a family member a year ago.  With the addition of the Autobot magnet, Benito's allegiances were confirmed.

Lunch in Middle School

Let the pleasing rhythm of Emma Thompson's voice carry the following memory into your mind.

Middle School is a battlefield.  A war zone that rages on for what feels like eternity.  It drags on and dwindles and drips like an IV into the veins of a dying man.  Middle School is slow and painful torture.  The embarrassments and awkward moments it supplies are merely the pathetic prologue to the Thermopolean War known as High School.

Middle School is a collection of terrible, horrid moments, plucked out of one's life, when he or she is struggling desperately to impress friends and teachers, and always failing miserably.  There is no such thing as moderation or subtlety in the mind of a child, no matter his desire to masquerade as an adult. 

There is a time, however, to break from the agonizing struggle of pretend.  The time that allows the child in everyone to be free.  The time when all attempts to impress will fail, and everyone acknowledges the fact, so the effort is not wasted, and instead is spent wisely on making a fool of oneself.  That lack of moderation and subtlety is best exhibited in an affectionate absence of adult affectations, known as Lunch.

Switch to Colin Firth here.

My sixth grade table was the farthest table on the north side of the cafeteria.  I fondly remember sitting next to a young up-and-coming funny-man named Justin, a new addition to our clan.  We sat across from my rediscovered best friend, Amy, and her strange awkward-minded friend Jasmine* (see footnote).  Farther down the table next to the plexi-glass window sat previously-mentioned Brooke and Kayla, with Patty, Brittany, Brittnee, Lauren, and a plethora of other BFFs.

It was this year that my system of allowance was changed.  Instead of being given lunch money every day, and a small allowance every Saturday, I would get twenty (or thirty or forty, I don't particularly remember) dollars each month, which was also meant to cover my lunch at school.  So, if I wanted to spend money on pizza and soda for lunch every day, I could not expect to buy packs of Pokemon cards with any leftover money.  On the other hand, if I was willing to eat a scrappy lunch, I had funds available to me to buy toys and Pokemon cards when the mood struck me.

I chose the second route.  I decided that I would buy two bags of potato chips for lunch every day, totaling in one dollar.  One dollar every day for lunch, meant a total of merely five dollars a week, which left me with ample funds with which to satiate my own interests.  Anyway, the important part is that I ate potato chips for lunch nearly every day.

What happened next caused some friends to laugh, some to cringe, and others left simply in awe.  When I had finished with the tangible crisps from the bag, I would turn the bag inside-out with my hand inside the bag like a vicious puppet-master, and I would lick the succulent flavor dust from the silver insides.  I would lap up the wonderful entrails of my cheap kill, valiantly claiming that I was "getting my money's worth!"  In this prosperous moment, all concerns for my public image were denied, and I was left only with the salty satisfaction of a good day's hunt.

Other memories come flooding to the fore.  Justin would periodically have rounds of popcorn-chicken basketball with Amy's shirt.  The "Ah!" that proceeded after a successful point was followed by Amy's hunt for the morsel and her victorious munch, reminding Justin of his foolish squandering of sustenance.

Eighth grade brought with it new faces, and entirely new lunch-time adventures.  Our cafeteria had been graced in multiple ways.  The first, the addition of N*Sync fruit snacks in the lunch line.  At twenty-five cents each, and the gamble of a bag full of juicy hearts or a bag full of dry gelatinous ovals, it was difficult to deny their allure.  The second blessing was a jukebox at the end of the cafeteria, which my friends and I monopolized.  Most songs featured on the jukebox were pop hits of the day, such as "Kiss of a Rose" by Seal, "Oops...I Did It Again" by Brittany Spears, and a smorgasbord of new rap and R&B hits.  However, its shining selection and favorite of our group was the old Motown hit, "My Girl" by Smokey Robinson.  In a hotly contested battle to maintain the position of "Most Played," our clan would routinely announce "Five-Dollar Fridays."  On this wonderful day, we would put five dollars worth of quarters in the jukebox and request "My Girl" with every scrumptious donation.  Reports were obtained that our anthem played repeatedly throughout the next two lunch shifts and beyond.

Lunch after middle school quickly becomes a proving ground, serving to expose every insecurity in a test to prove one's popularity.  But, for a short three years of my life, lunch was a purely social function, where judgments were held, and memories were stored as ammunition to be used at a later date.  After all, one must bring all of one's guns to the final showdown of High School.

*Jasmine had reported to our group a short year earlier that she had been visited by an Andalite from the Animorphs series, and that she was gifted with the power to shapeshift.  Some friends and I thought she was playing pretend, so we joined along and agreed that the rest of us had also been visited.  When we learned that she was serious, we were left with a semester-long awkward silence.  Rumors abounded later in life that she had a "dragon penis."  Let us leave that one alone for now.

Strangulation by GameCube

Who's pretentious?  We are!  For the next ten minutes, your name is Lord Fitzwilliam Derbyshire II, and you speak beautifully.

I forget in which year this wonderful memory occurred, but the colors are quite vivid.  My inkling tells me I was in the eighth grade, but I could easily be mistaken.

My father loves to fish.  He goes fishing nearly every weekend and every day off he can manage, without fail.  He goes by himself, with others, at night, or in the morning.  I feel that he truly finds a connection with God when he is out on the water, facilitating the circle of life, the natural process of predator and prey.  The fish are the prey.  Naturally.

He keeps his prizes in a large upstanding freezer in our garage, and stockpiles for months on end.  He gives bags of frozen, cleaned fish as gifts to any and everyone fortunate enough to know him.  However, my father's generosity cannot overrun his catching capacity, and so the stacks of Ziploc baggies build up more and more, as if they are spawning new copies of themselves.  Disgusting little buggers.

Every six months, back when my brother and I were in school, my house would host a "Fish Fry," religiously attended by many of my close friends for years on end.  The summer Fish Fry would typically double as my birthday party.  My household was also fortunate enough to have amassed a formidable collection of various games.  Billiards, darts, ping-pong, horseshoes, an infinite closet of board games, water guns, foam swords, and, this year, my newest and most prized possession:  a Nintendo GameCube.

A staple at many gatherings from then onward, the Nintendo GameCube was fortunate enough to host what I call the greatest fighting game of the time, Super Smash Bros. Melee.  And at this particular party, for this particular moment, on my birthday, at my house, in my living room, on the television screen, I was King.

Many of my guests were unfamiliar with the controls, and I could tell they were losing interest quickly.  Eight or so young people crowded around a television screen.  I observed my opponent's hopeless flailing in the game, but failed to notice the hopeless flailing occurring on my couch.

I suppose a squabble had arisen over whose turn it was to play, or who was to claim a space on the couch.  I must admit, I was immersed in my on-screen conquering.  I heard a gasp, and a choking, gurgling sound, and I turned to see two girls from my class.  One girl, Brooke, too witty for her own good.  The other, Kayla, too skinny to survive a slight breeze.  Apparently, Kayla had squeezed herself into a tight position:  between Brooke and a GameCube controller.  Brooke might have been wearing a green Veggie Tales T-shirt as she tenderly, let us say, "hugged" the life out of a friend with a controller cord, but one can't be sure.  Truly a model of Love.  (In truth, I might have photographs of this particular party, though not the conflict.  I will do my best to find and display at a later date.) 

I realize now why I had dominated so effectively and efficiently.  My opponent had been engaged in a raging battle of her own, distracted by another momentary, albeit slightly more dangerous, enemy.

I don't remember how the conflict ended, or who broke them up.  It wasn't me.  I was paralyzed from the possibility that I might see a dead body by the end of the day.  My birthday!  The brutes.  I only know that both Brooke and Kayla are still alive, and, from what I remember, somewhat good friends now.  I could be wrong.  This memory has made for an entertaining anecdote at many a gathering of high school friends.  Needless to say, the GameCube was retired for the rest of the day, in favor of foam sword-fighting.  It seems everyone had a little stress that needed to be released.

It is one of those loving reminiscences that goes something like, "Do you remember that time I tried to kill Kayla?"  "Oh yes, it was a charming day, indeed."


Also, it appears I am now taking requests.  If we shared a moment that you wish to share with others through my open correspondence with the masses, let me know.  I will retell it to the best of my abilities.

Memory One: Kindergarten

English accents at the ready?  Very well.  As a famous Englishman once said, "Engage."

(You may congratulate yourself if you thought Patrick Stewart.)

There are numerous accounts of my life before I gained consciousness, all gathered and haphazardly organized into a loving compilation known as "Xmas '91."  This home video is a brilliant capturing of my unconscious actions.  My intriguing re-telling of the classic storybook, "Once Upon a Potty," is emblazoned on the film for eternity.

However, seeing as I do not have a conscious memory of these events, I will not describe with the excruciating detail I intend to impart on the rest of these entries.  To set somewhat of a stage, I was born in Houston, and my family and I lived for a short year in an apartment there.  We then moved to Beechwood, a small neighborhood to the north of Angleton, Texas.

My first memory is my first day of kindergarten.  In those days, I slept in a T-shirt that was far too large for me.  I would routinely envelope myself in its folds, like a hermit crab burying itself in the sand.  In this memory, the light-blue shirt came down to my knees.  I have no memory of what I had for breakfast, but I imagine it was a simple, unassuming bowl of Rice Chex.  I walked outside into the dark breeze of my driveway to see my brother off.  The wind was blowing calmly, as a mother blows on a bowl of hot soup for her child.  I asked my mother, "What are we doing today?"  She responded, "You're going to school, too."

My recollection skips ahead now to the classroom of Mrs. Brit, a wonderful, wispy kind of woman.  She was small, but she would surround you lovingly, like sunlight on a windy day.  On the floor are rows of colored duct tape, on which the children are meant to sit.  Many of my fellow amoebas in this room I would forget until middle school, when we would be reunited.  We sat "Indian style" on the rows of duct tape and, after reciting the Pledge of Allegiance,  reviewed the letter 'A.'

"A, A, A, A, A.  Good, now what sound does the letter 'A' make?  Repeat after me.  Aaaah, Aaaaah, Aaaah, Aaaah."

"Aaaah, Aaaaah, Aaaah, Aaaah."

"Very good."

I remember being terribly bored during this year.  Mrs. Brit would ask us to write our names on our papers, and I would.  Meanwhile, the vast majority of younglings surrounding me would shoot their hands up like fireworks.  "Can you help me, Mrs. Brit?"  "Of course."  Meanwhile, I would continue with the assignment.  Connect the dots.  Very well, if you insist.  As I passed my pencil from point to point, I would munch on the Skittles on my desk.  "Can I have some?" asks a piercingly cute girl sitting across from me.  Her name is Amanda Ochoa.  "Okay."  She reaches into the bag and picks out a red one.  "Not the red ones," I say.  She makes a face, but agrees, and takes a purple one instead.  I am in love.

We return to the stripes on the floor and Mrs. Brit holds up cards with pictures of clocks and coins.  We talk about time and money, the backbone of American Consumerism, the first thing I am taught in my standardized education.  Wonderfully American.

Bathroom break.  Everyone lines up, in the same order we were sitting on the colored stripes.  We walk single-file to the bathroom, and two at a time, we are directed into the bathrooms.  As we exit, we are led to a community sink-and-soap station to wash our hands.  From here we go outside to the blacktop to play.  I mostly sit around and watch.  I play one or two games of hop-scotch in the corner of the playground.

I am picked up in a blue van and taken to Noah's Ark Day-Care.  My teacher here is Mrs. Sue, a large woman with blazing red hair.  I learn that we are allowed to bring one toy each day to day-care.  I don't have a toy today.  Instead I play with green plastic army men, using a Playskool plastic kitchen as a battleground.  I play with Justin Williams, a skinny black boy.  We discuss the Power Rangers and the Ninja Turtles.  I vehemently claim that the Blue Ranger is the best, but he disagrees and heralds the Red Ranger as the mightiest defender of good.  We agree to disagree.

We are directed to play outside for a short time, then to a play-room, and finally, to a large sitting room.  A single television set is wheeled to the front-center of the room.  The children clamor to the front, and debate rages across the room.  I sit in the back.  We settle on Legends of the Hidden Temple.  I cheer for the Silver Snakes.  After the Red Monkeys (much to my disappointment) rebuild the Shrine of the Silver Monkey and win their bikes, we watch the Power Rangers.  The time passes, and the various television shows continue, and I notice that one by one, the murder of children sitting "Indian style" has thinned down.  This continues for quite a while, until I am left alone with three other little children.

"What time is it?" I ask. 
"A little after five, sweetheart."
"Where's my mommy?"
"She'll be here soon."
"Did she forget me?  Did she leave me here?"
"Of course not, baby!"

I erupt into tears.



Happy story, really.  I assume my mother appeared shortly after to retrieve me, but my memory fails me, and understandably so.  I came to expect soon after that I would typically be the last one picked up from day-care.  That trend continued in the summers at Our Lady Queen of Peace summer school, when my father would routinely pick me up long after all the other children had disappeared.

You will come to learn soon that I had a relatively pathetic childhood.  Full of happy moments, to be sure, but with an overarching tone of my own depression leaked in.  My family lovingly called my attitude "crabby" until I reached the age of twelve.

I was not a happy child.



Enough of me for now.  I hope you enjoyed some sense of comfort as you read about my first memory.  Perhaps I have sparked your own minds and pulled you back into an angry, lonely world which you long to forget.  Enjoy the grueling climb back out, and I'll return to my mind-figments soon.  You will join me, won't you?  Wonderful.

Inception

Great movie, right?  Right.

From this point forward, read this and every future entry with a pretentious English accent.  It will all come together swimmingly.  And, go!

"Inception" is the planting of an idea.  Luckily for me, my mind is full of fertile soil awaiting the seeds of creation.  A good friend of mine asked me today, "Travis, why don't you have a blog?  You have interesting things to say."

Thank you for noticing.

I am taking an Acting class, and our assignment for next week is to write an autobiography, a telling of our accomplishments, fears, hopes, dreams, struggles, and of course, the facts surrounding our coming into being.

Mission:  Accepted.

She said our autobiography only needed to be a few pages long.  At this statement, I found myself struck with disappointment.  I don't want to only write a few pages!  My life demands a higher word count!  I am more interesting than a few pages!

Thank you for agreeing.  You are so kind.

And I wondered, "In what way can I truly capture my trudging journey through the human condition?"  Answer:  a blog!  Truly hum-drum, I know.  However, I find myself gifted with a firm grip on the English language, or so I've been told.  I am truly convinced that my life is interesting and worth sharing, and my goal is to convince the cosmos of the Internet the same!

Furthermore, to do my autobiography justice, it must contain more than my first twenty-one years of life.  What can one accomplish in two short decades?  What have I accomplished?

I'm glad you asked.  I'll tell you:  a blog on the Internet.

That's right!  I'm just getting started!  This will be an ongoing project for me.  My goal is to write down every significant memory I have and have ever had (which should be all of them).  After all, if the memory is of or concerning me, it must be significant.  I will write down every slight sliver of memory while grossly over-embellishing the minutiae, whether the details are true or fantastical.

In the creation of this adventure, I will maintain the integrity of some names, while fabricating others.  It is in the interest of national security.

Really?  Yes, really.

Strap yourselves in.  It's going to be a bumpy, bumpy ride through my consciousness.  My consciousness is, after all, quite bumpy.