The first time I was called “Gay” was my freshmen year of high school.
This bullying was based on the fact that I was hanging out with girls a lot of the time. This logic made no sense to me as I knew that I was straight. I was very aware of my straightness and my sexual attraction at this age, so I had no doubt that I was not a homosexual, but I also knew that it was girls who made me feel good about myself in the platonic relationships I shared with them. As much as I wanted to do something to keep these bullies at bay, having friends was not really something I was willing to sacrifice to be “cool.”
I tried to socialize with other boys. I could talk video games, and throw around insults and other jokes, but there was a lack of depth in our conversations. Also, there was so much that the other boys, namely sports, talked about that I wasn’t interested in discussing. While there were things that girls talked about that weren’t my interest like fashion, their conversations about these topics didn’t seem as exclusionary as the ones boys talked about.
Even though I knew that my relationships with my girl-friends were abnormal, there was enough space in high school and college for me to foster these relationships. As I entered adulthood, a door seemed to shut. One reason I love being a teacher is that I have the space to become friends with women, as the in schools there is proportionately higher amount of women in the field than in many other industries. However, like I mentioned before, the extension of girl-friends from the work place to hanging out outside of school is tricky.
Didn’t sex get in the way of these relationships with my girl-friends? This is one of those things that I have found as an interesting point of discussions. One of the main arguments ala when Harry Met Sally is that men and women cannot be friends because of sex.
The idea is that a guy can’t have a conversation with a woman because he will be thinking too much about having sex with her to focus on other aspects of her humanity. And without a sexual aspect of the relationship to somehow manage this tension like in a marriage relationships, two people of different genders can’t engage in a meaningful relationship.
This idea sets low expectations for men. It excuses them for mismanaging expressions of their own sexuality, and sets up for failures in their relationships with women. Men in this model are excused for not developing ways of acknowledging all the facets of a women’s identity. Also, the idea that a sexual relationship is somehow essential sets people up for strange relationship dynamics. Yes, sexual compatibility is very important in a long-term partnered monogamous relationship, however a strong sexual connection cannot overcome other issues in a relationship.
Did I think about my girl-friends sexually at times? Yes. Did I ever have crushes on them? Sometimes. However, for the most part I didn’t act on these feelings. Some of this had to do with a lack of confidence but moreover it was because after a while, like a sister, I didn’t see them that way. Mentally acknowledging sexuality does not have to lead to action, and there was simply more important parts of my relationships that was worth maintaining without a sexual expression.
We seek in our friends things that we see in ourselves. As an Asian boy, I didn’t see a lot of me on the surface in my peers, so I looked for people like my own mom who were interesting in talking about how they saw the world.
Women and femininity have always fascinated me. I remember putting on my mom’s jewelry, trying on her make-up and playing dress up with her clothing. When I was kindergarten age, I learned through society that there were gender roles in society that I had to abide by. So I sought out other ways to explore femininity.
There were limited outlets for this. My main extracurricular activity was music lessons, which were not very social. The popular culture that I enjoyed, comics, books, and sci-fi/fantasy were from male perspectives, created by men, and most often focused on male characters. Then the 1990s Disney animated film renaissance came, and I had a way to explore women in our culture. Film like The Little Mermaid, and Beauty and The Beast were by no means ideas ways for me to explore and thinking about women, however it was what I got. Because the films were so popular and omnipresent, it wasn’t weird for me to be into them. Okay maybe it a was a little odd for me to buy the The Little Mermaid song book and sing those songs until I had them all memorized. However, it didn’t feel as much a push against gender expectations as wearing a dress.
I’ll never forget being in a book store in New York and seeing The Little Mermaid song book at the endcap of a shelf. It was a beat up copy but I was still so excited and surprised to see that such a book even existed. I treasured that thing, using it to learn all of the lyrics and eventually play the song son the piano.
I watched this generation of Disney films as much or more than I watched the Star Wars films….which I watched all of the time.
As I got into high school the way to explore the female experience narrowed to the point that the only way to understanding myself as well as others was through girl-friends. There were a few books I read in high school which ended up being some of my favorites like I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, and The Color Purple, helped me betters understand women, but the vast majority of the books, and the curriculum I learned were from male perspectives.
I am so grateful to the girl-friends I had in high school for going outside of the norm to be my friend. I'm sure their boyfriends and other people made comments to them about hanging out with me, but they never told me about these issues.
I don't know what my life would have been like without these girl-friends but what I do know is that they were the friendly faces who said hello to me in the hallways, made me feel needed by valuing my advice, and supported me through those years.
Showing posts with label 2000's. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2000's. Show all posts
Friday, August 9, 2019
Friday, August 2, 2019
The Islander – Part 8: Girl-friends vs. Girlfriends
One of the things that I missed the most about high school and college are my girl-friends.
For this post, I’m making a distinction between “girlfriends” a person that a male-identified straight person has as a romantic and sexual partner, and a “girl-friend,” who is platonic female identified friend to a male-identified straight person. I’m not saying that Gay identified men do not have “girl-friends,” but taking account to my positionality, and the point of this post, we are talking about what it means for a straight guy (me) to have girl-friends high school.
Recently, I made a list of all of my close friends in high school and about a quarter of them were men.
In high school the social environment gave me more freedom to interact socially with woman then in my adult life. There were more corners of schools, conversations in hallways, and situations in music classes that provided me the time and space to hang out with my girl-friends. As an adult, I have found less and less that there is socially accepted for me to hang out with women who are friends. In block parties, I find all of the women are talking in a group, and all of the men segregate themselves into a separate group. Think about it for a second, for me as a married man, to ask another married woman out to go watch a movie is usual, and raises eye-brows.
My connection to women as friends goes all the way back to my mother. She has been an amazing mother all my life, but she has also been a close friend. She would listen to me talk about all kinds of things, and helped me discover many of the things I loved about myself. Many of my favorite activities as a child were associated with my mom like grocery shopping, and cooking in the kitchen.
I didn’t connect with other boys as a young child. Most of them were into sports, and I wasn’t. Hanging out with them in recess never worked out so well, because the talk and activities were sports-centric. In girls, I found people, like my mom, who were as interested in talking about life as much as I did.
In Montessori kindergarten, one of my best friends was a little white girl with curly hair. We would play all of the time together. She would lead me around the room, and at some point, she kissed me. This was all confusing, but what I did get is that my life made more sense with her as a friend.
Middle School was more of the same. I did eventually join up with a group of guys one year younger than me who were into comic books, (which I loved at that age) than sports. We would talk comics during recess as opposed to playing sports. While this developed, I found strong connections with girls during class, and the in the hallways.
I knew at this age that it wasn’t normal to have girl-friends. I don’t remember other kids making comments to me about this in middle school, but I do remember some teachers having a laugh about how “chummy” I was with some girls. It wasn’t until high school where this starting feeling more and more out of place.
For this post, I’m making a distinction between “girlfriends” a person that a male-identified straight person has as a romantic and sexual partner, and a “girl-friend,” who is platonic female identified friend to a male-identified straight person. I’m not saying that Gay identified men do not have “girl-friends,” but taking account to my positionality, and the point of this post, we are talking about what it means for a straight guy (me) to have girl-friends high school.
Recently, I made a list of all of my close friends in high school and about a quarter of them were men.
In high school the social environment gave me more freedom to interact socially with woman then in my adult life. There were more corners of schools, conversations in hallways, and situations in music classes that provided me the time and space to hang out with my girl-friends. As an adult, I have found less and less that there is socially accepted for me to hang out with women who are friends. In block parties, I find all of the women are talking in a group, and all of the men segregate themselves into a separate group. Think about it for a second, for me as a married man, to ask another married woman out to go watch a movie is usual, and raises eye-brows.
My connection to women as friends goes all the way back to my mother. She has been an amazing mother all my life, but she has also been a close friend. She would listen to me talk about all kinds of things, and helped me discover many of the things I loved about myself. Many of my favorite activities as a child were associated with my mom like grocery shopping, and cooking in the kitchen.
I didn’t connect with other boys as a young child. Most of them were into sports, and I wasn’t. Hanging out with them in recess never worked out so well, because the talk and activities were sports-centric. In girls, I found people, like my mom, who were as interested in talking about life as much as I did.
In Montessori kindergarten, one of my best friends was a little white girl with curly hair. We would play all of the time together. She would lead me around the room, and at some point, she kissed me. This was all confusing, but what I did get is that my life made more sense with her as a friend.
Middle School was more of the same. I did eventually join up with a group of guys one year younger than me who were into comic books, (which I loved at that age) than sports. We would talk comics during recess as opposed to playing sports. While this developed, I found strong connections with girls during class, and the in the hallways.
I knew at this age that it wasn’t normal to have girl-friends. I don’t remember other kids making comments to me about this in middle school, but I do remember some teachers having a laugh about how “chummy” I was with some girls. It wasn’t until high school where this starting feeling more and more out of place.
Friday, July 26, 2019
The Islander – Part 7: Alice's Cigarette
We sat down on the back porch next to each other in silence as the chill of the night air encouraged me to pull my arms across my chest. Alice pulled the oversized hoodie over her knees as she brought her legs up close to her. Out of the font of her sweatshirt, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She snapped them down violently, and I asked her what she was doing. She smiled and explained that this helped pack the tobacco down. I felt embarrassed for a moment but then she gently closed her eyes and smiled assuring me that she found my question endearing.
I watched her hands move through the ritual of lighting a cigarette. Her fingers moved with a choreographed elegance as the lighter appeared with the sleight of hand of a magician. I watched the fire ignite a deep orange glow as she inhaled gently through the end of the cigarette. There was something knowing and confident about the way that she smoked, but also revealing and vulnerable.
Cigarette ash broke off as she flicked the back of the cigarette with her thumb. It trickled down off the porch and disappeared into the darkness of the backyard. Slowly she raised her chin up, and gently blew up the smoke into the air in commune with the night air.
I first noticed Alice during a basketball game, sitting in the corner of the bleachers reading a book. As a senior, I had learned to love playing in the pep band. So, when I saw her sitting down away from the band cradling a marching band horn and reading a book, my instinct were to try to get her involved.
I walked over and tried to encourage her to cheer with everyone else. She looked up from her book, looked down at the space next to her inviting me to sit down. Completely ignoring my first overture she said, “Hello, my name is Alice.” As I sat down and stumbled through my own introduction, she interrupted calmly, “I know who you are.” She wasn’t like any other freshmen I had met, or any other girl I had met. She was confident, calm, and seemed to have it all figured out even though by most people’s standards, her life was a train wreck.
The most amazing thing about her is that she saw the true me more than I saw myself and she never let me be anything but honest and real with her. At the same time, she challenged my ideas, my assumptions, and my reality.
The dominant narrative of what was right and wrong, bled into my understanding of who was good and bad. The -isms implicit in the DARE program of my middle school years and how different systems of oppression used drugs as a way to maintain a destructive status quo were not understood in my 17 year-old mind. However, this didn’t mean that this influence was not reflective in my world view.
The message was that drugs were bad, drinking was bad, and smoking was the gateway to destructive behavior. Only certain types of people did these things in teenage years, but there was Alice. A freshman soon to become my best friend. She challenged all of this with her grace, her authenticity and a cigarette.
I watched her hands move through the ritual of lighting a cigarette. Her fingers moved with a choreographed elegance as the lighter appeared with the sleight of hand of a magician. I watched the fire ignite a deep orange glow as she inhaled gently through the end of the cigarette. There was something knowing and confident about the way that she smoked, but also revealing and vulnerable.
Cigarette ash broke off as she flicked the back of the cigarette with her thumb. It trickled down off the porch and disappeared into the darkness of the backyard. Slowly she raised her chin up, and gently blew up the smoke into the air in commune with the night air.
I first noticed Alice during a basketball game, sitting in the corner of the bleachers reading a book. As a senior, I had learned to love playing in the pep band. So, when I saw her sitting down away from the band cradling a marching band horn and reading a book, my instinct were to try to get her involved.
I walked over and tried to encourage her to cheer with everyone else. She looked up from her book, looked down at the space next to her inviting me to sit down. Completely ignoring my first overture she said, “Hello, my name is Alice.” As I sat down and stumbled through my own introduction, she interrupted calmly, “I know who you are.” She wasn’t like any other freshmen I had met, or any other girl I had met. She was confident, calm, and seemed to have it all figured out even though by most people’s standards, her life was a train wreck.
The most amazing thing about her is that she saw the true me more than I saw myself and she never let me be anything but honest and real with her. At the same time, she challenged my ideas, my assumptions, and my reality.
The dominant narrative of what was right and wrong, bled into my understanding of who was good and bad. The -isms implicit in the DARE program of my middle school years and how different systems of oppression used drugs as a way to maintain a destructive status quo were not understood in my 17 year-old mind. However, this didn’t mean that this influence was not reflective in my world view.
The message was that drugs were bad, drinking was bad, and smoking was the gateway to destructive behavior. Only certain types of people did these things in teenage years, but there was Alice. A freshman soon to become my best friend. She challenged all of this with her grace, her authenticity and a cigarette.
Friday, July 19, 2019
The Islander – Part 6: Alone At Lunch
Y’know how there’s that scene in almost every teen movie when they explain the lunchroom and the all the social dynamics?
I can’t really do that scene, because well, I never actually ate in my high school’s lunch room. When I was a freshmen, the lunch room was nicknamed the “mushroom.” The message that we got as freshmen, or at least I got was to find somewhere else to eat. I don’t know if it was because it was too small, but it was not a welcoming place.
People found corners of the school to eat. Students would eat in hallways, or outside. I had two other people I was friends with in middle school. We found a place to eat near locker bays by the orchestra room. One of the friends got into the social dynamics of his sports team so he went to eat with them, and other one would eat with other friends, so there was a time that I ate lunch by myself.
It sucked on a level, but in some ways, I preferred it. I’m not great in large groups or at parties now, and I wasn’t back then. I didn’t know how to take the chance and unlike college, no one really took me under their wing to help me navigate the lunchroom situation. However, I knew that this wasn’t right. Not just because of society told me that friends were important, but because I wanted to have a group...and sometimes I was lonely.
In middle school I had a group of 7th graders when I was in 8th grade that I felt were a group I belonged to, but I didn’t have them with me in high school. The fact that I spent so much time with them in middle school meant that I didn’t really build relationships with kids my own age. Everyone else seemed to have their group. I didn’t know how to find that, and it was easier to not try than to take a chance. That could have been it for me, sitting by myself eating lunch outside in the locker bay or in the back hallway by the orchestra room for my entire time in high school…and that was pretty much it for me my freshmen year.
When I joined band my sophomore year (which is a whole different story), I noticed that a group of people ate lunch in the band office. The office comfortably fit maybe three people but we managed to fit sometimes as many as six. The band teachers would often let us hang there, and even sit at their desks. Sometimes they would kick us out, but more often than not they would let us have the space to hang out.
Some days it would be me and one other person, and other days it would be full. There were people there like me who sometimes felt more of a connection with people who weren’t their own age, and other people simply felt something important being in the space and presence of these teachers.
That’s where I ate lunch sophomore through senior year. There were not always people in that office but I never felt lonely being alone in that space because I felt like I belonged. This was more important to me than trying to navigate the lunchroom or being cool. It was the “dorky” thing to do to hang out with the band folk in a teacher’s office for lunch every day, but it was all I could figure out. I didn’t feel great about how this made people perceive me, but it was all I had.
Sometimes having something that marks you by others as less than, but make you feel belonging is a choice we have to make. It would be a choice I would continue to make the rest of my life, and it was a choice that eventually made look forward to lunch time and having a moment that I could be myself.
I can’t really do that scene, because well, I never actually ate in my high school’s lunch room. When I was a freshmen, the lunch room was nicknamed the “mushroom.” The message that we got as freshmen, or at least I got was to find somewhere else to eat. I don’t know if it was because it was too small, but it was not a welcoming place.
People found corners of the school to eat. Students would eat in hallways, or outside. I had two other people I was friends with in middle school. We found a place to eat near locker bays by the orchestra room. One of the friends got into the social dynamics of his sports team so he went to eat with them, and other one would eat with other friends, so there was a time that I ate lunch by myself.
It sucked on a level, but in some ways, I preferred it. I’m not great in large groups or at parties now, and I wasn’t back then. I didn’t know how to take the chance and unlike college, no one really took me under their wing to help me navigate the lunchroom situation. However, I knew that this wasn’t right. Not just because of society told me that friends were important, but because I wanted to have a group...and sometimes I was lonely.
In middle school I had a group of 7th graders when I was in 8th grade that I felt were a group I belonged to, but I didn’t have them with me in high school. The fact that I spent so much time with them in middle school meant that I didn’t really build relationships with kids my own age. Everyone else seemed to have their group. I didn’t know how to find that, and it was easier to not try than to take a chance. That could have been it for me, sitting by myself eating lunch outside in the locker bay or in the back hallway by the orchestra room for my entire time in high school…and that was pretty much it for me my freshmen year.
When I joined band my sophomore year (which is a whole different story), I noticed that a group of people ate lunch in the band office. The office comfortably fit maybe three people but we managed to fit sometimes as many as six. The band teachers would often let us hang there, and even sit at their desks. Sometimes they would kick us out, but more often than not they would let us have the space to hang out.
Some days it would be me and one other person, and other days it would be full. There were people there like me who sometimes felt more of a connection with people who weren’t their own age, and other people simply felt something important being in the space and presence of these teachers.
That’s where I ate lunch sophomore through senior year. There were not always people in that office but I never felt lonely being alone in that space because I felt like I belonged. This was more important to me than trying to navigate the lunchroom or being cool. It was the “dorky” thing to do to hang out with the band folk in a teacher’s office for lunch every day, but it was all I could figure out. I didn’t feel great about how this made people perceive me, but it was all I had.
Sometimes having something that marks you by others as less than, but make you feel belonging is a choice we have to make. It would be a choice I would continue to make the rest of my life, and it was a choice that eventually made look forward to lunch time and having a moment that I could be myself.
Monday, February 5, 2018
Parenthood: 242 - The Ethan Journal: 12/5/17
12/5/17
I feel like I’m lying.
Today, I was asked eight different times how Ethan was doing. Each time, I mentioned how great he was doing. Almost like a platitude, I mention his cute chubby thighs, and his lovely squishiness. It’s not that these things don’t bring me great joy, they do. It’s just that this isn’t the whole picture.
There were things that worried me about Ollie, but they were things that I felt that could communicate, because they were “normal” problems like sleep, diaper rash, and swaddling. While I consciously made sure not to complain too much, when I saw it as away to connect and bond, these concerns were met with humor and support.
The whole picture with Ollie was something that I was comfortable with, and there were things that I held back. This was not because of discomfort but rather because of my own need to hold small pieces of joy privately in my heart. The thing that I hold back about Ethan, his unilateral hearing loss, I keep to myself because I don’t want to be a bummer. I don’t have all the answers that I know people will ask, and I’m afraid of how the words will come out of my mouth, and the accompanying emotions that may come out.
When I told my closest friend at school about Ethan’s hearing loss, I didn’t cry, but I was close. When I look into the eyes of people who casually asks me about how Ethan is doing, my mind races through the truth of my experience, the completeness and complexity of emotions. Every time this happened today, I pulled back from what was real, and gave them something safe.
One time I dipped into the nervousness of raising another boy, and then I talked about the widening view our society has of masculinity and how I felt reassured of this. This probably seemed insightful and challenging, but this was something I had long sense wrestled with and figured out when Diana was pregnant with Ollie. This expression of insecurity and struggle was safe.
I don’t want Ethan to be the kid with hearing loss, and I worry that if I reveal this to people, that part of his identity will become his identity. I imagine a conversation in the future.
“Kingsley’s son wrote this really cool story I read today.”
“Which one?”
“Oh, the one who is deaf in one ear.”
I don’t want to hide this part of Ethan. I’m not ashamed of him. I am just the opposite. I am so proud of all he is, every part, not despite his right ear. Even at a month old, I know that all that I love about Ethan is result of all he is from his chubby thighs, bright eyes, misshapen ear, and sleepy smiles. He wouldn’t be the Ethan that I love if not for all of his parts.
So I respond in a way that feels like a lie.
I wish I could be more open. I want to be able to say more about my boy beyond social comfort, and figure out how to talk about the different facets of his identity. I have to figure out how to work past this “lie.” Ethan will look to me to see how I talk about his hearing loss, and this will internalize into part of his self-image, and self-talk. It feels like a burden, but I know it’s an opportunity to learn how to love beyond, to love inclusively, and to love completely.
I feel like I’m lying.
Today, I was asked eight different times how Ethan was doing. Each time, I mentioned how great he was doing. Almost like a platitude, I mention his cute chubby thighs, and his lovely squishiness. It’s not that these things don’t bring me great joy, they do. It’s just that this isn’t the whole picture.
There were things that worried me about Ollie, but they were things that I felt that could communicate, because they were “normal” problems like sleep, diaper rash, and swaddling. While I consciously made sure not to complain too much, when I saw it as away to connect and bond, these concerns were met with humor and support.
The whole picture with Ollie was something that I was comfortable with, and there were things that I held back. This was not because of discomfort but rather because of my own need to hold small pieces of joy privately in my heart. The thing that I hold back about Ethan, his unilateral hearing loss, I keep to myself because I don’t want to be a bummer. I don’t have all the answers that I know people will ask, and I’m afraid of how the words will come out of my mouth, and the accompanying emotions that may come out.
When I told my closest friend at school about Ethan’s hearing loss, I didn’t cry, but I was close. When I look into the eyes of people who casually asks me about how Ethan is doing, my mind races through the truth of my experience, the completeness and complexity of emotions. Every time this happened today, I pulled back from what was real, and gave them something safe.
One time I dipped into the nervousness of raising another boy, and then I talked about the widening view our society has of masculinity and how I felt reassured of this. This probably seemed insightful and challenging, but this was something I had long sense wrestled with and figured out when Diana was pregnant with Ollie. This expression of insecurity and struggle was safe.
I don’t want Ethan to be the kid with hearing loss, and I worry that if I reveal this to people, that part of his identity will become his identity. I imagine a conversation in the future.
“Kingsley’s son wrote this really cool story I read today.”
“Which one?”
“Oh, the one who is deaf in one ear.”
I don’t want to hide this part of Ethan. I’m not ashamed of him. I am just the opposite. I am so proud of all he is, every part, not despite his right ear. Even at a month old, I know that all that I love about Ethan is result of all he is from his chubby thighs, bright eyes, misshapen ear, and sleepy smiles. He wouldn’t be the Ethan that I love if not for all of his parts.
So I respond in a way that feels like a lie.
I wish I could be more open. I want to be able to say more about my boy beyond social comfort, and figure out how to talk about the different facets of his identity. I have to figure out how to work past this “lie.” Ethan will look to me to see how I talk about his hearing loss, and this will internalize into part of his self-image, and self-talk. It feels like a burden, but I know it’s an opportunity to learn how to love beyond, to love inclusively, and to love completely.
Friday, August 26, 2016
To Be Asian-American: Being Asian On Campus-Part 2
“I’d like to talk to someone about feeling uncomfortable seeing groups of Asian people around campus.”
“Okay, can you come in next Tuesday at 1pm?”I had sat in front of the phone trying to figure out what to say. I rehearsed different phrases and ways to express how I felt. After ten minutes, I decided to just pick up the phone and say whatever came to mind. I was surprised at the straight-forward way I expressed my feelings and I was shocked at the kindness of the person who set-up my appointment.
CAPS: Counseling And Psychological Services at Northwestern made their presence known from the first day of freshmen orientation. When I moved into my dorm, I table tent with information about CAPS was prominently displayed. I heard the advice that since every students had a number of free sessions, so you might as well come up with an excuse to go and get your monies worth.
In the wake of student tragedies across America related to psychological issues, Northwestern University, like many colleges in our country actively promoted and supported counseling and psychological services like CAPS. While most people didn’t talk openly about going to CAPS, whenever these services came up in conversation people expressed gratitude that this service existed. It was this atmosphere and lack of stigma that gave my the strength to pick up the phone and later go up the stairs from the health center and enter CAPS.
I stumbled through my first session not really knowing how to describe my problem and my feelings. The psychologist didn’t really say anything and didn't validate my feelings verbally. At times there were silent pauses that I filled not because I had anything meaningful to say but rather because of a desire to curb a feeling of social awkwardness.
I felt like I was trying to prove that I needed help from CAPS and I felt like I was trying to convince the psychologist and myself that I had a problem with working through. At the end of the session, I wasn’t sure what I had gained from the experience.
The psychologist asked me if I would like to talk to someone on a weekly basis and I said that I would and he said he would set me up with a graduate student and he would help guide her work with me.
Every week for the rest of that school year, I met with a counselor at CAPS. I grew to appreciate having a stranger to share my thoughts and my feelings. It was liberating knowing that I didn’t have to worry about my words leaving the room. My sessions would start simply by my counselor asking me how I was doing. I would talk and once in a while she would ask clarification questions. Sometimes I talked about my racial issues, and my feeling about those groups of Asian people and during other sessions it never came up. She didn’t give assign me any books to read or really give me an advice, she simply gave me the space to work through my thoughts and feelings.
Over time, those groups of Asian students stopped bringing up negative feelings inside of me. I don’t know why. Maybe by talking about my feelings it allowed me to really feel them and once that happened I could let them go. I’m not sure.
One beautiful spring day after a session, I walked out of the health building, felt the sunshine in my face and through the blinding sunlight, the sky looked a color blue I had never seen before. I saw a group of Asian students walking across the street and I smiled at them. As I walked, I whispered to myself, “I’m good.”
Friday, August 7, 2015
Frat Boy: Gracie - The Gala Part 2
“Where is Gracie?”
I stormed through the ballroom looking for Gracie, yelling as I asked for her whereabouts. Jessica rushed up behind me as Diana and other friends came up to explain what happened. Diana and Gracie had gotten into an argument. Things got heated and Diana didn’t take Gracie’s lecturing and stood her ground. People stepped in and got the problem settled. Diana was a little annoyed but she knew Gracie’s deal from what I had told her so she let Gracie’s condescension roll off her back.
I was relieved that so many people had Diana’s back. Not only undergraduates but also alumni who had the perspective that Gracie lacked. I was proud of Diana that she stood up and that she didn’t let Gracie win this round. But I was still furious at Gracie. After I heard the whole story, I finally got the answer I was looking for: Gracie went down to the bar.
I ran out of that ballroom, down the hallway and down the stairs into the bar and angrily screamed “GRACIE! You do not get to mess with Diana!” Gracie was sitting at the bar with some alumni and calmly turned around to face me. She had a look of satisfaction in her eyes as she held a martini glass. I again yelled at her as I came into the bar and before I knew it two security guards immediately were at my shoulders, “Sir, I need to ask you to leave.” “Fine, no problem here,” I replied breathlessly as I turned around and walked back to the ballroom.
As I walked back into the hallway, I saw Diana and Jessica coming up to me having tried to follow me out of ballroom and hearing all the commotion in the bar. “Let’s calm down,” Diana stated calmly. She looked at Jessica confidently and Jessica left us knowing that while she was once the person who knew me best in this world, it was now Diana.
I was still fuming. “Gracie can mess with me and she has for years, but she doesn’t get to mess with you! For years she’s gotten away with stuff because everyone just explains her crap as ‘Gracie being Gracie,’ but that’s not fair. We can’t get away with her behavior. This needs to end.” I exclaimed.
Then there was Diana’s hand on my shoulder. Then there were her calm words. She put her hands on my shoulder and looked straight into me eyes and promised, “Gracie gets away with being ‘Gracie’ and you don’t, because you are better than that and all of us here believe in you.”
The anger passed and we walked back into the ballroom holding hands. Jessica came up to me and gave me a hug and whispered, “it’s okay, little man. We still love you.” She led Diana and me to the dance floor and we enjoyed the rest of night dancing with our friends, past and present.
To this day, I have never gotten that angry and I have never let someone get to me in that way. I still don’t fully understand why Gracie made me so angry and I hoped by writing this post that I would figure it out, but I still am not sure what happened inside of my head that night.
I do know that I lost control and in that way Gracie won. The thing is that whatever happened between us that night wasn’t what has really lasted. The reason that I’ve never lost my temper like that ever since that night is because Diana is has never stopped believing in me. She talks about how angry I got that night and reminds me how much she didn’t like what she saw. I take this reminder knowing that she stuck with me despite of what happened because she knew that this moment wasn’t all I was about.
I think about Gracie sometimes and I still bristle at the thought of her, but then I refocus on the present. Part of me feels hate for her and it’s really sad to hold negative feelings about someone else. I know that the only person I’m holding back is myself. Gracie let me down in a big way. Once upon a time she seemed like a rock in my life and then she revealed herself as a flawed human being, just like anybody else.
We learn from the past and I have and maybe someday I’ll see Gracie and hash this out. That might be nice but it might only make things worse. Like the colors in a photograph, my feelings towards Gracie are fading. They are not given more depth like the feelings I have for the people I love in my life.
It’s getting harder and harder to remember how I felt when I stormed in that bar, but I still remember like it was yesterday the feeling of her fingers squeezing my arm when she said goodbye after taking me out to ice cream.
I stormed through the ballroom looking for Gracie, yelling as I asked for her whereabouts. Jessica rushed up behind me as Diana and other friends came up to explain what happened. Diana and Gracie had gotten into an argument. Things got heated and Diana didn’t take Gracie’s lecturing and stood her ground. People stepped in and got the problem settled. Diana was a little annoyed but she knew Gracie’s deal from what I had told her so she let Gracie’s condescension roll off her back.
I was relieved that so many people had Diana’s back. Not only undergraduates but also alumni who had the perspective that Gracie lacked. I was proud of Diana that she stood up and that she didn’t let Gracie win this round. But I was still furious at Gracie. After I heard the whole story, I finally got the answer I was looking for: Gracie went down to the bar.
I ran out of that ballroom, down the hallway and down the stairs into the bar and angrily screamed “GRACIE! You do not get to mess with Diana!” Gracie was sitting at the bar with some alumni and calmly turned around to face me. She had a look of satisfaction in her eyes as she held a martini glass. I again yelled at her as I came into the bar and before I knew it two security guards immediately were at my shoulders, “Sir, I need to ask you to leave.” “Fine, no problem here,” I replied breathlessly as I turned around and walked back to the ballroom.
As I walked back into the hallway, I saw Diana and Jessica coming up to me having tried to follow me out of ballroom and hearing all the commotion in the bar. “Let’s calm down,” Diana stated calmly. She looked at Jessica confidently and Jessica left us knowing that while she was once the person who knew me best in this world, it was now Diana.
I was still fuming. “Gracie can mess with me and she has for years, but she doesn’t get to mess with you! For years she’s gotten away with stuff because everyone just explains her crap as ‘Gracie being Gracie,’ but that’s not fair. We can’t get away with her behavior. This needs to end.” I exclaimed.
Then there was Diana’s hand on my shoulder. Then there were her calm words. She put her hands on my shoulder and looked straight into me eyes and promised, “Gracie gets away with being ‘Gracie’ and you don’t, because you are better than that and all of us here believe in you.”
The anger passed and we walked back into the ballroom holding hands. Jessica came up to me and gave me a hug and whispered, “it’s okay, little man. We still love you.” She led Diana and me to the dance floor and we enjoyed the rest of night dancing with our friends, past and present.
To this day, I have never gotten that angry and I have never let someone get to me in that way. I still don’t fully understand why Gracie made me so angry and I hoped by writing this post that I would figure it out, but I still am not sure what happened inside of my head that night.
I do know that I lost control and in that way Gracie won. The thing is that whatever happened between us that night wasn’t what has really lasted. The reason that I’ve never lost my temper like that ever since that night is because Diana is has never stopped believing in me. She talks about how angry I got that night and reminds me how much she didn’t like what she saw. I take this reminder knowing that she stuck with me despite of what happened because she knew that this moment wasn’t all I was about.
I think about Gracie sometimes and I still bristle at the thought of her, but then I refocus on the present. Part of me feels hate for her and it’s really sad to hold negative feelings about someone else. I know that the only person I’m holding back is myself. Gracie let me down in a big way. Once upon a time she seemed like a rock in my life and then she revealed herself as a flawed human being, just like anybody else.
We learn from the past and I have and maybe someday I’ll see Gracie and hash this out. That might be nice but it might only make things worse. Like the colors in a photograph, my feelings towards Gracie are fading. They are not given more depth like the feelings I have for the people I love in my life.
It’s getting harder and harder to remember how I felt when I stormed in that bar, but I still remember like it was yesterday the feeling of her fingers squeezing my arm when she said goodbye after taking me out to ice cream.
Friday, July 31, 2015
Frat Boy: Gracie - The Gala Part 1
Stunning.
This wasn’t any ordinary Formal, this was a Gala. This was a celebration of our SAI chapter as the oldest running chapter in existence. We were at The Drake Hotel, one of Chicago’s most beloved landmarks on the North section of the Magnificent Mile.
I was graduated at this point from my undergrad but continued at Northwestern for my graduate studies. Diana, my girlfriend (and my future wife) is two years younger than me, so she was still an active undergrad member of SAI.
Most people finish their time as an officer of PMA or SAI at the end of winter quarter and only have the spring to deal with watching younger people take over and than they leave. This is a difficult transition because for years you work at making an organization better and then you pass on these jobs to younger members.
No one is really in office for more than two or three years so sometimes the institutional memory doesn’t get passed on and young officers. This is a very inefficient way to run an organization if constant growth was a goal. However, the goal of PMA and SAI wasn’t for the organization to be in a constant upwards trajectory. Instead these organizations existed to help people bond and learn how to run an organization. The rotating officers, and having older people let go, was a great way to accomplish this task.
I did let go, but I was still a presence. I came to PMA and SAI events and I was often asked for my help and advice when dealing with issues. It was hard after being the music director watching the new music director try to figure out the gig, but it was okay and anyways, I had other priorities.
As this big SAI Gala started to come to together, the girls in SAI asked if the PMA guys would sing at this event. This was unusual as the PMA would usually only sing at their Formal and SAI would sing at their own. However, this was a special event and SAI extended the invitation. The current music director didn’t get invited to the SAI Gala, so I was asked to conduct the PMA as they sang a couple songs, and I happily agreed to help out.
The Gala was huge. Usually only undergrads showed up to Formals, but many SAI alumni showed up. There were much older people who had graduated before I was born who came and then there were those SAI members who took care of me when I was a freshmen, since graduated, who came back for the celebration.
It was such a great feeling to see all of these people again, introduce them to Diana and show tell them about how I had “grown up.” I remember seeing Gracie walk in. It had been more than two years since she graduated and we last talked. During that time, my resentment towards her had built. Not because of anything she had done during this time but because of how I felt that I had been mislead by her.
Gracie had her way of doing things, and her view on the way that SAI and PMA should run. I found that many of her opinions didn’t hold true now that my class was in power. For some reason this felt like a power grab and a way for her to manipulate me. Of course, this is silly. She had graduated and of course her views would be different than mine. As much as our organizations stayed the same, they also changed a lot. My negative feelings towards her, were more about my own insecurities and my inability to let go, more than it was about any bad things she really did to me.
When I saw her, I made every effort to avoid her (I know, reeeeal mature). This wasn’t really difficult since we had different crowds that we hung out with at this event. So everything went really smoothly.
I was so excited as I tried to settle down the PMA guys to sing. I gave them the pitch of our first song and we joined together in song. As we sang, I felt the positive energy coming from the guys and the girls behind me cheering us on. It had been almost a year since I last conducted these guys and it was a great feeling performing with them once again.
After the set, I left the ballroom to go to the bathroom, still feeling the adrenaline high from the performance. As I walked down the hall back to the ballroom, Jessica came running up to me. She was distressed and out of breath. Jessica told me about what had happened in detail while I was gone, but all I heard was “Gracie,” “Diana,” and “fight.” The positive adrenaline and energy in my body, immediately turned into anger and without responding to Jessica, I pushed into ballroom.
This wasn’t any ordinary Formal, this was a Gala. This was a celebration of our SAI chapter as the oldest running chapter in existence. We were at The Drake Hotel, one of Chicago’s most beloved landmarks on the North section of the Magnificent Mile.
I was graduated at this point from my undergrad but continued at Northwestern for my graduate studies. Diana, my girlfriend (and my future wife) is two years younger than me, so she was still an active undergrad member of SAI.
Most people finish their time as an officer of PMA or SAI at the end of winter quarter and only have the spring to deal with watching younger people take over and than they leave. This is a difficult transition because for years you work at making an organization better and then you pass on these jobs to younger members.
No one is really in office for more than two or three years so sometimes the institutional memory doesn’t get passed on and young officers. This is a very inefficient way to run an organization if constant growth was a goal. However, the goal of PMA and SAI wasn’t for the organization to be in a constant upwards trajectory. Instead these organizations existed to help people bond and learn how to run an organization. The rotating officers, and having older people let go, was a great way to accomplish this task.
I did let go, but I was still a presence. I came to PMA and SAI events and I was often asked for my help and advice when dealing with issues. It was hard after being the music director watching the new music director try to figure out the gig, but it was okay and anyways, I had other priorities.
As this big SAI Gala started to come to together, the girls in SAI asked if the PMA guys would sing at this event. This was unusual as the PMA would usually only sing at their Formal and SAI would sing at their own. However, this was a special event and SAI extended the invitation. The current music director didn’t get invited to the SAI Gala, so I was asked to conduct the PMA as they sang a couple songs, and I happily agreed to help out.
The Gala was huge. Usually only undergrads showed up to Formals, but many SAI alumni showed up. There were much older people who had graduated before I was born who came and then there were those SAI members who took care of me when I was a freshmen, since graduated, who came back for the celebration.
It was such a great feeling to see all of these people again, introduce them to Diana and show tell them about how I had “grown up.” I remember seeing Gracie walk in. It had been more than two years since she graduated and we last talked. During that time, my resentment towards her had built. Not because of anything she had done during this time but because of how I felt that I had been mislead by her.
Gracie had her way of doing things, and her view on the way that SAI and PMA should run. I found that many of her opinions didn’t hold true now that my class was in power. For some reason this felt like a power grab and a way for her to manipulate me. Of course, this is silly. She had graduated and of course her views would be different than mine. As much as our organizations stayed the same, they also changed a lot. My negative feelings towards her, were more about my own insecurities and my inability to let go, more than it was about any bad things she really did to me.
When I saw her, I made every effort to avoid her (I know, reeeeal mature). This wasn’t really difficult since we had different crowds that we hung out with at this event. So everything went really smoothly.
I was so excited as I tried to settle down the PMA guys to sing. I gave them the pitch of our first song and we joined together in song. As we sang, I felt the positive energy coming from the guys and the girls behind me cheering us on. It had been almost a year since I last conducted these guys and it was a great feeling performing with them once again.
After the set, I left the ballroom to go to the bathroom, still feeling the adrenaline high from the performance. As I walked down the hall back to the ballroom, Jessica came running up to me. She was distressed and out of breath. Jessica told me about what had happened in detail while I was gone, but all I heard was “Gracie,” “Diana,” and “fight.” The positive adrenaline and energy in my body, immediately turned into anger and without responding to Jessica, I pushed into ballroom.
Friday, July 24, 2015
Frat Boy: Formal
In high school, except for one exception, I didn’t really like dances, but in college I loved formal dances, which we simply called Formals.
If you want to read about me learning to love dancing in college check out this post. This story also has a related this related link to a story about a how, a current New Yorker editor helped me learn to embrace what I loved about music and myself.
In high school, dances consisted of making dinner reservations at some fancy restaurant, somehow making our way to the school, taking a picture, awkwardly standing around for a dance or two and then sometimes going to an after-party. When you were an underclassmen, transportation consisted of parents or older siblings. When you were older you could drive or because of peer pressure you rented a limo.
I didn’t like dancing and the effort put into being seen and doing things a certain way felt disingenuous and kind of silly.
After the ladies of SAI taught me how to dance and the gentlemen of PMA helped me embrace the fun and silliness of dance parties, I looked forward to any opportunity to dance. It was liberating, fun and one of the best ways to relieve the stress of academics. In my group of friends there was nothing sketchy about what we were doing on the dance floor and anything that seemed to approach more risqué dancing moves were more silly than sexual.
My frat had a Formal every spring. Our Formals looked like this. We walk over and get our dates (most of which were in SAI) and present a bouquet of flowers (not a corsage). We would make our way to PMA and all pile into a rented school bus. The bus would take us to some kind of banquet hall in a hotel. Everyone would eat dinner in the room, like in a wedding reception. And after dinner we would dance. Then the formal would end, we would all climb into the school bus, which would drive us back to the frat house.
The guys would suit up and the girls would were nice dresses. However, unlike in high school the girls wouldn’t buy a new dress for each formal. More often than not they would reuse a dress or trade dresses with their sorority sisters for variety.
The school bus seemed weird at first but it was actually a really nice way for us to have some fun on the way to the location and take away the issue of driving. We’d hire a DJ and photographer. There would usually be a cash bar, and the food varied in quality depending on the location. A nice view was a plus, but in general, no one really cared. We just wanted an excuse to dress and get down with our “family.”
That was the main reason that these Formals were so much fun. It really felt like a family event. Most of the people who came were people from marching band, SAI and PMA. These were people we lived with, ate our meals with in Saga and defined the community that made our social group feel like a family.
At Formals we had our traditions. Being a music fraternity we had a way of singing grace and performing as a men’s choir toward the end of the night, which was a highlight for everyone involved. SAI had their formal within a couple weeks of ours and that was also a really fun event that had a similar format and vibe. I loved those events as well.
Formals are really a unique event. Getting together with a large group of friends for the purpose of being together and dancing just doesn’t happen in adulthood past college. The only thing that approaches Formals is wedding receptions. I’ve been to some really fun ones that are really meaningful but they are different. It’s just a different energy with multiple generations and the focus on one couple celebrating their union.
This lack of a focus on celebrating a specific event but rather purely celebrating life is what made these events so wonderful. Formals taught me that its worth putting in time and energy simply for the sake of getting friends together to have a good time. You don’t need a major life event to party; you just need good friends. Th Formals were a reminder of this fact and its something I forget when I feel too tired to call up friends or feel like I need an excuse to have fun.
A Formal may seem like just a bunch of college kids getting their party on, but it's so much more. It's the feeling of losing yourself in dance, surrounded by friends, feeling no embarrassment, only freedom. It's a feeling of energy, of love and of life. It is the expression of the human spirit and most importantly a damn good time.
If you want to read about me learning to love dancing in college check out this post. This story also has a related this related link to a story about a how, a current New Yorker editor helped me learn to embrace what I loved about music and myself.
In high school, dances consisted of making dinner reservations at some fancy restaurant, somehow making our way to the school, taking a picture, awkwardly standing around for a dance or two and then sometimes going to an after-party. When you were an underclassmen, transportation consisted of parents or older siblings. When you were older you could drive or because of peer pressure you rented a limo.
I didn’t like dancing and the effort put into being seen and doing things a certain way felt disingenuous and kind of silly.
After the ladies of SAI taught me how to dance and the gentlemen of PMA helped me embrace the fun and silliness of dance parties, I looked forward to any opportunity to dance. It was liberating, fun and one of the best ways to relieve the stress of academics. In my group of friends there was nothing sketchy about what we were doing on the dance floor and anything that seemed to approach more risqué dancing moves were more silly than sexual.
My frat had a Formal every spring. Our Formals looked like this. We walk over and get our dates (most of which were in SAI) and present a bouquet of flowers (not a corsage). We would make our way to PMA and all pile into a rented school bus. The bus would take us to some kind of banquet hall in a hotel. Everyone would eat dinner in the room, like in a wedding reception. And after dinner we would dance. Then the formal would end, we would all climb into the school bus, which would drive us back to the frat house.
The guys would suit up and the girls would were nice dresses. However, unlike in high school the girls wouldn’t buy a new dress for each formal. More often than not they would reuse a dress or trade dresses with their sorority sisters for variety.
The school bus seemed weird at first but it was actually a really nice way for us to have some fun on the way to the location and take away the issue of driving. We’d hire a DJ and photographer. There would usually be a cash bar, and the food varied in quality depending on the location. A nice view was a plus, but in general, no one really cared. We just wanted an excuse to dress and get down with our “family.”
That was the main reason that these Formals were so much fun. It really felt like a family event. Most of the people who came were people from marching band, SAI and PMA. These were people we lived with, ate our meals with in Saga and defined the community that made our social group feel like a family.
At Formals we had our traditions. Being a music fraternity we had a way of singing grace and performing as a men’s choir toward the end of the night, which was a highlight for everyone involved. SAI had their formal within a couple weeks of ours and that was also a really fun event that had a similar format and vibe. I loved those events as well.
Formals are really a unique event. Getting together with a large group of friends for the purpose of being together and dancing just doesn’t happen in adulthood past college. The only thing that approaches Formals is wedding receptions. I’ve been to some really fun ones that are really meaningful but they are different. It’s just a different energy with multiple generations and the focus on one couple celebrating their union.
This lack of a focus on celebrating a specific event but rather purely celebrating life is what made these events so wonderful. Formals taught me that its worth putting in time and energy simply for the sake of getting friends together to have a good time. You don’t need a major life event to party; you just need good friends. Th Formals were a reminder of this fact and its something I forget when I feel too tired to call up friends or feel like I need an excuse to have fun.
A Formal may seem like just a bunch of college kids getting their party on, but it's so much more. It's the feeling of losing yourself in dance, surrounded by friends, feeling no embarrassment, only freedom. It's a feeling of energy, of love and of life. It is the expression of the human spirit and most importantly a damn good time.
Friday, July 17, 2015
Frat Boy: Gracie - The Bad
When Gracie told me that she approved of my first girlfriend I had in college, I was really annoyed.
I was a sophomore and while I still saw Gracie around and thought of her as a friend I didn’t need her like I did the previous year. It was Gracie and a group of girls that made me feel welcome at Phi Mu Alpha parties. For this and many other instances in which she made an effort to bring me into the fold, I was grateful.
But I wasn’t a kid anymore.
Over time, I had overheard people complaining about Gracie. People would say that she was controlling and was a know-it-all. Yes, Gracie did like things to go a certain way, but that way was to be inclusive and yes she did talk authoritatively about PMA, SAI and NUMB but the reality was that more often than not she knew what she was talking about.
So I played by Gracie’s rules. I took her advice during my first election at PMA, which I won. We talked about the politics of our fraternities often and she never stopped standing up for me.
The more I grew into my own person, the more I became a leader in the organization, the more distance there was between Gracie and me. She would always give me an enthusiastic hug when she saw me, especially at parties, but we had less and less to talk about.
I was walking on campus on a beautiful spring day and Gracie saw me and we stopped to talk. She told me that she heard about this girl I was with, who was a new member of SAI, I wasn’t surprised that she had heard the gossip, but I was taken aback when she told me that she “approved” of me going out with this girl.
Yes, Gracie once upon a time really was my “college-mom” but in a year, I had grown up and out of needing her to take care of me. While I did care about what she thought, the fact that she felt that her approval was important to me didn’t feel right.
We have people who look out for us at points in our life when we need help and Gracie was really there for me. But I couldn’t help shake the feeling that while I grew up, she didn’t see that in me. Later I would understand how hard it is to let go of being in a place of influence in an organization and watch the younger crowd take over. But at the moment, I felt like she was being condescending. Maybe this was simply the way that Gracie showed that she cared, and I just took it the wrong way.
Some relationships take decades to develop and be fully explored. Other relationships take years to pan out while some arch in even shorter periods of time. At the end of that year, when Gracie graduated, I knew we were done. Towards the end, Gracie and I had gotten in some disagreements and there was tension surrounding her from others as well. Most of us just brushed it as her just being herself.
Sometimes in life we decide a fight isn’t worth it, but sometimes the battles we let go lead to even bigger conflicts. And telling myself “Gracie was just being Gracie” came back in a way that I never expected.
I was a sophomore and while I still saw Gracie around and thought of her as a friend I didn’t need her like I did the previous year. It was Gracie and a group of girls that made me feel welcome at Phi Mu Alpha parties. For this and many other instances in which she made an effort to bring me into the fold, I was grateful.
But I wasn’t a kid anymore.
Over time, I had overheard people complaining about Gracie. People would say that she was controlling and was a know-it-all. Yes, Gracie did like things to go a certain way, but that way was to be inclusive and yes she did talk authoritatively about PMA, SAI and NUMB but the reality was that more often than not she knew what she was talking about.
So I played by Gracie’s rules. I took her advice during my first election at PMA, which I won. We talked about the politics of our fraternities often and she never stopped standing up for me.
The more I grew into my own person, the more I became a leader in the organization, the more distance there was between Gracie and me. She would always give me an enthusiastic hug when she saw me, especially at parties, but we had less and less to talk about.
I was walking on campus on a beautiful spring day and Gracie saw me and we stopped to talk. She told me that she heard about this girl I was with, who was a new member of SAI, I wasn’t surprised that she had heard the gossip, but I was taken aback when she told me that she “approved” of me going out with this girl.
Yes, Gracie once upon a time really was my “college-mom” but in a year, I had grown up and out of needing her to take care of me. While I did care about what she thought, the fact that she felt that her approval was important to me didn’t feel right.
We have people who look out for us at points in our life when we need help and Gracie was really there for me. But I couldn’t help shake the feeling that while I grew up, she didn’t see that in me. Later I would understand how hard it is to let go of being in a place of influence in an organization and watch the younger crowd take over. But at the moment, I felt like she was being condescending. Maybe this was simply the way that Gracie showed that she cared, and I just took it the wrong way.
Some relationships take decades to develop and be fully explored. Other relationships take years to pan out while some arch in even shorter periods of time. At the end of that year, when Gracie graduated, I knew we were done. Towards the end, Gracie and I had gotten in some disagreements and there was tension surrounding her from others as well. Most of us just brushed it as her just being herself.
Sometimes in life we decide a fight isn’t worth it, but sometimes the battles we let go lead to even bigger conflicts. And telling myself “Gracie was just being Gracie” came back in a way that I never expected.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Frat Boy: Gracie - The Good
"What I've got they used to call the blues
Nothing is really wrong, feeling like I don't belong. . ."
As the sound of Karen Carpenter’s voice mournfully singing these words from “Rainy Days And Mondays,” filled my dorm room the steady patter of rain accompanied my feelings of loneliness.
The rush and excitement of freshmen year band camp was over. Classes had started and everyone seemed to settle into the rhythm of the year. Everyone seemed to have a place, and a group of friend except for me.
Northwestern University Marching Band (NUMB) had welcomed me with open arms a couple weeks earlier. I spent all my free time hanging out with NUMB'ers during band camp and in the first couple weeks of school. Because I had spent so much time with NUMB people, I never got to know the other freshmen in my dorm and there really weren’t that many people in NUMB that lived in my dorm.
NUMB was great but after rehearsals ended I wasn’t sure what to do. People talked about hanging out but I didn’t know how to reach out and get myself involved. I knew of Phi Mu Alpha (which I discuss getting into in this post), but I wasn’t quite ready to knock on their door.
For those first couple weeks, after eating dinner, I would do some homework in my dorm room (which was a single) and watch a DVD by myself. This seemed okay but the loneliness built up. Every freshman has that night when they hit the bottom and don’t feel like they belong at college. For me that night sitting n my room and listening to the Carpenters.
Then a got a message over Instant Messenger (old-school online texting).
Gracie: Do you want to go out for ice cream?
Me: Not really, I got a bunch of stuff to do . .
Gracie: That’s fine, we’re coming over anyways, be ready in 10 minutes
Me: Wait, who is coming, what?
Gracie: Later
Gracie wasn’t our section leader in NUMB, she was our mom. Like the prison mom’s in Orange Is The New Black, she took care of people in her section and took young ones like me under her wing. During band camp, she kept tabs on me and made sure I knew what was going on. She never let me eat at a table by myself if she was around and if anyone even thought to give me a hard time she got up in their face without hesitation.
At first when she referred to me as one of her kids, I was kind of put off. I was still getting used to switching from being a older person who had “kids” of my own in high school marching band. However, by the end of band camp, I was took comfort being under her care.
For Gracie, being a section mom was an instinct. Her warmth embodied the best parts of Midwest hospitality. Even though, I had yet to open up to her, she gave to me, simply because she chose to care.
The knock on my door startled me because I hadn’t really had any visitors to my dorm. I opened the door to Gracie and a collection of about ten NUMB’ers and associated friends. They were all soaking wet, some in raincoats and some in just shorts and t-shirts. Before I could say anything they all entered my small room and started complementing the posters I had up in my room.
Gracie came up to me and began to speak, but put her finger up, motioning for me to wait a minute. She took off her glasses and attempted to wipe the beads of rainwater off with her soaked sweatshirt. After realizing that it was not going to do any good, she giggled at herself, put on her smeared glasses and said, “let’s go.”
“Look, Gracie, I got this thing due . . .”
“Kevin, find his jacket, let’s go. . .”
Before I knew it, I was walking in through the inky blackness of the night to the local ice cream shop. The crowd was giggling making jokes while Gracie walked next to me casually putting her arm around my shoulder, “c’mon Kings, this will be fun, relax.”
As puddles of water collected under our seats, we all ate ice cream. I didn’t have a lot to add to the conversations but everyone was being patient with me, explaining jokes and unpacking background for the stories they were telling.
After we all finished up the group walked me back to my dorm. As they said goodbye, Gracie squeezed my arm and gave me a wink. I brushed my hand through my soaking hair and watched Gracie gleefully skip through a rain puddle to catch up with the group. Then for the first time that day, I smiled.
The world can pour everything it’s got down onto you, and Gracie showed me that you don’t have to let to get it down.
As the sound of Karen Carpenter’s voice mournfully singing these words from “Rainy Days And Mondays,” filled my dorm room the steady patter of rain accompanied my feelings of loneliness.
The rush and excitement of freshmen year band camp was over. Classes had started and everyone seemed to settle into the rhythm of the year. Everyone seemed to have a place, and a group of friend except for me.
Northwestern University Marching Band (NUMB) had welcomed me with open arms a couple weeks earlier. I spent all my free time hanging out with NUMB'ers during band camp and in the first couple weeks of school. Because I had spent so much time with NUMB people, I never got to know the other freshmen in my dorm and there really weren’t that many people in NUMB that lived in my dorm.
NUMB was great but after rehearsals ended I wasn’t sure what to do. People talked about hanging out but I didn’t know how to reach out and get myself involved. I knew of Phi Mu Alpha (which I discuss getting into in this post), but I wasn’t quite ready to knock on their door.
For those first couple weeks, after eating dinner, I would do some homework in my dorm room (which was a single) and watch a DVD by myself. This seemed okay but the loneliness built up. Every freshman has that night when they hit the bottom and don’t feel like they belong at college. For me that night sitting n my room and listening to the Carpenters.
Then a got a message over Instant Messenger (old-school online texting).
Gracie: Do you want to go out for ice cream?
Me: Not really, I got a bunch of stuff to do . .
Gracie: That’s fine, we’re coming over anyways, be ready in 10 minutes
Me: Wait, who is coming, what?
Gracie: Later
Gracie wasn’t our section leader in NUMB, she was our mom. Like the prison mom’s in Orange Is The New Black, she took care of people in her section and took young ones like me under her wing. During band camp, she kept tabs on me and made sure I knew what was going on. She never let me eat at a table by myself if she was around and if anyone even thought to give me a hard time she got up in their face without hesitation.
At first when she referred to me as one of her kids, I was kind of put off. I was still getting used to switching from being a older person who had “kids” of my own in high school marching band. However, by the end of band camp, I was took comfort being under her care.
For Gracie, being a section mom was an instinct. Her warmth embodied the best parts of Midwest hospitality. Even though, I had yet to open up to her, she gave to me, simply because she chose to care.
The knock on my door startled me because I hadn’t really had any visitors to my dorm. I opened the door to Gracie and a collection of about ten NUMB’ers and associated friends. They were all soaking wet, some in raincoats and some in just shorts and t-shirts. Before I could say anything they all entered my small room and started complementing the posters I had up in my room.
Gracie came up to me and began to speak, but put her finger up, motioning for me to wait a minute. She took off her glasses and attempted to wipe the beads of rainwater off with her soaked sweatshirt. After realizing that it was not going to do any good, she giggled at herself, put on her smeared glasses and said, “let’s go.”
“Look, Gracie, I got this thing due . . .”
“Kevin, find his jacket, let’s go. . .”
Before I knew it, I was walking in through the inky blackness of the night to the local ice cream shop. The crowd was giggling making jokes while Gracie walked next to me casually putting her arm around my shoulder, “c’mon Kings, this will be fun, relax.”
As puddles of water collected under our seats, we all ate ice cream. I didn’t have a lot to add to the conversations but everyone was being patient with me, explaining jokes and unpacking background for the stories they were telling.
After we all finished up the group walked me back to my dorm. As they said goodbye, Gracie squeezed my arm and gave me a wink. I brushed my hand through my soaking hair and watched Gracie gleefully skip through a rain puddle to catch up with the group. Then for the first time that day, I smiled.
The world can pour everything it’s got down onto you, and Gracie showed me that you don’t have to let to get it down.
Friday, July 3, 2015
Frat Boy: Consequences of Long Showers
More stories from fraternity life. Here's the into.
Larry took the long showers.
I mean really long. He would be in the shower stall for literally 45 minutes sometimes longer. This didn’t really bother any of us because he usually took these extended showers in the early afternoons while the rest of us took morning or evening showers. However Ric took notice of this, and he couldn’t leave well enough alone.
The afternoon was a pretty chill time in the frat house. People would either be in class or doing homework. And it always seemed that Ric was around during this time of day.
Now Ric was a great guy and unique in really cool ways. He was in a great shape, worked out a lot. Like me, he was also one of the only one of my frat brothers who was as into professional wrestling and comics books. He was loud, brash and put on this professional wrestling style cartoonish perona. At the same time he was very intelligent, sensitive and a good friend.
My room was right across from the bathrooms and my door was open, which was the custom for most of us when we were in our rooms. Ric came out of the bathroom and observed, “Larry has been in showering for a while hasn’t he?” I made some comment about how that wasn’t a big deal and that I had to finish the paper I was working on.
About 15 minutes later, Ric came down the hallway, peeked into the bathroom, and appeared in my doorway.
“Dude, he’s still in the shower, let’s mess with him.”
I replied, “Really, man, I got to finish this thing. Let’s hang later.”
Ric apologized and went back to his room down the hallway.
Another 15 minutes passed, and Ric once again, walked down the hallway, peeked into the bathroom. Then he just stood silently in my door with a mischievous grin on this his face.
“Sigh, ok fine, Ric, let’s do this.”
We ran down to Ric’s room and grabbed his trashcan and emptied it out into the hallway trash. We went to the door of the bathroom and paused for a second. Ric pointed up, and I immediately knew what he was thinking. We ran up the stairs and filled up the trashcan with cold water in a shower stall on the third floor bathroom.
Together we carried the trash can full of cold water down the stairs. We slowly pushed the bathroom door open, trying not to let Larry hear us coming. We struggled to carry the trash can through the sauna-like bathroom, while attempting to hold in our laughter. We made out way shower stall next to Larry’s and Ric hurled the trashcan full of cold water over the partition.
Larry immediately screamed. As we ran out of the bathroom, Ric grabbed Larry’s towel, and we both rushed into my room. I closed the door, locked it and we immediately dropped to the floor sitting with our backs against the door with our hands over our mouths trying desperately not to laugh.
I could hear Larry swearing loudly, storming up and down the hallway, soaking wet and naked trying to figure out who had thrown the water on him.
“Who the &#!@ did this? I can’t believe you did this. You &#!@$ I RUINED my book!”
His book?!?
As soon as he said "book," Ric and I looked at each other knowing that we were about to loose it an that we would be dead if Larry heard us. I quickly grabbed two pillows off my bed, and threw one to Ric. Then buried our faced in them desperately trying not to laugh out loud. I have never had to work harder to keep myself from laughing as I did, sitting with Ric and listening to Larry loose it over his ruined book.
Yes, Larry was annoyed at the cold water and that someone had taken away his towel but the thing he was most angry about was that we got his book wet that he was reading in the shower. I've heard of people reading a book while taking a bath, but who reads a book in the shower? If you bring a book into the shower, shouldn't you know that there is a risk of it getting wet? And you live in a fraternity house. While these kinds of pranks were not an every day occurrence, they weren't that uncommon.
I don’t think Larry ever figured out who dumped the water on him. Was this prank mean? Eh, kind of, but it’s harmless in the sense that in normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have caused any property damage, just a moment of discomfort. But leave it to Larry to make it something more, a case of bibliocide.
Sometime later, I overheard Larry talking when he was in the shower from my room. It was kind of weird because I didn't hear any other voices. A couple days later when washing my hands, I saw Larry walk out of his shower with his shower caddy in one hand and a wireless phone in the other. At least we weren't responsible for ruining his phone.
Larry took the long showers.
I mean really long. He would be in the shower stall for literally 45 minutes sometimes longer. This didn’t really bother any of us because he usually took these extended showers in the early afternoons while the rest of us took morning or evening showers. However Ric took notice of this, and he couldn’t leave well enough alone.
The afternoon was a pretty chill time in the frat house. People would either be in class or doing homework. And it always seemed that Ric was around during this time of day.
Now Ric was a great guy and unique in really cool ways. He was in a great shape, worked out a lot. Like me, he was also one of the only one of my frat brothers who was as into professional wrestling and comics books. He was loud, brash and put on this professional wrestling style cartoonish perona. At the same time he was very intelligent, sensitive and a good friend.
My room was right across from the bathrooms and my door was open, which was the custom for most of us when we were in our rooms. Ric came out of the bathroom and observed, “Larry has been in showering for a while hasn’t he?” I made some comment about how that wasn’t a big deal and that I had to finish the paper I was working on.
About 15 minutes later, Ric came down the hallway, peeked into the bathroom, and appeared in my doorway.
“Dude, he’s still in the shower, let’s mess with him.”
I replied, “Really, man, I got to finish this thing. Let’s hang later.”
Ric apologized and went back to his room down the hallway.
Another 15 minutes passed, and Ric once again, walked down the hallway, peeked into the bathroom. Then he just stood silently in my door with a mischievous grin on this his face.
“Sigh, ok fine, Ric, let’s do this.”
We ran down to Ric’s room and grabbed his trashcan and emptied it out into the hallway trash. We went to the door of the bathroom and paused for a second. Ric pointed up, and I immediately knew what he was thinking. We ran up the stairs and filled up the trashcan with cold water in a shower stall on the third floor bathroom.
Together we carried the trash can full of cold water down the stairs. We slowly pushed the bathroom door open, trying not to let Larry hear us coming. We struggled to carry the trash can through the sauna-like bathroom, while attempting to hold in our laughter. We made out way shower stall next to Larry’s and Ric hurled the trashcan full of cold water over the partition.
Larry immediately screamed. As we ran out of the bathroom, Ric grabbed Larry’s towel, and we both rushed into my room. I closed the door, locked it and we immediately dropped to the floor sitting with our backs against the door with our hands over our mouths trying desperately not to laugh.
I could hear Larry swearing loudly, storming up and down the hallway, soaking wet and naked trying to figure out who had thrown the water on him.
“Who the &#!@ did this? I can’t believe you did this. You &#!@$ I RUINED my book!”
His book?!?
As soon as he said "book," Ric and I looked at each other knowing that we were about to loose it an that we would be dead if Larry heard us. I quickly grabbed two pillows off my bed, and threw one to Ric. Then buried our faced in them desperately trying not to laugh out loud. I have never had to work harder to keep myself from laughing as I did, sitting with Ric and listening to Larry loose it over his ruined book.
Yes, Larry was annoyed at the cold water and that someone had taken away his towel but the thing he was most angry about was that we got his book wet that he was reading in the shower. I've heard of people reading a book while taking a bath, but who reads a book in the shower? If you bring a book into the shower, shouldn't you know that there is a risk of it getting wet? And you live in a fraternity house. While these kinds of pranks were not an every day occurrence, they weren't that uncommon.
I don’t think Larry ever figured out who dumped the water on him. Was this prank mean? Eh, kind of, but it’s harmless in the sense that in normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have caused any property damage, just a moment of discomfort. But leave it to Larry to make it something more, a case of bibliocide.
Sometime later, I overheard Larry talking when he was in the shower from my room. It was kind of weird because I didn't hear any other voices. A couple days later when washing my hands, I saw Larry walk out of his shower with his shower caddy in one hand and a wireless phone in the other. At least we weren't responsible for ruining his phone.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Frat Boy: Why Mu Alpha? - Part 1
I never thought that I’d join a fraternity.
In high school I never drank a drop of alcohol at a party. I actually only went to one party all four years of my high school career. I wasn’t into the idea of wasting my time by getting drunk and partying. At that time, that’s all I thought fraternities were all about.
The other thing was the fact that I never really felt like I was part of social group. Only when I was in fifth grade did I find a social group that was mostly fourth grader. For the rest of my primary and secondary school time, I only had individual friends. Well, I guess there was a group in middle school that I hung with during lunch and recess but honestly I was mostly a “hanger-oner,” a person who really wasn’t part of the group but hung around them.
I didn’t really want to party in college and I had given up hope with the idea that I would ever be in a group of friends. I accepted that I just wasn’t going to be that kind of guy.
In some ways this made me sad but I didn’t let myself dwell in that emotion as I ignored more and more parties toward the end of my senior year. Instead I built up a superiority complex. I thought I was better than the other kids in my high school graduating class. I had gotten accepted early-decision into Northwestern University, which was a college everyone talked about getting into, but no one else did.
In a way, getting into Northwestern, solidified my superiority complex. I was better than everyone else and it was because of this fact that I didn’t get invited to parties. How could I be part of a social clique when everyone was so far below me?
Why did I choose Northwestern? Well, it wasn’t because of how great the visit went, because I never visited the campus before applying. Northwestern was a top 10 school on all of the college lists. It was a smaller school but most of all it was near Chicago. My brother, Ed, went to NYU and survived in a huge city. If Ed could move across the continent, the least I could do was go halfway across the country to Evanston, Illinois. I couldn’t imagine living in the middle of one of the biggest metropolitans in American, but I could picture myself in a suburb. So Northwestern made sense.
There was the music composition program, which was strong, which was what I wanted to study and there was the Northwestern University Marching Band, otherwise known as NUMB.
I fell in love with marching band in high school. I did orchestra sense middle school but after watching the high school jazz band record the fight song for the cheerleaders to practice with, I knew I wanted to be in the band. I learned the saxophone and joined my sophomore year.
I had never been a part of a sports team so doing things as a group, teamwork activities and cheering each other on was brand new to me. I was immediately part of a larger group when we were out on the field and in the stands and I loved it. As I rose to a senior, I held onto traditions, trained the underclassmen on how things went in the band. During my last marching band game senior year, after standing in the rain for hours I found myself dancing around our school seal with the other seniors as the rest of the band surrounded us in a half circle playing their hearts out for us.
When my marching band director told me that college band was like this but even better, I knew I wanted to keep marching.
What attracted me to NUMB isn’t that kind of band. NUMB is a group that doesn’t ask its members to audition for a spot to march. They take in everyone regardless of their experience. When I watched videos of bands Iike USC, I couldn’t imagine having the ability to play in a group like that. However when I saw the video of NUMB doing pregame on their website, it looked like something I could do.
Northwestern had Chicago, it had the major I wanted and it had the right kind of marching band. That was enough for me.
The weirdest thing to thing about NUMB was that from the moment I registered at the music building before band camp, everyone was really nice to me. I had already gotten a letter from my upperclassmen NUMB-Buddy, which gave me one person to connect with. This was only one example of the warmness and friendly spirit, I felt all the way through band camp.
On one of the last nights of band camp, we collected in an auditorium space for skits. Every section had been working on some kind of skit and now it was time to share. I was in the alto saxophone section. We did a play off the Brady Bunch theme song, which was really cutesy and was applauded as such. The reputation of the alto saxophone section was that we were the tamest and most virginal section. By my senior year, we had effectively changed our reputation and held the status as the raunchiest and most politically incorrect section in the band. Our skit my senior year featured . . . well . . . it’s best to ask my in person what it involved. There are some things I never want to write down.
Toward the end of the night it was announced that the sisters of Sigma Alpha Iota were to come to the stage. I had seen Greek letters on t-shirts the whole day but I had no idea what they meant. Now it started to make sense. It seemed like every girl in the room went up on that stage. In reality it was only a minority of the girls in NUMB on stage but the way they came out from every instrument section made them seem like they were everywhere.
Then it was Phi Mu Alpha’s turn.
Up there on stage were section leaders, the most confident members of the band and all three of the drum majors. They seemed like men up there. I was just a boy and I couldn’t imagine being a man like those guys. They were poised and confident and as they sang what I would come to know later as “The Red and Black,” I was shocked at the quality and power on their singing.
I thought to myself, “Was this really what a fraternity was all about? Wait a second? Did he just say that we could join in the winter? What’s this rush thing? Could I really be a member of a fraternity?”
In high school I never drank a drop of alcohol at a party. I actually only went to one party all four years of my high school career. I wasn’t into the idea of wasting my time by getting drunk and partying. At that time, that’s all I thought fraternities were all about.
The other thing was the fact that I never really felt like I was part of social group. Only when I was in fifth grade did I find a social group that was mostly fourth grader. For the rest of my primary and secondary school time, I only had individual friends. Well, I guess there was a group in middle school that I hung with during lunch and recess but honestly I was mostly a “hanger-oner,” a person who really wasn’t part of the group but hung around them.
I didn’t really want to party in college and I had given up hope with the idea that I would ever be in a group of friends. I accepted that I just wasn’t going to be that kind of guy.
In some ways this made me sad but I didn’t let myself dwell in that emotion as I ignored more and more parties toward the end of my senior year. Instead I built up a superiority complex. I thought I was better than the other kids in my high school graduating class. I had gotten accepted early-decision into Northwestern University, which was a college everyone talked about getting into, but no one else did.
In a way, getting into Northwestern, solidified my superiority complex. I was better than everyone else and it was because of this fact that I didn’t get invited to parties. How could I be part of a social clique when everyone was so far below me?
Why did I choose Northwestern? Well, it wasn’t because of how great the visit went, because I never visited the campus before applying. Northwestern was a top 10 school on all of the college lists. It was a smaller school but most of all it was near Chicago. My brother, Ed, went to NYU and survived in a huge city. If Ed could move across the continent, the least I could do was go halfway across the country to Evanston, Illinois. I couldn’t imagine living in the middle of one of the biggest metropolitans in American, but I could picture myself in a suburb. So Northwestern made sense.
There was the music composition program, which was strong, which was what I wanted to study and there was the Northwestern University Marching Band, otherwise known as NUMB.
I fell in love with marching band in high school. I did orchestra sense middle school but after watching the high school jazz band record the fight song for the cheerleaders to practice with, I knew I wanted to be in the band. I learned the saxophone and joined my sophomore year.
I had never been a part of a sports team so doing things as a group, teamwork activities and cheering each other on was brand new to me. I was immediately part of a larger group when we were out on the field and in the stands and I loved it. As I rose to a senior, I held onto traditions, trained the underclassmen on how things went in the band. During my last marching band game senior year, after standing in the rain for hours I found myself dancing around our school seal with the other seniors as the rest of the band surrounded us in a half circle playing their hearts out for us.
When my marching band director told me that college band was like this but even better, I knew I wanted to keep marching.
What attracted me to NUMB isn’t that kind of band. NUMB is a group that doesn’t ask its members to audition for a spot to march. They take in everyone regardless of their experience. When I watched videos of bands Iike USC, I couldn’t imagine having the ability to play in a group like that. However when I saw the video of NUMB doing pregame on their website, it looked like something I could do.
Northwestern had Chicago, it had the major I wanted and it had the right kind of marching band. That was enough for me.
*****
The weirdest thing to thing about NUMB was that from the moment I registered at the music building before band camp, everyone was really nice to me. I had already gotten a letter from my upperclassmen NUMB-Buddy, which gave me one person to connect with. This was only one example of the warmness and friendly spirit, I felt all the way through band camp.
On one of the last nights of band camp, we collected in an auditorium space for skits. Every section had been working on some kind of skit and now it was time to share. I was in the alto saxophone section. We did a play off the Brady Bunch theme song, which was really cutesy and was applauded as such. The reputation of the alto saxophone section was that we were the tamest and most virginal section. By my senior year, we had effectively changed our reputation and held the status as the raunchiest and most politically incorrect section in the band. Our skit my senior year featured . . . well . . . it’s best to ask my in person what it involved. There are some things I never want to write down.
Toward the end of the night it was announced that the sisters of Sigma Alpha Iota were to come to the stage. I had seen Greek letters on t-shirts the whole day but I had no idea what they meant. Now it started to make sense. It seemed like every girl in the room went up on that stage. In reality it was only a minority of the girls in NUMB on stage but the way they came out from every instrument section made them seem like they were everywhere.
Then it was Phi Mu Alpha’s turn.
Up there on stage were section leaders, the most confident members of the band and all three of the drum majors. They seemed like men up there. I was just a boy and I couldn’t imagine being a man like those guys. They were poised and confident and as they sang what I would come to know later as “The Red and Black,” I was shocked at the quality and power on their singing.
I thought to myself, “Was this really what a fraternity was all about? Wait a second? Did he just say that we could join in the winter? What’s this rush thing? Could I really be a member of a fraternity?”
Friday, June 20, 2014
Frat Boy: Introduction
Who was Kingsley Tang in college?
I was a music composition major, I was in marching band and I was a proud member of Phi Mu Alpha.
When I tell people I was in a fraternity it surprises a lot of people. Our society has a very narrow idea of what it means to be a member of a fraternity. While my brothers and I did have our share of fun, we did not live as they did in Animal House.
I’ve only been an undergrad on one college campus and I’m not really familiar with what fraternity life is like for people across the country. All I can do is speak for my experiences, which does not fit the fraternity stereotype of drunken debauchery that is portrayed in popular culture.
Just because my time as a Sinfonian (one of the names we identified ourselves with) wasn’t spent partying all of the time didn’t mean that we didn’t have our share of fun, craziness, insanity and drama.
So for the next couple months, I’m going to post stories about my time as a member of the Iota chapter of Phi Mu Alpha at Northwestern University. I’m going to use pseudonyms, but probably anyone who was in this fraternity or a member of the NUMB-Mu-Alpha-Iota social group will quickly figure out who I’m talking about.
These are my imperfect recollection of events that happened more than a decade ago. The purpose of these stories is not historical accuracy. I’m going for “story truth” so conversations and timelines of events may be modified and embellished upon to get capture the emotion and the meaning of the moment.
I’m going to tell you about my brothers. There were gods like Joseph, who seemed to have everything figured out. There were people like Harry whose life drama I became quickly swept up in and others like Tony who only now I’m beginning to understand.
I’m going to tell you about the girls of Sigma Alpha Iota, the sorority we hung out with the most. There’s Grace, one of the people who made me feel most welcome as part of this social group when I was a freshmen who ended up being one of the few people in my life I ever hated. And then there’s Chrissie, the senior girl who took me under her wing and who taught me what dignity really means.
I’m going to write about the good times: rushing, pranks and the Chipotle challenge. And I’ll try to describe the hard times: the politics, the social cliques and the drama that sometimes seemed to overtake the brotherhood.
Stay tuned on Fridays for tales of Phi Mu Alpha from this past and present frat boy.
I was a music composition major, I was in marching band and I was a proud member of Phi Mu Alpha.
When I tell people I was in a fraternity it surprises a lot of people. Our society has a very narrow idea of what it means to be a member of a fraternity. While my brothers and I did have our share of fun, we did not live as they did in Animal House.
I’ve only been an undergrad on one college campus and I’m not really familiar with what fraternity life is like for people across the country. All I can do is speak for my experiences, which does not fit the fraternity stereotype of drunken debauchery that is portrayed in popular culture.
Just because my time as a Sinfonian (one of the names we identified ourselves with) wasn’t spent partying all of the time didn’t mean that we didn’t have our share of fun, craziness, insanity and drama.
So for the next couple months, I’m going to post stories about my time as a member of the Iota chapter of Phi Mu Alpha at Northwestern University. I’m going to use pseudonyms, but probably anyone who was in this fraternity or a member of the NUMB-Mu-Alpha-Iota social group will quickly figure out who I’m talking about.
These are my imperfect recollection of events that happened more than a decade ago. The purpose of these stories is not historical accuracy. I’m going for “story truth” so conversations and timelines of events may be modified and embellished upon to get capture the emotion and the meaning of the moment.
I’m going to tell you about my brothers. There were gods like Joseph, who seemed to have everything figured out. There were people like Harry whose life drama I became quickly swept up in and others like Tony who only now I’m beginning to understand.
I’m going to tell you about the girls of Sigma Alpha Iota, the sorority we hung out with the most. There’s Grace, one of the people who made me feel most welcome as part of this social group when I was a freshmen who ended up being one of the few people in my life I ever hated. And then there’s Chrissie, the senior girl who took me under her wing and who taught me what dignity really means.
I’m going to write about the good times: rushing, pranks and the Chipotle challenge. And I’ll try to describe the hard times: the politics, the social cliques and the drama that sometimes seemed to overtake the brotherhood.
Stay tuned on Fridays for tales of Phi Mu Alpha from this past and present frat boy.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
On Being A Sissy: Part 2 - The College Sissy
In college it was a lot easier to be a sissy. Unlike during high school, there were open and out homosexuals all around me. The confidence in which some of these guys embraced their “feminine” gestures made my level of being a sissy pale in comparison.
Gay jokes didn’t exist in my group of friends. In my fraternity there were always at least a couple gay guys who would make self-deprecating gay jokes but none of the straight members ever made a gay joke to them or to any of the straight members of the fraternity.
This doesn’t mean that there wasn’t some comments that were said. I was asked if I was gay a handful of times. One of my close female friends told me when she first met me that she wasn’t sure if I was straight, and others commented on gestures or the way I did things. There wasn’t any meanness connected with these comments but they still made me take pause and think about the way that I carried myself.
When something happens in life that reminds you about a characteristic that you don’t hold as a central part of your identity, it’s annoying. When someone makes an Asian joke, I’m reminded that I’m Asian. I’m not ashamed of this fact, but it’s not something that I think about all of the time. When someone makes a comment that I’m more feminine than they think I should be, it reminds me that in their mind I don’t fit what it means to be masculine.
Of course it doesn’t matter what they think as long as I’m proud of whom I am. That’s true, but it’s still annoying to hear these kinds of comments. But not being reminded of this in college as often as in high school gave me time to become comfortable with myself.
In the same way that my parents embraced my interests which were not stereotypically “straight,” I found other guys like me who also loved boy bands who were straight and girls who thought it was awesome that I could play songs from Rent on the piano. Somewhere within all of that, I came to accept the “sissy” parts of myself that my parents did all those years ago.
Gay jokes didn’t exist in my group of friends. In my fraternity there were always at least a couple gay guys who would make self-deprecating gay jokes but none of the straight members ever made a gay joke to them or to any of the straight members of the fraternity.
This doesn’t mean that there wasn’t some comments that were said. I was asked if I was gay a handful of times. One of my close female friends told me when she first met me that she wasn’t sure if I was straight, and others commented on gestures or the way I did things. There wasn’t any meanness connected with these comments but they still made me take pause and think about the way that I carried myself.
When something happens in life that reminds you about a characteristic that you don’t hold as a central part of your identity, it’s annoying. When someone makes an Asian joke, I’m reminded that I’m Asian. I’m not ashamed of this fact, but it’s not something that I think about all of the time. When someone makes a comment that I’m more feminine than they think I should be, it reminds me that in their mind I don’t fit what it means to be masculine.
Of course it doesn’t matter what they think as long as I’m proud of whom I am. That’s true, but it’s still annoying to hear these kinds of comments. But not being reminded of this in college as often as in high school gave me time to become comfortable with myself.
In the same way that my parents embraced my interests which were not stereotypically “straight,” I found other guys like me who also loved boy bands who were straight and girls who thought it was awesome that I could play songs from Rent on the piano. Somewhere within all of that, I came to accept the “sissy” parts of myself that my parents did all those years ago.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Trayvon’s “American Skin (41 Shots)” by Bruce Springsteen
When Bruce Springsteen first performed “American Skin” he was widely criticized for performing a song about the shooting death of Amadou Diallo. On February 9th, 1999,Four police officers shot at him 41 times, (19 that actually hit Amadou) as he reached into his pocket to take out his wallet. The police offices were acquitted of any crimes as discussions of racial profiling and police brutality spread across America partially due to Springsteen bringing attention to this event.
Days after George Zimmerman was acquitted of in the shooting death of Trayvon Martin, Springsteen performed “American Skin,” dedicating it to Trayvon, “We’ll send this letter back home for justice for Trayvon Martin.”
While the deaths of Diallo and Martin are different in many ways "American Skin" remind us of the underlying reality for both of these men that as Springsteen sings “You can get killed for living in your American skin.”
As President Obama so eloquently reflected, there is a tension between the statistics about black males and our racist reactions.
More than ever we need to work to understand the context of what our different skins mean and how they define for each of us what it means to be American. Events in our culture stick to us differently. For me the Japanese internment camps during World War II are probably more forward in my thoughts about America than for other people, which has to do with the fact that I’m Asian.
Obama’s explanation of the context of people’s reactions is critical for us to consider because as much as we have one unified American experience, what sticks with us, what shapes our perspective has to do with how we form our identity as much as how society views us.
On one side we have outrage and disappointment that a country that seems so progressive has failed to bring justice. On the other side are arguments that Trayvon was a “punk,” that the justice system followed it’s own terms (which somehow makes this verdict okay), and that Zimmerman’s reactions were somehow justified.
We shamefully can’t even bring up gun control with this case. No police officer would have used their gun the way that Zimmerman did on Trayvon because of their training. This gross misuse of a gun puts into question the validity of having a hand gun as a self-defense tool, the training that must be required before owning a gun and the people in our society refuses to stand up against the gun companies and to each other to do what is right.
Summer weekends bring death to the streets of Chicago, mostly on the Southwest side of the city. It makes the local news but doesn’t make national headlines. I’m sure if one person was shot that looked like my wife, it would. “American Skin” will continue to echo as we struggle to deal with issues of racism in our society.
There is this idea that we can't slide back to the racism of the past, that racial harmony is a trajectory that America will inevitably reach. This assumption is dangerous. Ignorance, scapegoating, racism and inequality are not things of the past. We must not only celebrate the progress our country has made but also acknowledge that this progress came from very hard work that we need to continue.
Obama is right. The younger generations are much better at being open and accepting than the older generations. So it on us to not pass on the worst of ourselves and to let the younger generations challenge our assumptions and our views of the world. We can do better, we must do better so that the American skin that each of us wear is not a curse but a blessing.
Days after George Zimmerman was acquitted of in the shooting death of Trayvon Martin, Springsteen performed “American Skin,” dedicating it to Trayvon, “We’ll send this letter back home for justice for Trayvon Martin.”
While the deaths of Diallo and Martin are different in many ways "American Skin" remind us of the underlying reality for both of these men that as Springsteen sings “You can get killed for living in your American skin.”
As President Obama so eloquently reflected, there is a tension between the statistics about black males and our racist reactions.
More than ever we need to work to understand the context of what our different skins mean and how they define for each of us what it means to be American. Events in our culture stick to us differently. For me the Japanese internment camps during World War II are probably more forward in my thoughts about America than for other people, which has to do with the fact that I’m Asian.
Obama’s explanation of the context of people’s reactions is critical for us to consider because as much as we have one unified American experience, what sticks with us, what shapes our perspective has to do with how we form our identity as much as how society views us.
On one side we have outrage and disappointment that a country that seems so progressive has failed to bring justice. On the other side are arguments that Trayvon was a “punk,” that the justice system followed it’s own terms (which somehow makes this verdict okay), and that Zimmerman’s reactions were somehow justified.
We shamefully can’t even bring up gun control with this case. No police officer would have used their gun the way that Zimmerman did on Trayvon because of their training. This gross misuse of a gun puts into question the validity of having a hand gun as a self-defense tool, the training that must be required before owning a gun and the people in our society refuses to stand up against the gun companies and to each other to do what is right.
Summer weekends bring death to the streets of Chicago, mostly on the Southwest side of the city. It makes the local news but doesn’t make national headlines. I’m sure if one person was shot that looked like my wife, it would. “American Skin” will continue to echo as we struggle to deal with issues of racism in our society.
There is this idea that we can't slide back to the racism of the past, that racial harmony is a trajectory that America will inevitably reach. This assumption is dangerous. Ignorance, scapegoating, racism and inequality are not things of the past. We must not only celebrate the progress our country has made but also acknowledge that this progress came from very hard work that we need to continue.
Obama is right. The younger generations are much better at being open and accepting than the older generations. So it on us to not pass on the worst of ourselves and to let the younger generations challenge our assumptions and our views of the world. We can do better, we must do better so that the American skin that each of us wear is not a curse but a blessing.
Monday, June 17, 2013
A Reflection On Laura Wallace
Laura Wallace’s blood alcohol level was 0.15% almost double the legal limit. She was driving above the speed limit, without a seatbelt, than lost control of her car and died in a car crash at 4:12 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon, March 20th, 2001. While I was navigating freshmen year at Northwestern University, Laura was working through her senior year at my former high school, Mercer Island High School. In response to this tragedy I wrote the following letter that was published in the Mercer Island Reporter about a month later.
I really didn’t want to believe that drugs and alcohol were a part of Laura Wallace’s death.
I am a freshman at Northwestern University and I heard the news from a friend over the phone. I really didn’t want to believe it, but reality crashed down pretty hard on this one.
I can’t claim to have seen the world or to have gained some great wisdom, but looking back at my years in high school, I feel I have a different perspective on all of this. There is a lot of “garbage” that students at Mercer Island High School deal with. What I mean by “garbage” is a lot of the stuff, which seems to exist only to make life more difficult but in reality really isn’t that way. It’s very stressful; the push for excellence is a great thing, but sometimes the push is a little too much for some people to handle.
Through four years of “garbage” it’s very easy to become disillusioned, to just stop caring. I’m not saying that teachers are putting on too much stress, or that counselors aren’t doing enough. I don’t have a clue why things seem to have gotten so difficult. All I really know is that something aren’t quite right.
I want to challenge current students of Mercer Island High School to think about what they are doing with their time in high school, and to think about what they are doing with their lives. It’s easy to take all honors classes, be in thousands of clubs and assume you are on the right path.
And it’s really easy to never go to class and party way too much and feel you are doing the right thing “experiencing” life as a teenager. But neither of these paths really guarantees anything.
There’s too much to lose.
I never knew Laura Wallace, and I’m not saying that if she had questioned her life she would be alive today. Looking back at all my time in high school, watching my friends struggle and helping friends who still struggle, I feel we must try to figure out what the point of high school is.
I believe that high school is a unique time when teenagers start having adult experiences while having their parents as a safety net. What we learn in class broadens our minds so that we have a basis for understanding. And what we learn out of the classroom is when you start to figure out what friends really are.
Don’t let this tragedy go; make it mean something. No amount of revelation can overshadow this death, but it can bring something of it.
Try to figure out what your life means to you. I hope by thinking about it and letting things like this tragedy help me question my own life, I can come to some understand of what we are all really doing here. It’s always easier to look at someone else’s life and see what’s wrong. But look within, because the person who most needs saving might be yourself.
I really didn’t want to believe that drugs and alcohol were a part of Laura Wallace’s death.
I am a freshman at Northwestern University and I heard the news from a friend over the phone. I really didn’t want to believe it, but reality crashed down pretty hard on this one.
I can’t claim to have seen the world or to have gained some great wisdom, but looking back at my years in high school, I feel I have a different perspective on all of this. There is a lot of “garbage” that students at Mercer Island High School deal with. What I mean by “garbage” is a lot of the stuff, which seems to exist only to make life more difficult but in reality really isn’t that way. It’s very stressful; the push for excellence is a great thing, but sometimes the push is a little too much for some people to handle.
Through four years of “garbage” it’s very easy to become disillusioned, to just stop caring. I’m not saying that teachers are putting on too much stress, or that counselors aren’t doing enough. I don’t have a clue why things seem to have gotten so difficult. All I really know is that something aren’t quite right.
I want to challenge current students of Mercer Island High School to think about what they are doing with their time in high school, and to think about what they are doing with their lives. It’s easy to take all honors classes, be in thousands of clubs and assume you are on the right path.
And it’s really easy to never go to class and party way too much and feel you are doing the right thing “experiencing” life as a teenager. But neither of these paths really guarantees anything.
There’s too much to lose.
I never knew Laura Wallace, and I’m not saying that if she had questioned her life she would be alive today. Looking back at all my time in high school, watching my friends struggle and helping friends who still struggle, I feel we must try to figure out what the point of high school is.
I believe that high school is a unique time when teenagers start having adult experiences while having their parents as a safety net. What we learn in class broadens our minds so that we have a basis for understanding. And what we learn out of the classroom is when you start to figure out what friends really are.
Don’t let this tragedy go; make it mean something. No amount of revelation can overshadow this death, but it can bring something of it.
Try to figure out what your life means to you. I hope by thinking about it and letting things like this tragedy help me question my own life, I can come to some understand of what we are all really doing here. It’s always easier to look at someone else’s life and see what’s wrong. But look within, because the person who most needs saving might be yourself.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Anything Like Me by Brad Paisley
Before
Brad Paisley was known for being an accidental racist all over the blogosphere, he was known by his fans and critics as one of the most creative and important forces in country music as well as mainstream popular music.
Paisley is one of the best representatives of country music paying tribute to his country music forefathers in songs like “This Is Country Music,” while composing clever songs about modern topics like “Online.” While Paisley’s music is full of humor his most powerful works are about his personal life.
I don’t really remember “Anything Like Me,” from Paisley’s 2009 album, American Saturday Night. It wasn’t until I heard this song on his greatest hits collection Hits Alive did the song really strike a chord with me (if you’ve been keeping up to date with this blog, the reasons to you will be obvious).
The opening of this song is exactly how I felt when I found out Diana was pregnant. You better believe when we found that it was boy, there were tears in our eyes. It wasn’t so much that we were happier that it was a boy, it just made it seem that much more real.
Brad works this his feelings of fear knowing that this boy will do the same things that he will which were a pain for his parents. My feelings of apprehension had to do with the fact that I wasn’t sure that I could father a boy.
After unpacking these feelings and my ideas about manhood partially through my “To Be A Man,” posts I’ve become more comfortable about raising a son. I’m still worried about it, but I’m beginning to see that I’ll be just fine.
Paisley lovingly sings about all of the things he thinks his son will do which he did, which will lead to him, probably like his own dad, loosing his temper. He envisions his son growing up and the little things he does wrong as being exactly that: little things.
My son may not play football but if he’s like me, he’ll have a first piano recital, get hooked on video games, read too many comic books and will fracture his elbow before a school dance but got to that dance anyways (that actually happened).
Paisley sings about this as “payback,” but the love and peace in his voice makes it seem like that he is looking forward to all of this. It is comforting to know that while fatherhood is overwhelming, it is something I am blessed to get to experience.
The last verse is one of the most incredible turnarounds I’ve heard in a song. So far the things that the son will do if he’s anything like Brad have mostly been things that cause difficulties in life. In the bridge, Brad sings about his son loving him (and hating him) and leaving the house. He’ll seem like he wants to go but that he’ll cry leaving home. Brad closes the songs singing “he’ll be alright, if he’s anything like me.”
This ending puts this whole idea in perspective. It’s about being confident in yourself and knowing that since you turned out okay, therefore your son will too. If my son gets the worst parts of me, he’ll also get the best parts as well and that’s a pretty amazing thing to think about.
I don’t have the confidence that our kid will be alright if he’s "anything like me." I know that it’s silly at this point in my life to feel a lack of confidence, but right now there’s a lot of things swirling around in my life. Especially with this fatherhood stuff, there’s just so much that is going to be new.
I told Diana recently that I have no doubts about her ability to be an amazing mother, but that I wasn’t sure how I was going to handle fatherhood. She told me that she has never doubted my ability to handle difficult situations. You know what? I guess my son will be alright because if he’s anything like me he’ll have a partner in his life like Diana who will believe in him in ways beyond his own confidence and his imagination.
Paisley is one of the best representatives of country music paying tribute to his country music forefathers in songs like “This Is Country Music,” while composing clever songs about modern topics like “Online.” While Paisley’s music is full of humor his most powerful works are about his personal life.
I don’t really remember “Anything Like Me,” from Paisley’s 2009 album, American Saturday Night. It wasn’t until I heard this song on his greatest hits collection Hits Alive did the song really strike a chord with me (if you’ve been keeping up to date with this blog, the reasons to you will be obvious).
The opening of this song is exactly how I felt when I found out Diana was pregnant. You better believe when we found that it was boy, there were tears in our eyes. It wasn’t so much that we were happier that it was a boy, it just made it seem that much more real.
Brad works this his feelings of fear knowing that this boy will do the same things that he will which were a pain for his parents. My feelings of apprehension had to do with the fact that I wasn’t sure that I could father a boy.
After unpacking these feelings and my ideas about manhood partially through my “To Be A Man,” posts I’ve become more comfortable about raising a son. I’m still worried about it, but I’m beginning to see that I’ll be just fine.
Paisley lovingly sings about all of the things he thinks his son will do which he did, which will lead to him, probably like his own dad, loosing his temper. He envisions his son growing up and the little things he does wrong as being exactly that: little things.
My son may not play football but if he’s like me, he’ll have a first piano recital, get hooked on video games, read too many comic books and will fracture his elbow before a school dance but got to that dance anyways (that actually happened).
Paisley sings about this as “payback,” but the love and peace in his voice makes it seem like that he is looking forward to all of this. It is comforting to know that while fatherhood is overwhelming, it is something I am blessed to get to experience.
The last verse is one of the most incredible turnarounds I’ve heard in a song. So far the things that the son will do if he’s anything like Brad have mostly been things that cause difficulties in life. In the bridge, Brad sings about his son loving him (and hating him) and leaving the house. He’ll seem like he wants to go but that he’ll cry leaving home. Brad closes the songs singing “he’ll be alright, if he’s anything like me.”
This ending puts this whole idea in perspective. It’s about being confident in yourself and knowing that since you turned out okay, therefore your son will too. If my son gets the worst parts of me, he’ll also get the best parts as well and that’s a pretty amazing thing to think about.
I don’t have the confidence that our kid will be alright if he’s "anything like me." I know that it’s silly at this point in my life to feel a lack of confidence, but right now there’s a lot of things swirling around in my life. Especially with this fatherhood stuff, there’s just so much that is going to be new.
I told Diana recently that I have no doubts about her ability to be an amazing mother, but that I wasn’t sure how I was going to handle fatherhood. She told me that she has never doubted my ability to handle difficult situations. You know what? I guess my son will be alright because if he’s anything like me he’ll have a partner in his life like Diana who will believe in him in ways beyond his own confidence and his imagination.
Monday, March 4, 2013
The Story by Brandi Carlile
Sometimes you find a song that expresses so accurately the way that you view the world that it feels like that you’ve known it your entire life.
When I first heard “The Story,” I was astounded. This is one of those instances in music where the parts individually are not that remarkable but when they are put together the create something unforgettable.
“The Story” is repetitive. There is one phrase that is repeated over and over with no bridge or chorus. The chords are unremarkable and go exactly where you expect them. The lyrics are insightful, but simple and outside of the context of the song may seem kind of trite.
The melody is perhaps the most interesting piece of the song. The first phrase rises up and down and then following phrases start on a high note and trickle down. This creates a sighing effect. It starts lower after a couple descending and gentle rises and falls before finally settling. Many people complain that modern pop songs don’t have artfully contoured melodies and “The Story” is an example of a truly amazing “Yesterday"- like melody.
The there’s Brandi Carlile’s voice. She’s in her early thirties, but the way she sings makes you feel like that she has lived lifetimes. She plays with the break in her voice between her head voice and chest voice like Sarah MaLachlan to a wonderful effect. It’s both mournful and triumphant expressing a feeling of being tired but also never giving up.
When you put these pieces together “The Story,” tells a remarkable tale of what it means to be a human being. The lines on our face, that come not only from tears but from laughter all create stories and like everything in life they do not mean anything if you have no one to share them with.
She sings about the stories, the places she’s been, the rule’s she has broken and how she did it all for her love because of the way that person made her feel. Then she breaks free of illusions, admitting that her head is a mess. It is in this moment, the time when she is at her most vulnerable that she realizes how much love she holds for this other person because they know her like nobody else does.
What makes our stories meaningful is what makes our lives worth living. We tell them to each other so that we can understand one another to create a more significant and lasting connection. These stories are happy, they are sad and sometimes they are painful, but they need to be told for us to find our way in this world.
You can hear every different kind of story in this song. The melody never changes, but the feelings do and like life itself, it's a truly amazing journey.
“The Story” is repetitive. There is one phrase that is repeated over and over with no bridge or chorus. The chords are unremarkable and go exactly where you expect them. The lyrics are insightful, but simple and outside of the context of the song may seem kind of trite.
The melody is perhaps the most interesting piece of the song. The first phrase rises up and down and then following phrases start on a high note and trickle down. This creates a sighing effect. It starts lower after a couple descending and gentle rises and falls before finally settling. Many people complain that modern pop songs don’t have artfully contoured melodies and “The Story” is an example of a truly amazing “Yesterday"- like melody.
The there’s Brandi Carlile’s voice. She’s in her early thirties, but the way she sings makes you feel like that she has lived lifetimes. She plays with the break in her voice between her head voice and chest voice like Sarah MaLachlan to a wonderful effect. It’s both mournful and triumphant expressing a feeling of being tired but also never giving up.
When you put these pieces together “The Story,” tells a remarkable tale of what it means to be a human being. The lines on our face, that come not only from tears but from laughter all create stories and like everything in life they do not mean anything if you have no one to share them with.
She sings about the stories, the places she’s been, the rule’s she has broken and how she did it all for her love because of the way that person made her feel. Then she breaks free of illusions, admitting that her head is a mess. It is in this moment, the time when she is at her most vulnerable that she realizes how much love she holds for this other person because they know her like nobody else does.
What makes our stories meaningful is what makes our lives worth living. We tell them to each other so that we can understand one another to create a more significant and lasting connection. These stories are happy, they are sad and sometimes they are painful, but they need to be told for us to find our way in this world.
You can hear every different kind of story in this song. The melody never changes, but the feelings do and like life itself, it's a truly amazing journey.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Gettin' Jiggy Wit It by Will Smith
“That’s not really rap music. It doesn’t have any swearing.”My students seem to have the most misconceptions about the music they like the best. One of those genres that many of my students talk about with some authority is rap music. When I teach about rap music I usually open up the conversation to get some ideas about what kids think about rap music. Some common misconceptions they tell me are that rap artists are only men, all rap music is about being a" gangsta" and that all rap needs utlizes explicit language.
-8th grade student
I dispute all of these things and use The Beastie Boys to teach about rap (which I talk about in this post ). The thing that astounded me this year was that some of my students argued that The Beastie Boys were not actually performing rap music. I patiently explained to them the The Beastie Boys were in fact one of the most important and influential rap groups of all time, though I’m not sure they believed me.
I wonder what they would say if I told them about how Will Smith used to be the Fresh Prince and how he still rocks the mic with mad skills (while keeping it clean).
When teaching about rap music, I often consider using some of Will Smith’s works, but the problem is that he work is too complex. Unlike “Intergalactic,” Smith places his rhymes of different beats, changes rhymes schemes quickly and adjusts phrase lengths within verses. One great example of this is with his 1998 smash “Gettin' Jiggy wit It.”
He immediately his the first verse with a clever phrase with rhymes almost every other word.: “Let’s go, dance floor pro, I know, you know, I go psy-cho.” He throws the accents on the off beat and come out of this pattern as easily as he get into.
The beginning of the second stanza is just a slick:
Everybody lookin' at me,Instead of creating pauses when he hits a rhyme, he goes straight into the next line rapping between the phrases as opposed to simply landing on them. When you analyze the different ways he places rhymes on beats, it’s dizzying.
Glancin' the kid,
wishin' they was dancin' a jig
Here with this handsome kid
It’s amazing how well Will Smith performs. He’s moving around the stage with so much energy and personality. Smith is a rapper that makes what he does seem so easy, but when you try to do it just like him, you might fall trying to do what he did.
I grew up watching Will Smith on television and listening to him as a rap artist. I respect his success as a film actor, but I can’t wait for him to pick up the mic and return as rap’s most important royalty.
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