Finding Magic
Christmas Morning, 1975 (?).
Christmas used to be that one time of year when magic seemed really possible. Every year we’d all pile into our big American-made car for Christmas Eve at Mamaw’s, and on the way home we’d always gaze out the back window, looking at the star-filled sky for some sign of Santa, as we raced home to beat him. After we were too old for that, we’d watch for the equally elusive southern Mississippi snowflake. There was magic to be seen, even if we never saw it.
Christmas meant a twinkling tree, special food, a few unexpected gifts, and Christmas music. That was about it…and it was enough. I don’t remember commercials telling us to give the “gift of asphalt” to our loved ones by getting them a Cadilac. I certainly don’t remember commercials telling us to mock and make a fool of Santa by getting the best deals on extravagant electronics. In fact, I don’t remember many commercials telling us to buy anything at all for Christmas! There were decorations around town and in stores and Christmas specials on TV. But outside of that, Christmas was a bit more personal…and less in-your-face.
Even my oft-grumpy father found magic at Christmas. Sure he’d often have too much to drink, but he still found his own magic. He seemed to live for going out to find a tree, usually on private property out in the country, just past an old crossroads called Zetus. He bitched, sometimes yelling at the tree, sometimes at us. Mama usually did her own arguing over the tree…usually that it was too big. Sometimes it was an outright nightmare from cut to finish. But I think he loved it. It was his thing. And when he was done, he’d have a few more Miller Lites.
Maybe it’s part of getting older, but I don’t see that magic too much anymore. Sure, smiling kids peering in a store window is enough to give you a giggle sometimes. But so many more are simply sitting in front of TVs being told what to want, if not what to demand, from Santa and their parents. The decorations now are more “buy now and save” than they are sincere wishes.
This doesn’t mean all the magic is gone. I still watch the sky, just in case. I still browse the Christmas ornaments in the store, even when I don’t put up a tree. I still try to catch a glimpse of Santa in the mall, and can’t help but smile sometimes. I still eat too many cookies and too much candy, even if they’re not as good as they once were. And occasionally, just occasionally, there are glimmers of hope for humanity or signs of sincerity. But in this fast-paced, over-commercialized world, that’s about all the magic that’s left in Christmas.
До свидания, профессор.
Courtesy University of Delaware.
If you’re lucky in life, a handful of people change your perspective on the world. Just a handful. For me, those people were mostly professors when I first ventured out into the world and moved 1200 miles away for college…alone. On the surface, that first academic venture failed miserably, as I dropped out after two years. But it was still paramount to making me who I am now.
Those few professors opened up the world for me, to many topics, ideas, and ideologies. Dr. Donna Budani opened my mind to cultural studies after I took a few of her mid-level anthropology courses in the 1991/1992 year. (I hadn’t even been sure what “anthropology” was until then!) She also gave me my first college “A,” at a time when so many other courses were pushing me toward disenchantment, if not misery. Thanks to her, I went on to add a second major in anthropology when I returned to school. Another of those inspiring professors was Dr. Alexander Lehrman.
Thanks to the Cold War, I entered to college to major in Russian, and Dr. Lehrman became my first Russian professor…and one of my first professors in general. Not only did he teach a few of my classes, but he also filled in for others in the department when they were out. He had such a passion for teaching and was very patient as we slaughtered his native language in the early years. I remember his shoulder-bouncing chuckle and smile that showed his delight in our feeble attempts. Even still he meant business. He didn’t just make us do our best, he made us want to do our best.
It was a pretty rough time for me. I was a bit lonely and a bit overwhelmed by (and in awe of) all the possibilities of the world. But Dr. Lehrman always made me feel good about my work in Russian, even though I stubbornly refused to write in cursive script for very long. (I never wrote English in cursive after 7th grade!) His stories about his adventurous emigration out of the Soviet Union made me feel a bit better about my “emigration” from Mississippi. We all want something better in life, and some of us have to go a bit further to get it. He was proof of that.
One of my biggest regrets in college is that I wasn’t able to continue with Russian when I returned after a long absence. It would have required more classes and more time than I could dedicate, so I reluctantly put it aside. Since graduating, I considered using some course fee-waivers to take a few Russian classes until I leave University employment. I suppose I still could, but now it just wouldn’t be the same. Dr. Lehrman died in October, at only 59 years old.
For a while I couldn’t quite grasp why his passing upset me, aside from his young age. (My father died at 58, and my younger brother died at 21.) It was also more than just the loss of a dedicated professor who cared about his students or the fact that I saw him from time to time walking through campus. But I think his loss also closes a chapter for me…one that I had refused to close on my own for quite some time. I genuinely loved my first year in college. I loved taking Russian courses, and I still love the Russian language to this day. While there are still great Russian professors at the University, including Dr. Lehrman’s wife, Dr. Amert (whom I also adored), I think it would be too sad to go back. Something would really be missing.
So it’s safe to say that Dr. Lehrman will really be missed.
До свидания, профессор.
Let’s Try This Again.
It seems like a long time ago, but I posted on this very topic before. To list the cliches: Something’s gotta give. I’m stuck in a rut. I’m at the end of my rope. I’m a man on the edge!
All of it is true. I’m sick of the same old shit—the same old places, same old people, same activities, even the same foods. No offense to anyone, of course. I just can’t take much more. I need to move on, one way or another.
The job hunt has been a heap of suck, frankly. Because of work, driving to work, preparing for work, trying to cook for pennies, then cleaning, etc., I just don’t have a whole lot of time to apply for jobs. Add in a bit of exercise or some out-of-the-ordinary drama/responsibilities, and well, no applications go out.
Not all of us make enough for takeout or eating out every night. Not all of us can afford to live two miles from work. Not all of us have a whole lot of help at home to get things done. By the time I drive home, cook, eat, and clean, it’s already 9pm. Add in some outside publishing jobs required to keep mentally sharp and qualified, and I’m stretched beyond any level most sane people could stand.
By the same token, I certainly don’t have the time or money for very many interviews, so I’m grateful that no employers have wasted my time if they truly aren’t interested. (I would sometimes like to know what disqualifies me from even a consideration, though.) And no, I never thought the job hunt in my field would be easy. But it’s been two years since I finished my Master of Arts in publishing, and I just can’t take much more of letting my skills go to waste while the interest accrues on my already outrageous student loans. They’ll be sending bills to the cemetery at this point!
So I’ll try this again. I’ve already chucked some driftwood out of the stream, and will continue to do so. I can’t keep swimming upstream with needless obstacles. I can’t keep dodging meaningless crap. It’s just no longer physically possible. To put it in real world terms: I don’t have time for people (friends or family) who take absolutely no interest in the things I do or the difficulties I face. (You’re probably included here if you don’t already know the drama in my life lately.)
None of this is spoken in anger, hurt, or sadness. In fact, I’m toasting with a glass of bubbly! It’s just spoken from a point of realization. The unicorns aren’t flying over yet, so I don’t have time for fantasy or whimsy…except the kind that I can enjoy on my own. So here’s to a whole new me. Expect anything, at this point.
Sticks and Stones…
I’ve always been the type that showed little emotion. I pretended, often quite well, that nothing bothered me. But I was pretending. As much as we’ve all heard the old saying, words can hurt. Words aren’t just empty sounds floating through the air—they have power and meaning that become impressed in our minds and in our souls, sometimes for life.
When I was entering second grade, we moved to the other side of town, away from our friends and to a new school bus route. I became brunt of about 90% of the joking on that new bus—often by high school kids. Yes, I was 7 or 8, and they were 17 and 18. Life certainly isn’t fair, and I never expect it to be. But come on!?
The torment I endured on that bus certainly beat hardness onto my heart. (To this day, I won’t repeat some of the names, so don’t ask.) At that early age is when I started putting on a pretty good front, and by the age of 8, I knew I was always going to be the ugly kid, the fat kid, the awkward kid, the weirdo. I heard it every day, at school, on the bus, and sometimes at home. I kept up the hard front as much as I could, but as much as we’re told that if we stand our ground the bullshit will stop, it really isn’t always true. I played it tough and even made friends, but often they just fell in line with the others when they thought I couldn’t hear.
- The ugly fat kid goes to college.
By the time I was in high school, the hardness was permanent. I did not make, nor want, many friends. The ones I had were almost accidental, and only one friend stuck around from childhood. And even they were kept at a distance. From my experience until then, friends betray you whenever it suits their interests. I had lived it more than once, so I stopped caring—or at least showing that I cared. I think I went through high school smiling just enough times to count without my shoes on. College didn’t change much.
I thought I found some happiness and self-esteem when I got to Delaware in 1990, but I hadn’t. Sure, I made a few friends and even dated a little. I was sometimes called “gorgeous” by a few folks I had never met. It was nice and made me feel good for a moment, but when I went home, I was still the ugly fat kid and figured they were just trying to make me (or my date) feel better. No matter the reality of it all, I was a hideous, foul tasting bit of something that the world wanted desperately to spit out. Sure, I had those days when things felt good, mostly when I explored the world and dabbled in photography. But at the root of it all, when I really had to think about who I was and where I was in the world, I was miserable inside. Not many people knew, but that little kid who was tormented on the bus and pushed aside in school had gone off to college, and he was floundering and dying inside.
Those words that I had endured 10 years earlier had stifled any potential I had inside, and I fell apart during my second year in college, dropping out after barely finishing my sophomore year. What saved me, ironically, was going home to disappear from the world a bit. No school, no crowds, no friends really. Just me, and work when I had it. It didn’t solve everything, but it kept me sane.
As I got older, I suppose looks mattered less, so I forgot about most of the ugliness. Most of the words and taunts left my memory. Time doesn’t heal all wounds, but it makes the scabs less prominent. I eventually found happiness in keeping myself busy and learning new things. Ironically, returning to college was a big help. I was too busy to feel down, and certainly too busy to care if I was ugly or fat, no matter how many pretty college kids I was around. But some things remain.
I still struggle with insecurity about my ideas, creations, and my writing. I could never proofread my own college papers, or I would never turn them in. I had to finish them the night before and submit them without even looking at them. My three readers here have NO idea how hard it is to even publish a blog. (I have quite a few unpublished “drafts” to prove it!) I still make lots of excuses and denigrate myself a little just in case something really does suck. (It rarely does.) But in some ways, I still feel the world is out to get me.
As much as I like to tell others “don’t give them the power anymore, just let it go,” I still struggle. Long ago, I absolutely and unconditionally forgave everyone who ever wronged me. That was something I had to do early on in college just to keep my sanity and to come to terms with family life. While I don’t hold grudges at all, I still don’t fully trust people. (Don’t take it personally.) There is just no denying that all those things I heard and endured still poke at my soul. Yes, they also made me the person I am, and that’s a blessing. But I am still fettered by those little scabs of doubt and hurt beaten onto my spirit.
Empire State of Mind
The dream is still alive. I hesitate to call it a dream, because honestly, it’s a necessity. New York is still where I have to be.
You see, I’m about $65,000 in debt for my education. Never having the opportunity to just be a student, I also worked myself to the edge of 
insanity and poor health to get the skills needed for the career I want in publishing. Where else but New York?
I haven’t given up, and there are always plenty of prospects. I have applied for quite a few, but not nearly enough. It’s not easy applying for positions in publishing, particularly editorial jobs, because everything must be pure perfection. (Hello? Editorial!?) Add to that the fact that most companies have intricate application processes (with some even including grammar tests), and I’m often looking at a three to four hour process for EACH position. It would be easy to assume that they simply want to hire someone who really doesn’t have enough work to do already, but I fully understand most of the difficulties placed on applicants.
At any rate, working full-time and trying to stay healthy and sane tend to keep me from applying for half the positions I want. Part-time work on the side just to keep my skills and creative drive up-to-date sometimes makes the percentage even lower. It’s just how life is—and for me, how life has always been.
It’s easy to see why some people see life—at least improving life—as hopeless. Luckily I’m the type that always sees some hope in every situation, or I’d be a nuthouse by now. (And even then, Direct Student Loans would be calling for a payment.)
But I’m still coming, New York. Eventually. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I feel like I’m already there.
Inspiration:
Empire State Of Mind [Jay-Z + Alicia Keys] (Explicit)
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