OK, confession time. I’m in love with this “52 in 52” thing for plenty of reasons.
Second confession: Having finished and returned This I Believe, I perused the “new non-fiction” shelf in front of me at the library today for the smallest book I could find. Correct. A book based on the least amount of actual reading I’d have to do. I had the little, blue “good” angel on my right shoulder and the red “bad” devilish guy on my left, both sporting “52 in 52” T-shirts. I took a louie while thinking, “I can’t fall behind, but I’ve got some pretty long books I’d like to read,” and gave into the peer pressure of the challenge’s dark side. After all, I do have a deadline in front of me. Weak, I know. But I found a 7” x 4”, 128 page, pictures on every third page gem. To top it off, kids ranging in age from 6-13 authored it. I think I yelled “Yahtzee!” out loud. I could’ve had this thing knocked out in a half hour if my eyes hadn’t welled up with tears in the first ten pages. Damn it. My plan backfired.
My Hero: Military Kids Write About Their Moms and Dads contains over one hundred letters from kids who describe their military parents as heroes. Because many of our friends serve in the military and have kids, I’ve thought a lot about this book’s premise in the past. I wonder if it’s fair for Aidan Sloan, at age 11, to write, “My dad is my hero because he was my dad…(he) was killed in action in Afghanistan on October 31, 2006 by an IED,” or for Zachari Perry, age 6, to have to reflect on his mom that “Was a very great Airman. She died doing her job. She was a great person.”
Confession three: This is a part of my inner-being with which I’m not comfortable. Sometimes I feel that it’s selfish to have children when you know you may go to war. There, I said it. I’m sure it’ll go over like Costner’s Waterworld, but I don’t have the same sense of duty that tells me my country is more important than my child. I respect and admire the choice to serve in the armed forces, but I cannot relate in any way to leaving my young kids at home to travel across the world – absent from their lives – with the opportunity of being killed at any moment. It’s not part of me; it’s an uncomfortable, missing part of me.
I don’t have the right answers to my squirmy little questions. Defining the ethics of war, or the words “parent,” “duty,” and “hero” turn the best minds upside down, which means mine feels like a Cirque du Soleil performance. Sometimes I feel angry that someone’s mom or dad could leave for war; sometimes I feel awe struck that they serve our country; and most of the time I feel guilty for having the first thought.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
My Four Leaf Clover
Easy summary to book two in the challenge: “This I Believe offers a simple, if difficult invitation: Write a few hundred words expressing the core principles that guide your life – your personal credo” (1). While most of the authors engage the reader, my two favorites involved a story about an adoption and the other a teenager's view on the future of the world. In honor of the This I Believe project, this post represents my amateurish attempt at their wonderful essay prompt.
I believe I’m lucky.
I remember several years ago reading about a guy in Las Vegas that had traveled there with his buddies for the opening weekend of the NCAA men’s basketball tournament. Apparently, he sat waiting in one of the casinos at the south end of The Strip – Excalibur, MGM, one of those – for his friends to meet him. They were late. He plopped down on a stool in front of a slot machine. He waited a bit more. They were still late. Bored, he threw some cash into the machine and won the biggest slot payout in history – something like $30 million. The headline in the paper I read said something about this kid being lucky to have friends that couldn’t tell time.
I remember when Grandma Lawton bought some raffle tickets at St. William’s during their fall festival. She bought one for each grandkid and my ticket earned $500. I got to spend half of it on a black and yellow dirt bike. I cruised the neighborhood, jumping the curbs, and listened to every kid in our neighborhood call me lucky.
I remember driving home from New Orleans with Jen and Sandie. For a reason I don’t understand a dozen years later, Jen grabbed the steering wheel where the finger tips of my right hand gently rested. At 70mph, the car jerked through a lane of traffic, off the interstate, did two 360s – tires screeching, seatbelt stiff against my chest. We drove away slowly with no injuries, no damage to the car, and no other car in sight. Sandie said, “Holy shit. That was lucky.”
I view “lucky” differently than the Vegas paper, kids in the old neighborhood, and Sandie. I remember my parents have been married nearly forty years. I remember having a present at my spot at the kitchen table the first day of school every year; going to County Stadium with my Grandma, Rob, Mark, and dad once a summer; leaving the house after breakfast and playing in the “big forest” all day; babysitting my sisters and having to watch Annie on continuous loop (incidentally, Punjab’s an underrated character in American movie history). I remember Dave losing a tooth on the curb during a bombardment game in our early years at St. John’s and him being in our wedding. I remember many other lifelong friends; seeing Mt. Rainier, the Coliseum, kissing the Blarney Stone (yuck), understanding why aquamarine is a crayon color after sitting on that beach in Rhodes. I remember my healthy kids and meeting Jess in high school. And I remember learning the real definitions of hardship, dysfunction, and emotional pain from the kids we work with at school.
The philosopher in me wonders why I arrived on our planet as part of my family, providing me with incredible opportunity. The male comedian in me wonders why the hell I’m writing about touchy feely stuff. Either way, I’m lucky. This I believe.
I believe I’m lucky.
I remember several years ago reading about a guy in Las Vegas that had traveled there with his buddies for the opening weekend of the NCAA men’s basketball tournament. Apparently, he sat waiting in one of the casinos at the south end of The Strip – Excalibur, MGM, one of those – for his friends to meet him. They were late. He plopped down on a stool in front of a slot machine. He waited a bit more. They were still late. Bored, he threw some cash into the machine and won the biggest slot payout in history – something like $30 million. The headline in the paper I read said something about this kid being lucky to have friends that couldn’t tell time.
I remember when Grandma Lawton bought some raffle tickets at St. William’s during their fall festival. She bought one for each grandkid and my ticket earned $500. I got to spend half of it on a black and yellow dirt bike. I cruised the neighborhood, jumping the curbs, and listened to every kid in our neighborhood call me lucky.
I remember driving home from New Orleans with Jen and Sandie. For a reason I don’t understand a dozen years later, Jen grabbed the steering wheel where the finger tips of my right hand gently rested. At 70mph, the car jerked through a lane of traffic, off the interstate, did two 360s – tires screeching, seatbelt stiff against my chest. We drove away slowly with no injuries, no damage to the car, and no other car in sight. Sandie said, “Holy shit. That was lucky.”
I view “lucky” differently than the Vegas paper, kids in the old neighborhood, and Sandie. I remember my parents have been married nearly forty years. I remember having a present at my spot at the kitchen table the first day of school every year; going to County Stadium with my Grandma, Rob, Mark, and dad once a summer; leaving the house after breakfast and playing in the “big forest” all day; babysitting my sisters and having to watch Annie on continuous loop (incidentally, Punjab’s an underrated character in American movie history). I remember Dave losing a tooth on the curb during a bombardment game in our early years at St. John’s and him being in our wedding. I remember many other lifelong friends; seeing Mt. Rainier, the Coliseum, kissing the Blarney Stone (yuck), understanding why aquamarine is a crayon color after sitting on that beach in Rhodes. I remember my healthy kids and meeting Jess in high school. And I remember learning the real definitions of hardship, dysfunction, and emotional pain from the kids we work with at school.
The philosopher in me wonders why I arrived on our planet as part of my family, providing me with incredible opportunity. The male comedian in me wonders why the hell I’m writing about touchy feely stuff. Either way, I’m lucky. This I believe.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Off and Climbing
I finished Bo Ryan: Another Hill to Climb, the first book in my 2009 version of "52 in 52."
A favorite quote: "He was hungry and committed. He was the bacon in that meal of bacon and eggs. You know what I'm talking about...the difference between being involved and being committed? If you're serving bacon and eggs for breakfast, you know the chicken was involved but when you look at the bacon, you know the pig was committed" (152).
Ryan used this to describe some of his players. Specifically, Mike Wilkinson and Devin Harris. I can see it as an element of parenthood - many of my thoughts revolve around this, of course (my life is all about potty training and I'm not above the M&M bribes to make sure it lands in the right spot).
Last night I had a chicken/pig moment with Evan. I set him up at the dining room table with his box of 64, favorite McQueen coloring books and paper, and let him rip. I promptly sat my ass in a chair in another room and opened a book to read as he sat alone coloring. Ahh, relaxation time.
Chicken - I was involved; I set him up. Pig - scrape my butt out of the chair and hang out with him. So I did. We colored for awhile together and then he started working on his own. Evan must have seen my book because he said, "Here daddy" as he handed me a small piece of notebook paper with black crayon scribbles everywhere and a red, glittery star sticker in the middle. "It's your book mark," he said.
Glad I decided to be the pig.
A favorite quote: "He was hungry and committed. He was the bacon in that meal of bacon and eggs. You know what I'm talking about...the difference between being involved and being committed? If you're serving bacon and eggs for breakfast, you know the chicken was involved but when you look at the bacon, you know the pig was committed" (152).
Ryan used this to describe some of his players. Specifically, Mike Wilkinson and Devin Harris. I can see it as an element of parenthood - many of my thoughts revolve around this, of course (my life is all about potty training and I'm not above the M&M bribes to make sure it lands in the right spot).
Last night I had a chicken/pig moment with Evan. I set him up at the dining room table with his box of 64, favorite McQueen coloring books and paper, and let him rip. I promptly sat my ass in a chair in another room and opened a book to read as he sat alone coloring. Ahh, relaxation time.
Chicken - I was involved; I set him up. Pig - scrape my butt out of the chair and hang out with him. So I did. We colored for awhile together and then he started working on his own. Evan must have seen my book because he said, "Here daddy" as he handed me a small piece of notebook paper with black crayon scribbles everywhere and a red, glittery star sticker in the middle. "It's your book mark," he said.
Glad I decided to be the pig.
The 52 in 52
Yep, there they sit...the TBRs (To Be Reads) of a lifetime. And there it goes...another New Year. I read that resolutions for the "new year" generally fit into several categories: spend time with family; learn something (take a class or read a book); quit a vice (smoking or drinking); get fit; enjoy life (hobbies or life experiences); get out of debt; help others.
I imagine most normal humans reflected on similar goals as the clock sent us into 2009. For me, I've always felt a little discouraged by the number of books I read in any given year. I've got the greatest excuses in Evan and AJ, or I've got a lot of work to do, or I'd like to watch this rerun of Two and a Half Men for the 400th time, or this couch sure is comfy, or...
In Running With the Buffaloes, Mark Wetmore mentioned reading over 200 books during some years of his life, and I recently came across several variations of the "TBR Challenge" (http://tbrchallenge.blogspot.com/) where people vow to read 12 books off their TBR list in one year. I figure I fit somewhere in the middle, hence the "52 in 52."
So here it goes. I, Brian, challenge myself in front of all none of you reading this, to read 52 books in the 52 weeks of 2009. To make sure I enjoy/think about/comprehend them, I'll also plan to include a favorite quote and quick reflection. I'm going to avoid the actual book review in honor of another resolution...be nice to people.
I imagine most normal humans reflected on similar goals as the clock sent us into 2009. For me, I've always felt a little discouraged by the number of books I read in any given year. I've got the greatest excuses in Evan and AJ, or I've got a lot of work to do, or I'd like to watch this rerun of Two and a Half Men for the 400th time, or this couch sure is comfy, or...
In Running With the Buffaloes, Mark Wetmore mentioned reading over 200 books during some years of his life, and I recently came across several variations of the "TBR Challenge" (http://tbrchallenge.blogspot.com/) where people vow to read 12 books off their TBR list in one year. I figure I fit somewhere in the middle, hence the "52 in 52."
So here it goes. I, Brian, challenge myself in front of all none of you reading this, to read 52 books in the 52 weeks of 2009. To make sure I enjoy/think about/comprehend them, I'll also plan to include a favorite quote and quick reflection. I'm going to avoid the actual book review in honor of another resolution...be nice to people.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
