Lessons of a Bookworm

  Books teach lots of lessons, sometime it's something the author intended and sometimes it's something that only you can take away from the book, a combination of the authors words and your unique experiences. This isn't to be an exhaustive list, just a random bit of things I've learned reading books.
   From Siddhartha I learned that a book doesn't have to be big to pack a big impact and from Hermann Hesse that loving one book by an author doesn't mean you'll love the rest of his work; but even if you don't love the story (Demian) it can still resonate with you for years to come. Also from Siddhartha and from some of Salinger's work I learned that we often have to forget what we know in order to learn what we need to know.
  Speaking of Salinger, Salinger taught me that, "If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the "F you" signs in the world. It's impossible."While he probably didn't intend to Salinger also taught me that a certain amount of phoniness is not only normal but necessary for society to function, sorry Holden. Salinger, Vonnegut, and Hemingway also taught me that war is indeed hell; although Hemingway made it sound a bit like a romantic hell.
  Tolstoy taught me in Anna Karenina that really big books usually have lots of filler that has nothing to do with the stories being told. That sometimes regular romances seem much more desirable when compared with flashy, star struck ones and that the main story in a book isn't always the best one.
   Speaking of Russian's, Dostoevsky taught me many things and I've only read two of his books so far. He taught me that a man can reason anything, even murder can seem reasonable when dwelt on too long. He taught me that 'classics' could be interesting stories, and (with The Brothers Karamazov) that the parts of a book can be greater than it's sum. He taught me that people don't know what to do with freedom and would rather have laws and dogma, and that we are all responsible for the worst among us because we didn't reach them when we had a chance.
   Dai Sijie, Paulo Coelho and Laura Esquivel taught me that there are non-English writing authors out there definitely worth reading, Coelho gave me the only version of the story of Job I've ever really liked and also made me see how a writer can mess up his own story by inserting too much of himself into it. Sijie taught me about Chinese reeducation camps (in the 1960s) and how literature can free the mind. And Esquivel taught me that a book can be smoldering hot, fantastical, romantic and contain recipes all at the same time.
   Neil Gaiman showed me fairy tales are also for adults.
   Joyce Carol Oates showed me how a house can be a major character in a story.
   Christopher Moore and Tom Robbins showed me that a warped imagination can be a good thing, that profanity can be prose and that red heads can be real trouble. Moore also gave the world Pocket (a unique reworking of Shakespeare's fool from King Lear)and Abby Normal, which maybe isn't a lesson learned but a good thing all the same; remember when Abby was talking about Boo Radley?
   Which brings me to Harper Lee, who taught me it's not always easy to stand up for your principles but it's always worth it. Cyrano de Bergerac tempered that lesson by teaching me that standing up for those beliefs to the point of being obsessive about them can lead to loneliness and death. Cyrano also showed me you can love a character even if he's a dick and in a similar vain Lolita showed that you can sympathize with even a very base protagonist with the right writer at the helm.
   Stephen King showed me how important a good ending is, and Elizabeth Kostova showed me how a terrible ending can ruin an otherwise amazing book. The Notebook showed how you can love the ending of a book even though you're reading it through a torrent of tears.
   Speaking of endings brings me to the end of my blog, again not an exhaustive list by any means, but these are some of the lessons I've learned from my time spent between the pages of books. Some were about literature in general and some from more of a personal growth perspective. I hope I can be as good a man as Atticus without being quite a Cyrano, I hope to be as peaceful as Siddhartha but with a Fool-ish streak, to be as passionate as quail in rose petal sauce flavored by Tita's erotic thoughts and as devoted as Noah Calhoun.

A Once Controversial Topic

  

   First of all let me begin with the obligatory I haven't blogged in awhile and had almost  forgotten I had a blog, and now on with the show. Once upon a time there was an issue that divided people, families, and communities; it even landed some people in jail. It was a hot topic issue that people held deeply seated opinions about and yet today it's pretty much a non-issue to most of us. The issue I'm discussing is, please don't be offended by this, baptism.
   To be honest it's never been much of an issue to me and still isn't one I'd get upset over but I find myself in a position of reevaluating my assumptions on the topic. I believe almost all Christian denominations practice baptism in one form or another, it and communion being the only sacraments recognized by most protestant denominations, but when and how you get wet has led to splits in churches and all the aforementioned hubbub. I was raised in the Baptist tradition and was indoctrinated in their belief of full-immersion, believers baptism (I'll explain this in a minute if your not sure what I mean) but I've almost certainly left the Baptist denomination and have been visiting other mainline Christian churches which will perform and accept the Baptist style of baptism but they also practice sprinkling or pouring of water and (the thing most foreign to the way I was taught) infant baptism.
    Now let's get into the mechanics of it all for a bit. There are some denominations that believe baptism is required to gain salvation and thereby getting your get into heaven card, others (including Baptist) believe that baptism is just an outward show of something you've already done internally (believers baptism), while others believe baptism is a rite, something that all Christians have been commanded to do and it symbolizes what Christ did for humanity, not anything that humans ourselves have done (hence the baptism of infants). Also the manner of ceremonial washing is a dividing point between Baptists and other mainline Christian groups, the sprinkling and pouring work fine for ceremonial purposes for most protestants but Baptist's (and others like them) believe you must get dunked; this belief comes both from the fact that Jesus was dunked in the Jordan River and it's representation of death and rebirth.
    Last Sunday in the liturgical calendar was the Sunday to celebrate Jesus' baptism and as we were visiting Central United Methodist Church (CUMC) in Uptown Shelby this issue was brought to mind, and (as is usually the case in my family) it brought about a humorous situation. At the end of the service the pastor poured water into a baptismal fount and invited the congregation to come forward dip their fingers in and touch it to their forehead to help them remember their baptism, their initiation into Christianity if you will. I started forward to do so, I was baptized around the age of 12 (the median age for Baptists I believe) at Ross Grove Baptist Church in Shelby, and my younger boys saw that there were kids their age going forward and they wanted to go participate as well. Now coming from a Baptist church neither of them has been baptized, but I didn't think it would hurt anything to let them come with me, I and my 7 yr. old son both dipped our fingers and touched them to our foreheads, then my 4 yr. old dipped his fingers in and proceeded to stick them in his mouth. He didn't understand. It was all I could do not to laugh during what was suppose to be a solemn time.
   As we contemplate joining the Methodist denomination we are faced with the decision of when or if to baptize our children. Our oldest has already been baptized, in the baptist tradition, and our other older children will have to decide for themselves but there remains the question of the younger ones. Now I'm looking across this bridge long before we're even close to crossing it, we've by no means committed ourselves anywhere as of yet and when we do I'm sure there will be pastors and others to help us make this type of decision. For me personally, baptism is a tradition and it doesn't bother me when it's done (I'm really more of a humanistic Unitarian with a Christian leaning than a hardline bible thumper) but I'm sure our (almost wholly Baptist) family would not be comfortable nor understand the baptizing of young children. My only other concern in the situation is that if a child doesn't choose for themselves to be, and is not old enough to remember being baptized will it mean anything to them? But then again, while I remember my baptism, I can't say that it holds much meaning for me.
    This so far has been the only big difference I've noticed between the Baptists (in general) and the Methodists. The more specific difference I've noticed (from the baptist church we were attending and CUMC), and the one that started this inquiry into other denominations, is the thankful lack of political posturing. Because I don't want politicians telling me what to believe and I don't want preachers telling me how to vote.
   So what use to be a big church splitting, family tearing issue has become more a matter of preference and inclination, an issue that we may have to come to terms with in the future, or not. I'm sure even within a non-Baptist mainline Church, we could wait and let the kids make that choice for themselves.

Playing Danforth

   I didn't read Arthur Miller's The Crucible in high school, don't ask me why, you'd have to take that up with my teachers and it's been so long ago now that I don't even remember their names. But when I heard that GSCT was staging it this season I grabbed a copy and read it, and loved it. After my initial reading I wanted to play John Proctor, I wanted to say, "I hear the boot of Lucifer, and I see his face and it is my face and your face..." and all those other angry, angst ridden lines that Proctor gets to say. But after playing Judd Fry in Oklahoma! I thought, I don't want to play another angry, emotionally charged character that dies in the end right now; I rethought the play and begin to think I'd rather play one of the priests (Hale and Parris) they each go through a change in the show that really appealed to me as an actor.
   When it came down to actually auditioning I didn't write down a character that I wanted to play, I just put any and so of course I didn't get one of the ones I had wanted because I didn't tell anyone about it. I was originally cast as Francis Nurse  an older farmer whose wife gets convicted of being a witch; Nurse is a fairly small role in the scheme of the show and I'll admit my pride was somewhat stung by the initial casting, but I did put any and it being GSCT I don't mind accepting a smaller role (I wouldn't want to drive to another city for a small role but here in town I don't mind). Portraying Nurse did have it's challenges, for the most part I tried to keep my back bent and my gait slow, trying to draw in and be as feeble as my large frame will allow, also Nurse doesn't come on until his wife is already arrested so he is full of agitation, strife and eventually sorrowful resignation. But when I got the call to step up and play Danforth, I was happy to have a more challenging role on my hands.
   The man originally cast to play Danforth dropped out after the read through, I never heard the actual reason for this though I assume it had something to do with the seven-days-a-week rehearsal schedule (which is highly unusual for community theater in these parts). There was some cast shuffling and another man was placed in the role, this fellow had the presence to play the role, he fit it but it proved to be too big a part for him; he just never could get the lines memorized and because of this, perhaps, he had trouble developing the role. So the director made what I'm sure was a very hard choice of asking him to step down and it was at this point that I was tasked with taking over as Danforth. I felt bad for the other guy, but the character of Danforth really drives much of the second half of the show and without a strong Danforth it just wouldn't work.
   Most times I can find a line or a phrase that really sums up a character to me and it becomes sort of the hallmark of how I view them. For Danforth it's when he looks to Reverend Hale and says, "Mister Hale, surely you do not doubt my justice?" It's phrased as a question, but it is most assuredly a threat; the subtext is, question me and you'll find yourself in jail or worse. Also the fact that he say's MY justice instead of the courts justice, in Danforth's mind he is the court, he is the law, he is Denzel in Training Day, "King Kong ain't got s@$& on me!" The reason we hate Danforth is because he believes himself infallible and when this notion is challenged by almost incontrovertible facts he fights against reason to go on believing himself that way. He actively searches for a way to avert justice so that he can continue to believe that he is just, because if he is not then not only are the people of Salem possibly innocent but so are the 72 others he has sentenced to hang and the, "... near 400 in the jails from Marblehead to Lynn...". His career, his reputation, his very conscious relies on these people being guilty and that's why he tries so hard to get them to confess.
   I really liked the way Fred (our director) blocked Danforth, he comes striding in, takes center stage and gives it up only reluctantly. He is large and in charge and every one knows it, one note that Fred gave me on a couple of occasions was that I didn't have to yell over others to have power, because Danforth already has the power. Fred told me to come in under them, when they get louder and higher I come in underneath, except when MY justice is questioned, then I can shout them down. This was most evident in my last scene with Proctor, he's ranting and raving and blubbering about his name and I stay composed until I realize I'm not going to get my way, then I get to get mad and pitch a little hissy fit and say, "Hang them high above the town..."
   Playing Nurse would have been fine too, I would have given it my best, but all in all I'm glad I got the chance to play Danforth.

Rodin

I'm taking an art appreciation course for a degree I'm no longer interested in pursuing, so I'm just struggling through to the end of it. We watched a video on Rodin's The Gates of Hell and had to type a paper based on the video. I thought I'd share it here. One thing I learned from the video that didn't fit into the report that I found interesting was about Rodin's sculpture The Kiss. The two lovers in the kiss were based upon a couple from Dante's The Divine Comedy, they were engaged in an extramarital affair and were caught kissing by the women's jealous husband who quickly sent the pair to hell. Rodin decided the Kiss was to tender of a moment and instead depicted the couple on the door as falling into hell, however he displayed his original concept (the one we all know) as a stand alone piece. I find all this amusing because we have a copy of The Kiss on the dresser in our bedroom, not knowing the historic/literary meaning of the piece it looks like a couple in love and sharing a very tender moment. I wonder if Rodin would enjoy knowing that people today still love his work or if he'd be spinning over in his grave knowing that his work has become bedroom decor.

Sculpture/Rodin

            Rodin’s The Thinker is arguably one of the most recognizable sculptures of our time. The sculpture and the pose have been copied and used so often in pop culture that, personally, I was aware of The Thinker long before I knew of Rodin, Dante, or The Gates of Hell. As the video showed The Gates of Hell is not only a monumental work of art it’s also the story of Rodin’s career and the evolution of sculpture itself.

            Rodin was originally asked to design a work for a museum in Paris, a museum that never saw completion, and so Rodin spent a good part of his life working and reworking the figures that would go upon the door and the door itself. Rodin was inspired by Lorenzo Ghiberti’s bronze door on Florence’s Baptistery of San Giovanni, which Michelangelo had dubbed the Gates of Paradise. He was also inspired by much of Michelangelo’s work, especially his work The Last Judgment. The Gates of Hell is, at least in part, a depiction of Dante’s great work The Divine Comedy, with a number of prominent characters from that work depicted on the door. Dante himself is represented in the pensive figure sitting on the lentil of the door, later known as The Thinker; Rodin depicts Dante nude and in great concentration, intent on the creative process, which was a departure from how Dante was typically depicted in art. Depicting Dante in a not readily identifiable way allowed Rodin to make him a symbol for all creators, his entire body gripped with the desire to create; in fact with the in-the-round molding of the figure and it’s placement on the door it’s easy to read a god-like, or Christ-like, meaning in his character. As the museum the doors were meant for never came to be Rodin began exhibiting individual pieces from the door, worked in wax and then cast in bronze, both in the size they had originally been made and in larger versions. It’s the larger version of The Thinker that most of us are familiar with these days.

            The doors themselves are a marvel as Rodin combines low-relief, high-relief, and in-the-round figures to give the doors a sense of feeling and movement. He has highly detailed pieces combined with almost abstract shapes that seem to melt into, or rise out of, the doors themselves; this was a departure from the mostly representational works of sculpture in Rodin’s day. Some of his figures lacked hands, or heads, or other body parts that were not needed for what Rodin wanted them to depict. When Rodin exhibited his door in 1900, at this point still in wax, he intentionally removed most of the in-the-round sculptures from it, leaving an abstract door with reliefs and shapes that allowed for greater play of light and shadows upon it. This abstract, seemingly unfinished, piece became known as one of the first abstract works of sculpture.

            It’s interesting to me that many of Rodin’s most famous works and his foray into abstract sculpture came about because of the failure of the museum for which his Gates of Hell were originally intended. I wonder had the museum opened as scheduled, would The Thinker be the famous, easily recognizable work of art that it is today.

Sources- http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/gatesofparadise-200711.html

http://www.nga.gov/collection/sculpture/noflash/zone2-2.htm

http://www.youtube.com/user/canaleducatif?feature=watch (BlackBoard video)

Getting to know Judd Fry

   In less than two weeks the curtain will rise on KMLT's production of Oklahoma!, and I have the honor of portraying Judd Fry. I've spent weeks now in rehearsals learning the songs, the blocking, my lines and what is one of my favorite parts of acting, getting to know my character. The playwright gives you the what your character does and says and with that, and the help of your director, you develop the why. Judd is a very interesting role, he's a sociopathic villain right smack dab in the middle of a romantic comedy, but you also feel kinda sorry for him. I believe Judd grew up without much love or affection, the only schooling he got was of the hard knock variety and while he's not very smart, he's also not an idiot. The fact that he hasn't had much affection in his life is evidenced in the way he's so easily led into talking about his own death when Curly mentions the fact that people will weep and wail for him, and that women folk who secretly loved him might even faint at his funeral; also Laurie's act of checking his forehead for a temperature, that touch of kindness, is, I believe, the spark that starts his fatalistic infatuation with her. This lack of affection at a young age may also explain his sociopathic tendencies, these are evident is his seeing no difference in the act of killing a hog and killing Curly and in seeing the burning to death of a family as a smarter way of getting even than shooting them, your more likely to get caught shooting someone. He also takes umbrage with the fact that the man who told him about the burning, and supposedly the perpetrator, lied about where it took place but it didn't bother him at all what the man may have done. As for him not being the sharpest tool in the shed, or smokehouse as the case may be, this is shown in the way he talks and moves and his overall lack of social graces. But he's not without some brains, as he on a couple of occasions asks leading questions to which he already knows the answers.  Not only has Judd not had the affection of women that he so craves but he's also been put down by just about everyone in his life. Curly in just one of many that's called him names, Judd doesn't believe himself to be less than everyone else on a conscious level but he probably spends a good deal of time defending that belief in his mind. I think this really comes out after he's rejected by Laurie and he says, "I'm not good enough for ya am I? Just a hired hand, dirt on my hands, pig slop." He's referred to in a number of insulting ways in the play but he's the only one that calls himself pig-slop, I suspect this was a name he may have been called growing up and when he faces this ultimate rejection he reverts back to it. I feel a bit like Orson Scott Card's Speaker for the Dead here, not rationalizing away Judd's crimes but looking into why he was the way he was. Okay, I suppose that's more than anyone wanted to know about poor Judd or my process but it's my blog and I can share if I want. If you'd like to come see Judd, and the amazing cast of Oklahoma! go to KMLT's website for all the info., word of warning though, you may want to reserve a seat before you come because I got a feeling we're going to sell this mother out.

Christmas at Grandma's House

    Christmas always makes me remember being a child; the carefree times of no school, no homework, no presents to buy, no worrying about the commercialization of the holiday, just the glorious, no-holds-barred selfishness of getting presents and having fun. Remembering Christmases past also always makes me remember my maternal grandmother and the Christmases spent with her. My mother comes from a very large family, I believe she had 10 brothers and sisters (I hope I didn't miss anyone when I counted) and a Christmas gathering was a big deal. Over the years we celebrated some times at the old fellowship building adjacent to the cemetery over at Ross Grove Baptist Church, which housed many fun and fond memories of it's own, and sometimes at grandma's house and to me those times were the most memorable and magical of all.
     Grandma lived in an old, green farmhouse on what was once the edge of town, the town has now grown all around where it use to stand; it was big and rambling by today's standards but not fancy or for show, a very utilitarian house, built to make a puritan farmer proud. There was a wide front porch that ran the length of the main rooms, there was a porch swing, rocking chairs, gliders and folding chairs enough to sit many a aunt and uncle on nice Sunday afternoons while all us kids ran about the yard. It was a Norman Rockwell front porch if ever one existed. The front door opened into a shotgun hall that, when all the doors in between were open, allowed you to walk in the front and see clear out the back; doors opened to all rooms off this hall to allow for cool evening breezes to blow through on warm summer days. That long hall was divided in two, with the door between usually closed making more of a sitting room than an entry hall, it housed a couch and later on a piano and a bookshelf with old Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books that my aunts and uncles and maybe even my mom read as kids. The first door to the left led to grandma's bedroom,(it was grandpa's to as well, I suppose, but he passed away when I was young and I'm afraid I don't have many memories of him, the main one being him sitting in a chair on the front porch drinking water from a mason jar and giving me a penny any time I gave him a hug) you had to pass through her room to get to the living room; there were heaters in those two rooms, I suppose that's why they were laid out the way they were. As you entered the living room you passed a foot powered sewing machine on the left and the door to the back hall on the right. There was a very uncomfortable foldout couch that my cousins and I tried to sleep on from time to time (that now resides in my mother's den) a recliner, the furnace, an small t.v. where we'd watch Ma and Pa Kettle reruns after Sunday lunch, and a shelf with a telephone and a tape deck. The only tapes I ever remember seeing there were of Jimmy Swaggart preaching, stacks of them. From the living room you went into the kitchen, small for such a big house and family, but man-o-man the food that was made there was food to fit a king. It was an eat in kitchen with not an once of room to spare. (Not to blame my grandmother for anything but I can't help but wonder if her constant supply of homemade fried apple pies, snacks, and you'll hurt my feelings if you don't clean your plate looks haven't led to my overeating habits of today.) There was also a medicine cabinet in the kitchen beside the fridge where grandma like to hide her candy, not that she'd ever refuse to give it to you if you asked. Off the kitchen was a back porch that had been built in, you could tell by the window that looked into the bedroom that faced it. Out on the back porch was the bathroom, a latter edition to the house, and a small room where some of my uncles old toys and things were, it was a room in which we'd like to, and grandma would tell us not to, 'ramble' (her word). Coming off the back porch was the back hallway, always dark and dim, lit with a single bulb hanging form a cord. There were shelves stacked high with home canned fruits and vegetables from the garden out back, one door leading to the living room and one leading to another, very large bedroom and a set of stairs going to the attic. The bedroom, I don't remember much about, I never spent much time there, I do remember there was a door that was never used that led to a veranda of sorts that connected it to the front bedroom. The stairs in the hall led to a bewildering and sometimes scary place, to me anyway, the unused and only partially finished attic. There were alcove windows and a chimney that was opened to the sky and, worst of all, a gaping opening that led to open attic space that was always, even in the brightness of a noon day sun in the summer, pitch black as the pits of hell, where a young boy with an overactive imagination could just about see the devil standing just out of view. Not that the devil would ever show his face at grandma's, she walked so close with Jesus why she'd have the devil by the ear making him sing Just a Closer Walk with Thee in no time at all. Not everyone saw her as a saint I'm told but to my young eyes she was everything that was good and holy in the world wrapped up in a short spit fire of a woman, a cross between Aunt Bee and Mother Teresa. If we were Catholic I'm sure she'd been canonized by now. As we leave the darkness of the back hall back into the light of the front we come to the last door, it would have been to the right when we first walked in, and for all my life it was know as the front room. Even today when I talk to my cousins we call it the front room and it was there that Christmas would happen.
     The front room was as big as the back bedroom that it shared an unused veranda with and it was split into by the layout of the furniture. Half was a sitting area and half was a guest bedroom with a dresser where Christmas presents were hid behind, don't know if I was suppose to know that, but I did. The sitting area featured some couches, a coffee table with a nut shaped bowl of nuts and a nutcracker (not the toy soldier kind but the good silver handled kind), a coal burning stove, and (wait for it)... a Christmas tree. I'm told that at one time the tree would make a yearly journey from the attic to the front room but as far back as I can recollect it lived there all year long, just waiting for Christmas to have it's lights lit so it's magic it could work. Since we were only allowed in the front room on special occasions we never saw it too much during the year. On Thanksgiving we'd go in there and draw names for who you were going to buy a present for (there were way to many of us to buy something for everyone) and then on Christmas we'd all crowd in to see who got what from who. After the Christmas meal we'd wind our way to the front room where us kids would fight over who got to be 'Santa Claus' handing out the gifts to everyone and then we'd rip into em, merciless we were, caring not how long it took someone to wrap the present. Then it was time to play, thankfully in those days you didn't need a tool kit to open a toy package, we kids would play, fight, make up and cry, you know, normal kid behavior until our parents dragged us back to our respective homes. Of course Santa was coming so I'm sure we didn't put up to big a fight. One toy I got  in particular I can remember from those days, it was an Evil Kenevil play set (yes, I was a child of the '70s). It came in a plastic container with a handle and the container would open up to reveal a grandstand of cheering fans and a track for Mr. Kenevil to ride his bike across, his cape whipping in the wind.
    I'm glad Rainey got to know my grandmother and got to spend at least a few Christmases at grandma's house. The two of them are a lot alike in some ways, not the least is how important they have both been in my life. Time, as they say, waits for no one and marches right along; we grow up, get married, and start having families of our own. Grandma passed over the great divide in 1991 (I think that's right) and even though mom's family still gets together every year (good luck figuring out who all those kids are running around), it seems each year the gathering is a bit smaller. Now we meet at someone in the families church, the old fellowship hall at Ross Grove is no longer in use, and grandma's great old house has passed on as well, it was just going to be to expensive for the new tenants to update everything.
    Now my kids get to spend Christmas at their grandma's house (and grandpa's still here alive and kicking too, thank God) making memories that will linger with them when there old and bringing their children here to visit us for Christmas. They play with their cousins and fight over who's going to play 'Santa Claus' and give out the presents and all the other things that kids have long loved to do on Christmas. Until eventually we drag them home, because, after all, Santa Claus is own his way.
     Looking back it seems like that house was just as much a character in my life as the family that lent it their life and love. You know there are lots of stories told of what awaits us beyond the grave, even among Christians the ideas vary depending on who you ask, some say that when we get there will get to meet and see our loved ones once again. If that's the case, then I hope some day will gather in an old green house on a street of gold, over looking the crystal sea and spend Christmas with grandma once again.
    

     Merry Christmas Everyone.

Why I'm in School

I had to write a personal narrative about why I decided to go to school for an English class I'm taking; I thought it'd make a pretty good blog, so here it is. (For you grammarians that may read this, I've already turned it in, so you can leave the correcting to my prof.)

Why I’m in School

            There’s an old folk-tale about a man named John Henry; John Henry was a steel driving man. The story goes that John Henry would swing his hammer from dusk till dawn, and never slow down. Then one day, in a Herculean effort, John Henry beat a steel driving machine. Some versions of the tale say Henry died the next morning, others say he died right there with the hammer in his hand. Now I’m not a steel driver, but I am a carton slinger and I don’t want to die with a carton in my hand. So I’d say the main reason I’m in school is to gain the skills that will allow me to move on to a better, hopefully, less labor intensive job.

            As I contemplated this assignment I came up with many an idea to use. Some I thought of for their elegance. Some I thought would sound good in a narrative. But there were three reasons that, like common denominators, all the others reduced to. The three reasons are: money, acquiring skills, and, as stated above, a physically easier job.

            I believe I’m very skilled at the job that I do, but it’s still classified as an unskilled position. Most people could come in off the street and learn to do it in a few days time. While there are a handful of higher paying jobs I qualify for, they are few and far between; you have to have a good bit of seniority built up to acquire them. So I realized that I’ve got to be satisfied with where I am or I need to learn the skills that will help me get a higher paying, skilled job.

            While looking through the course catalog, trying to find what skill set I’d be interested in learning, I came across the Facility Maintenance Diploma Program. This program touches on a number of different skills: electrical, HVAC, plumbing, welding, carpentry, and machining. I thought not only will this provide me marketable skills but it will allow me to see where my interests lie; I can see if I’d like to specialize in one of the fields. Also, as a home owner, these could be very valuable skills in themselves, even if they never lead to a better paying job.

            The above reasons I’ve thought of for a couple of years now; they are very good reasons yet neither of them actually catapulted me up that long flight of steps to sign up for classes. I said I was a carton slinger, and while that’s not my actual job title, it’s more to the point. I throw cartons onto a conveyor belt eight hours a day, 40 hours a week and it’s beginning to take its toll. I’m a 40 year old man doing a job better suited for 20 year olds; the old joints don’t bounce back the way they use to. I had received the flyers, “It’s not too late to go back to school,” for years but this year they hit their mark. After a few, extra, rough days I signed for financial aid and as soon as it was approved I was here at CCC, signing up for classes. I may never get rich, or be the next Bob Villa but hopefully I can avoid dying with a carton in my hand.