A Matter of Degree

My degree arrived in the mail while I was away in NYC. 

Dear Homer

Dear Homer,

The library in my town is terrible. Don’t get me wrong - they try. The staff is curteous. The books and spaces are well maintained. There’s a wide selection of DVDs and other non-book materials as well as free access to a robust internet connection. Additionally, the library maintains a presence on the web through which patrons have access to ebooks and other electronic materials.

The space smells old, but it’s a familiar kind of old smell, the stink of yellowing paper and deteriorating binding glue mixed with the omnidirectional oil-ink smell of flaking lacquer, the low perfume aging wood, and the invisible stone dust of crumbling plaster. I know these smells. I like these smells. They are, to me, fingerprints and signatures that make a place essentially “library”.

Oh. And all of this - the friendly staff, the bountiful resources, the familiar smells - is located within a mile of my home - walking distance, even for lazy people.

Considering all of that, “terrible” seems an unfair judgement, a childish silver-spoon tantrum instigated by an overabundance of perfection. And, it’s true, the space could be entirely perfect and wonderful, would, in fact be nearly ideal.

...if it weren’t for the people. The Other People

Other People are here, gabbing loudly on cell phones about probation and day care and “GOOD MORNING MRS. LAWRENCE, HOW ARE YOU TODAY?”. They hack and cough and wipe their hands on the furniture, snorting back mucus in long mumbling grunts, swallowing and gasping like marooned fish.

Other People sit alone at tables for four, their unzipped pocketbooks spilling contents like vomiting dogs, chatting loudly with other Other People at other tables, squawking like stupid birds. Other People fill the air with gaudy jarring ringtones because they cannot be bothered to silence their cell phones. They MUST answer every call and MUST have the conversation right there and in their LOUDEST possible voice.

Other People need help with the internet. Other People don’t know how to check their email. Other People don’t know how to sign out books or where the bathroom is or how much they owe in late fees or if the library carries Cars 3 on BlueRay (and no? And when will it come out? And now we must discuss at great length whether or not the movie will be made and what it might be about if it is to be made) and “I AM MOST LIKELY GOING TO CHANGE THE FORMATTING TO SOMETHING MORE AESTHETICALLY PLEASING BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW TO DO BLOCK QUOTES! CAN YOU HELP ME PLEASE?”

Other People are ruining everything. They cause the polite staff to speak loudly because Other People are speaking loudly.

Other People don’t return anything on time. Ever. And they certainly can’t be bothered with late fees. Why should they pay when they can just complain? Loudly! ALWAYS LOUDLY!

Other People break the keyboards and monitors in the library and don’t tell anyone until their are no keyboards or monitors that work quite right. And then, of course, Other People complain. And blame Other People.

Other People stand just outside the library doors smoking, arguing that the prominent ‘No Smoking’ sign refers to cigarettes and not cigars.

Other People are terrible drivers and lousy parkers. they clog the parking lot with idiot machines thrown about like children’s toys.

Other People treat the library like their own personal lounge, gabbing and chatting and stinking and stealing and breaking and laughing and picking their teeth with their hands while reading and wiping the sweat from their brows with the books and digging into their underwear and typing and digging into their armpits and typing and digging into their noses and typing and coughing into their hands and typing and smearing filth on the monitor and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing.

And never leaving. Other People NEVER leave. They stand out like idiot tattoo, obvious and wrong and permanent. Other People are forever.

My library is terrible, Homer, because my library is Other People. My library isn’t you.

To Other People, the library is an all-purpose generic space; a daycare center, a meeting house, a telephone booth, a public restroom, an internet cafe. They don’t know you like I do, Homer. And they don’t care.

I wish they knew you, Homer. I wish Other People could sample your cool indoors and gently humming air exchangers, the pristine carpets and carefully adjusting lighting, the polished desktops and modern computers - each one of them in perfect working order.

And your quietness, Homer. Oh how I wish Other People could understand the gift of near perfect silence, how much work can be done, how much learning can be done, how sweet and peaceful and thoughtful and inspiring it can be. And, even if in experiencing the beauty of silence they learn that it isn’t for them, I wish, Homer, that Other People would learn to respect other people’s love and need for quiet.  

I will miss you, Homer. I will miss the hundreds of hours of writing and study and resting and reading and scheduling and sorting. I will miss your inspiring halls. I will miss your timeless lighting and inviting spaces, and, mostly, your infinite delicate silence.

I hope one day to meet someone else like you, Homer, to find a space in which I am allowed and encouraged to be my best self, to stretch out in all directions or dive infinitely inward and discover new things. I hope I am able to find the the perfect glittering silence of pre-creation to which you first introduced me. I hope I am able to adjust to this new place, to find a way of fitting in here without feeling like a misplaced part.

One day, we may be lucky enough to have occasion to adventure together once again. But, most likely, this is goodbye for good. And saying goodbye makes me sad, and grateful, and proud, and lonely all at once.

You were kind to me in all the best and most important ways, Homer, and I’ll never forget you.

Sincerely,

Drew Brathwaite



P.S. There are armies of penises and vaginas on the walls in the first and fourth floor restrooms. You probably want to take care of that.

Best,

D

- May 6, 2015 [http://lib.uconn.edu/libraries/homer-babbidge-library/]

Reflections

Speechless

Dear Andrew,

The selection committee would like to invite you to be the Student Commencement Speaker for College of Liberal Arts & Sciences Undergraduate Commencement Ceremony! Congratulations!

Please feel free to ask Alex and I any questions at any time, as I’m sure you’ll have some. The selection committee is very excited to have you be such an important part of the ceremony.

Cheers,
Maryann
_______

Ironically, I am now all but out of words. More details as they come.

*stunned*

In Anticipation of Impending Calamities

When you are kicked beneath the table for a third time as you study on the Quiet Floor, you may feel the need to respond. However, before you engage your more-likely-than-not-accidental-offender, there are a number of things you must carefully consider. For your benefit (and mine), I have compiled the most pertinent of these considerations into a list:

1. Do not address someone beginning in the middle of a thought. "I figured you must not have felt anything" does not compute and will, at best, earn you a prolonged blank stare.

2. Be aware that remaining completely silent for long periods of time while on Adderall causes one to accumulate "Enthusiasm Debt". That is, the longer one is silent, the more robust one is likely to be when the silence is finally broken. Additionally, note that this increase in volume in no way correlates with improved communication. Thus, "I FIGURED YOU MUST NOT HAVE FELT ANYTHING" is not only completely unclear but frightening as well.

3. Stretching is important. Do so for about 2-3 minutes once an hour to ensure good blood flow and limit discomfort such as cramping, muscle soreness, and involuntary spasms. "I FIGURED YOU MUST NOT HAVE FELT ANYTHING" while flailing about is not only entirely unclear, it very nearly constitutes a threat.

4. Resist the urge to leave immediately. In your haste, you will likely forget nearly all of your things. Returning to get them will be doubly embarrassing, as the entire floor favors you with either smoldering glares or tepid sympathy.

5. Do not apologize. Most certainly, do not attempt to apologize to everyone. None of them will understand and, besides, you'll likely still be falling victim to the occasional spasm.

6. Avoid confrontation. If a gentleman approaches you requesting that you keep it down, do not attempt to explain yourself. Your bout with the aforementioned spastic overabundance of enthusiasm will likely not have abated. Moreover, the gentleman will only "Shh!" you, inspiring a great many others to do the same.

7. Do not "Shh!" them back. Not only does this defeat the purpose of their "Shh!", it distracts you from the return of foot beneath the desk that touched off this unfortunate series of events to begin with. Instead, nod quietly and continue gathering your belongings, lest you risk being stepped on a fourth time.

8. Having been stepped on a fourth time, do no slam both hands upon the desk in frustration. The sound will be loud enough to frighten everyone, including you. Moreover, it will cause the loose confederation of enemies you've built to coalesce into a unified and highly motivated mob. Others will come from other parts of the Quiet Floor to investigate the ruckus and immediately align themselves against you.

9. Flee. Flee with great haste. There will be plenty of time to zip your bookbag shut on the elevator. Do not look behind you. They are coming. And they are greatly displeased.

10. Take the stairs. The elevator is a death trap. They'll only pile in right along with you and God only knows what horrors they have in store for you in recompence for your offenses. If possible, skip stairs. Keep in mind, you have the back of an 80 year old man and your bookbag has yet to be zipped closed. Nevertheless, continue to descend the stairs at lunatic speed - the frothing hoard of your enemies will, no doubt, be nearly upon you.

11. Leave everything. Save yourself. The spilled contents of your bag are all replaceable. Take no heed to the panicked squawks of childish fear instigated by your collision with the smallish mole of a woman descending the stairs. It is you they are after, not her. Flee as if your very life depends on it. In this instance, you may consider your confused yelp as a properly issued apology

12. Recover from your fall as quickly as you are able. In all likelihood, your back with now be spasming painfully. Compose a succinct apology and pray for sympathy. Regret never having been to Dublin. Make a mental note to investigate that strange deviation of thought at so critical a juncture. Return your thoughts to the mob. Farting at this stage is normal. You are frightened. Indeed, your life is in grave danger! Fart proudly.

13. Take careful notice of the absolute lack of a mob in hot pursuit. Puzzle over this, but only momentarily. Apologize to the mole-woman but do not bow at the waist while doing so. When she calls you an "asshole", do not exclaim, "I'M SORRY BUT... (PANTING) (HARD SWALLOW) I THOUGHT THEY WERE AFTER ME." This will only increase her anxiety and further add to her assurance that you are completely insane.

14. Ascend the stairs. Collect your things. Zip your bookbag. You may notice at this point that you have somehow injured your inner thigh. Do not reach into your pants to feel the wound. Others are on the stairs as well, and they will most certainly not understand. Don't bother apologizing for grimaces and moans as these cannot be help.

15. Avoid returning the to elevator for, when it opens, the "Shh!" fellow will most certainly be inside. He will be nonetheless displeased with you and will tell you so. He may also threaten to notify security. Ignore this. Do not say "FUCK YOU." It will only agitate him further, and you've no place to run this time.

16. Explode from the elevator like a shot. Hurl yourself into the exit doors and sprint toward your vehicle. In the event that you run out of breath within the first 8 steps of your flight to freedom, do your best to be as inconspicuous as you're able as you fall to your knees, clutching your chest and wheezing loudly.

17. Do not tell the kindly old man who asks how you are that you are dying. Remember: You are still yelling and he will take your pronouncement VERY seriously. He will no doubt glare at you once you've explained yourself. Embarrassment at this stage is to be expected. Endure this and continue toward your vehicle.

18. Having finally made it to the relative safety of your vehicle's interior, you will, no doubt, realize that you've left a few things behind in the library. Please know that these are things you can certainly live without. Do not return to the library to learn this the hard way. The "Shh!" Gentleman is still looking for you. And he now has your things.

19. Having survived the return to the library enduring only a stern warning from a rather handsome security guard and the frigid impotent gaze of GentlemanSHH!, be sure to remember that, when last you were in the car, you left the volume of your car radio at maximum. Forgetting this will only ensure that you frighten yourself a second time, touching off a fit of endless hysterical laughter.

20. Do not make eye contact with the woman exiting the car beside you. It will be awkward. You will be unable to cease your ridiculous laughter. And she will not look away for quite some time.

Meeting Your Maker

Sometimes, after a night of rumble-tossing guts and nightmares, you wake up to a morning that couldn't have started any worse. And then worse sours into something you can't swallow but must but cannot but absolutely have to!

And then you almost crash on the way to work and you tell the other driver that's he's #1 in your book, but you're not entirely sure that it wasn't YOUR fault because in the moment you honestly couldn't have cared enough about crashing to try and avoid much less assess it in the dwindling aftermath.

And then you get to school and your back gives our and you run your shoulder into a locked door for no reason and you skip breakfast and you don't say "good morning" to the library staff like you usually and you pile awful on top of awful until you finally get to the place where people are required to leave you in peace.

And then you get back from a one-quick-second-and-I'll-be-right-back trip to the bathroom to find your iPad is missing. And you look everywhere. And then you look EVERYWHERE. And then you feel something like giving up only set on fire.

And then you punch-kick-chaos your way down to the front desk like a rabid tornado. And she's not going to believe you and YES you can describe it and she doesn't understand that your academic everythings are on that iPad and ok of course you'll wait and you KNOW she's just going to come back and say, "I'm sorry. We don't have it" because that's what the day had been.
But you wait anyway, brooding like a thunderhead, sapping the happiness and electric joy from the air around you, clenching your fists, unclenching, clenching again, weaponizing the blood and water in your veins.

And then they find it. And they give it to you. And you're going to be late for class but hats ok now because this. And then you say thank you too many and not enough times, depressurized with gratitude, future-shamed and guilty of what you might have done. And the security guard takes you aside and says:

"It's none of my business but you seem like a man who carries all of his problems at once. Maybe you should start carrying what you can. Believe me, the other troubles well be right there waiting for you once you're strong enough."

You say "thanks" again, but it means something different this time. And then it hits you - maybe you're the problem.

And you think about that for a while. And you take the long way to class so you can sup and get breakfast. And you smile and say hello because it's who you are. And you raise your hand in class even though you don't know the answer. Because not knowing is OK. And you get that now.

And you start your day again, this time carrying only what you can. And you get on with getting on. And you do just fine.

Sanctuary

There’s a peaceful almost humbling serenity about the Quiet Floor of the library, a citadel of nothingness perfumed with the dignified scent of aging yellowed paper.

There is a tyranny of silence here, thick as wool, at once indifferent and foreboding. Nothing makes a sound, save the lowly air exchanger and it is careful, pious, dutifully imperceptible. Even footfalls and rustling jacket seem muted, muffled, reverent.

It’s the only place I can think of on campus where people come in need of lacking. Less is more here, more is far too much, and none at all will do quite nicely if you please. None at all is what we’ll have and keep it coming, thank you.

Heads bowed, eyes open, fingers on keyboards make a chattering of mechanical teeth, a hundred ceremonies intersect and overlap, the cacophonous nothing of disparate unions.

Closing In

In many ways, I'm having a different experience than other graduating seniors. While many of them a scrounging for internships or fretting about resumes and interviews and their first fully for real and for true full time job, I'm very much looking forward to getting back to work. If I learned anything in the last two years, it's that work is where the money is. And while that might seem self-evident, it took me *checks calender* two years to be able to appreciate that.

Coming back to school, I imagined having my mind expanded and horizons broadened, driven to daily fits of intellectual ecstasy. Instead, it's just been a lot reading, a lot of writing, and a lot of spending.

The fact that I'm a primary source of income representing a necessary evil for an entire group of people who literally have better things to do than to lecture me on the 6th Amendment for 90 min and then read my hastily-written-the-night-before-or-morning-of paper about it - that hasn't been lost on me. In fact, there's hardly a professor who doesn't just about groan aloud at the thought of shepherding undergrads through a class they don't like toward a degree they'll likely never use.

And, sure, that's cynical. But it's also mostly true - at least, a version of the truth.

But I needed (ok "needed") the credentials if I ever hoped to get beyond the type of jobs I was getting. Though, all of them, honest and worthwhile ways to make a living, they mostly bored the #$@*& out of me. I wanted something more meaningful than a paycheck. I wanted a personally satisfying career. And, hey, if it happened to pay well, I wouldn't turn down the check.

Two years later and I'm on the verge of being one very big step closer to that goal. Along the way, I made some friends and learned a great many things about myself and what I might want to do when I grow up. It's an exciting place to be and I cannot wait to be finished. As interesting as this semester's classes are, I can already feel myself looking ahead, far ahead (but not so far ahead) to the day when I'll finally be doing something that I love.

Until then, a paycheck is fine to start. After two years of spending, I'm more than ready to get out into the real world and get my hands dirty again.

UGH, May! Hurry up! You're taking forever!

Getting On

About 5 hours of studying/writing in and I'm not even halfway done with my homework for this weekend. I was hoping to knock out most of it so as to have some playtime on Sunday but it looks like I'll have my nose in the books all weekend.  But *shrug* it's my last semester. 11 weeks from now, I'll have a diploma in my hand. I can go without beer and TV for 11 weeks. Right?

 Right, you guys!?!?!? *stretches collar*

The Talk

At the encouraging of a good friend, I wrote Fluerette King, director of the Rainbow Center here at UConn, to discuss what I had experienced over the course of several visits there. She responded promptly thanking me for the email and asked if we could meet.

Today, she and I spoke for 90 minutes on a great many issues, my email among them. Regarding the email, she advised me that, upon receiving it, she printed it out, and distributed it to her staff (with my name redacted). She then had a discussion with her staff about the letter, after which they broke into smaller groups to discuss possible policy changes. They've since made some revisions and are in the process of implementing them. She also made sure to discuss the letter with the students who regularly visit the Rainbow Center.

This woman does NOT mess around. I liked her instantly.

I was humbled by her candor and forthrightness, and greatly appreciated the lengths to which she went to take action. I assured her that I would visit again and look forward to my next opportunity to do so.

Pretty sure I made a new friend today.

Bluster

I nearly died getting to campus today - UConn decided that classes would be in session from 10 AM on. My first class which started at 10:10 AM had been cancelled. I've just received notice that my other class for the day has been cancelled, along with a meeting I had scheduled with my adviser.

There is no reason for me to be here now and given that the roads have only gotten worse since I've arrived, I might be stuck in the library for the night.

I'm not entirely sure that UConn considers commuters when deciding whether or not to stay open. It certainly doesn't seem that way

All About It

So. This happened.

Funny Papers

Less than twelve hours after a first draft and I'm in the paper!

http://www.courant.com/opinion/op-ed/hc-op-brathwaite-police-stop-african-american-0201-20150130-story.html

My nephew Tyre (pronounced "tie-REE") is a bright, skinny, bespectacled youth who loves comics and zombies and video games. And girls. Mostly video games and comics, though. When he isn't playing video games or reading comics, he can usually be found somewhere alone, scribbling out short fiction.

Thursday, just like millions of other teenagers, my nephew got up, dressed for school, ate breakfast and walked out the door toward his bus stop in Hartford. Unlike the other millions, however, my nephew was stopped by the police.

Three police officers accosted him while he walked down the sidewalk, demanding he put his hands up. That skinny, African-American kid in glasses with a book bag full of comics and homework posed absolutely no threat to the three adult, armed and well-trained police officers. What's more, he had violated no law. Still, they came at him shouting, "Put your hands up!"

They shined a flashlight directly into his eyes and stared him down for a while. Then, with no explanation, they moved on. "All right," they said, and walked away.

But it wasn't all right. It isn't all right.

I started talking with my nephew about the police a few years ago. I made it clear that it's very rarely ever a good idea to disobey an officer. But, more important, I let him know that, given where he lived and what he looked like, it was likely that they would start "noticing him" soon. He asked me what that meant and I said, "Just do exactly what they say. Usually nothing happens and they just let you go. It's when you give them a reason to hang around that you can get into trouble."

The events in Ferguson and New York over the past few months made our conversations about police more frequent. I try to remain neutral on the subject, eager to protect him but equally intent on not scaring him.

The first time I spoke about the police, he didn't believe me. "That can't happen!" he said. "I thought racism was pretty much over!"

And he meant it. He truly believed that there were no such thing and, for a minute, I believed with him. I imagined how pristine and inviting the world must feel, or, at least, how fair it all seemed. In his world, race was a feature, not a factor.

Coincidentally, the same day I first spoke to him, my nephews and I were pulled over. I did what I always do; pulled over immediately, cut the engine, rolled down the window, quickly removed my wallet from my front pocket and placed it on my right leg, rested both hands on the steering wheel and relaxed. The kids, excited, began asking questions. "This is serious," I said. "Do not joke, do not talk, stay seated. If he asks you anything, tell him the truth. We haven't done anything wrong, we should be fine."

When the officer came to the window and asked for my license and registration, I told him what I was going to do before I did it. Then I did it, with careful, deliberate motion, hands always in sight. He returned to his cruiser. The officer came back and handed me my things. "You can go," he said. No explanation.

"Why'd he pull us over if he was just going to let us go?" my nephew chimed in loudly. The officer turned again and looked at us. I shot my nephew a look of death and he looked at his shoes, silent.

"Have a nice day," the officer said as he turned again to leave. I waited a few seconds before starting the car and pulling off.

This would not be the last time we were pulled over together. The world seemed determined to teach my nephews early just how things might be, how they could be, that things could certainly be fair but that they sometimes weren't, and that, sometimes, unfairness looked like this when you look like we do.

Last night, my nephew insisted that he had been walking to school and nothing more. I knew it was true but pressed him anyway, my anger getting the better of me. And then I apologized. For losing my temper. For the officers. For the world and the people in it who hadn't quite gotten their act together in time for him to miss all of this.

"Remember when I told you that they'd start noticing you?"

"Yeah," he said.

"Well they've noticed you now."

Drew Brathwaite lives in Manchester.

‪#‎newsworthy‬
‪#‎stayoutofthecomments‬

Recall Notice

When the officers approached my nephew from behind that morning, they shouted, "HANDS UP!" with no introduction or explanation whatsoever. And he was walking down the street with a book bag.

I've been puzzling over that all day and a few questions occurred to me, but primarily this:

Where they trying to get him to run? Or fight?

Did they suspect that he might be up to know good of some kind and, instead on engaging him and questioning him, they decided to spook him and get him to A) Take off running or B) Fight them out of surprise/self defense?

Why else would three adult come up on a child in the early morning and shout HANDS UP out of nowhere? What other reaction would you expect but for him to freak out? There's nothing constructive at all about that approach.

He had no indication that they were police officers at all because they gave him none. Just "HANDS UP" from behind. If someone came up behind me and shouted HANDS UP, my first thought would be that I was being robbed. And I'd either turn to face my attacker, prepared to fight, or I'd take off running.

Both reactions would get me into series trouble if the person shouting "HANDS UP" was a police officer.

It kind of a miracle that my nephew didn't take off running. Still, I can't help but wonder what might have happened if he had reacted in the most natural and reasonable way and took off running?

I don't know. And won't say.

But I can't help but think... *shudder*

Proper Notice

Good News, Everyone!

Thanks to my wonderful friend, Doug, the piece about my nephew has gotten the attention of The Hartford Courant and they've decided to run it.

I promised my nephew that I'd make sure that this "made the news", and it has.

Hooray!

‪#‎achievementunlocked‬

Notice

My nephew Tyre (pronounced "tie-REE") is a bright, skinny, bespectacled youth who loves comics and zombies and video games. And girls. Mostly video games and comics, though. When he isn't playing video games or reading comics, he can usually be found somewhere alone, scribbling out short fiction.

Yesterday, just like millions of other teenagers, my nephew got up, got dressed for school, ate breakfast, and walked out the door toward the bus stop. Unlike the other millions, however, my teenage nephew was stopped by police on the way to school.

Three police officers accosted him while he walked down the sidewalk, demanding he put his hands up. That skinny kid in glasses with a book bag full of comics and homework posed absolutely no threat to the three adult armed and well trained police officers. What's more, he had violated no law. Still, they came at him shouting "PUT YOUR HANDS UP!"

They shined a flashlight directly into his eyes and stared him down for a while. Then, with no explanation, they moved on. "Alright," they said, and walked away.

But it wasn't alright. It ISN'T alright.

I started talking with my nephew about the police a few years ago. Mostly, I made it very clear that it's very rarely ever a good idea to disobey an officer. But, more importantly, I let him know that, given where he lived and what he looked like, it was likely that they would start "noticing him" soon. He asked me what that meant and I said, "It's always a good idea to obey the police. Just do exactly what they say. Usually nothing happens and they just let you go. It's when you give them a reason to hang around that you can get into trouble."

The dramatic unfolding of events in Ferguson and NYC over the past few months have made our conversations about police more frequent. I always try and remain neutral on the subject, eager to protect him but equally as intent on not scaring him.

The first time I spoke about the police, he didn't believe me. "That can't happen!" he said. I thought racism was pretty much over!"

And he meant it. He truly believed that there were no such thing and, for a minute, I believed with him. I imagined how pristine and inviting the world must feel, or, at least, how FAIR it all seemed. In his world, race was a feature, not a factor. And, looking into his eyes that afternoon, it was hard not to want that to be true so badly that I ended up embracing it as true, if only for a moment.

Coming home from the bookstore that afternoon, my nephews and I were pulled over. I did what I always do; pulled over immediately, cut the engine, rolled down the window, quickly removed my wallet from my front pocket and placed it on my right leg, rested both hands on the steering wheel, and relaxed. The kids, excited, began asking questions. "This is serious," I said. Do not joke, do not talk, stay seated. If he asks you anything, tell him the truth. We haven't done anything wrong, we should be fine."

When the officer came to the window and asked for my license and registration, I verbally informed him of what I was going to do before I did it, then did so with careful, deliberate motion, hands always in sight. He returned to his cruiser and we waited. The officer returned shortly and handed me my things. "You can go," he said. No explanation.

"Why'd he pull us over if he was just going to let us go?" my nephew chimed in loudly. The officer turned again and looked at us. I shot my nephew a look of death and he turned his gaze toward his shoes, silent.

"Have a nice day," the officer said as he turned again to leave. I waited a few seconds before starting the car and pulling off.

This would not be the last time we were pulled over together. The world, it seemed, was determined to teach my nephews early just how things might be, how they could be, that things could be certainly be fair but that they sometimes weren't, and that, sometimes, unfairness looked like this when one looks like we do.

Last night, my nephew insisted that he had only been walking to school and nothing more. I knew it was true but pressed him anyway, my anger getting the better of me. And then I apologized. For losing my temper. For the officers. For the world and the people in it who hadn't quite gotten their act together in time for him to miss all of this.

"Remember when I told you that they'd start noticing you?"

"Yeah," he said.

"Well they've noticed you now."

The Hush

This is the third day I've hung out in the Rainbow Center between classes to get homework done and I'm not entirely sure I'll be coming back. It's a safe space, sure, so long as you aren't a straight cisgendered person (ESPECIALLY not a male one). Man alive some of the things these kids say; nasty generalizations and awful giggling vitriol aimed at entire groups of people that aren't "family". Everyone that isn't them is ignorant and awful. No one understands them and they wouldn't dare let them understand them. They're too special. Sit down and they'll educate you. Maybe. If they're not too "tired" or "annoyed" or "sick of you and what you represent".

Maybe the self-aggrandizing is a function of their being young and often on the receiving end of hate and discrimination. Still, I would have hoped that such things would have had an opposite effect, engendering openness and kindness to ALL people. I would have hoped that this was the sort of place where everyone was welcome, and where honest conversations take place without name-calling nor condescension.

I've heard this sort of talk each time I've spent time here, and, frankly, I no longer feel welcome. What if I'm more "them" than "us"? What if I've crossed some invisible line and they've decided I'm not "worth talking to".

Maybe that's why not a single person has bothered to speak to me. Not even "hello". Not even after I've said hello first.

Strange to be in a place with "my people" and feel like I don't belong. I'm shocked and disappointed but maybe I set the bar too high. Maybe this is the norm.

Sure seems like it.

From now on, I think I'll do my homework in the library. At least there, the judgments are minimal. And, best of all, silence is required.

Closure

All UConn classes on Monday, Jan. 26 starting at 3:30 p.m. or later are canceled. All campuses are closed on Tuesday, Jan. 27. Visithttp://alert.uconn.edu

Never Mind

Drew: *opens bottle of water* 
Bottle: *hss!*
Student: You're drinking sparkling water?
Drew: Nope. Just regular water. 
Student: Regular water shouldn't hiss like that when you open it. 
Drew: *shrug* that was just a release of pressure.
Student: Or like... chemicals or something. Why would they have to pressurize water?
Drew: Well the bottle was pressurized to make sure it wasn't crushed during transport. You wouldn't want a crushed water bottle, would you?
Student: *blank stare*
Drew: That was a rhetorical question.
Student: A what?
Drew: Never mind. *sips water*

Welcome Relief

You'll all be glad to know that the bookstore restroom smells exactly like a horse barn. I don't know why you should be glad to know it, nor why it should smell this way. You'll also be glad to know that I turned around straight away and headed for another restroom. Because I am not a horse.

That last bit is obvious but, nonetheless, a relief.

You're welcome.

Short

This morning in my first class, an entire classroom of students failed to recognize Richard Nixon in a photograph. One brave student guessed, "Ronald Reagan?"

It was a sincere guess.

Static Turn Off Effect

I successfully resisted chiming in on a conversation about race, despite a young woman's claims that race wasn't "real" and it is "just a construct" I did not tell her that it is both real and a construct, that the two are not mutually exclusive. I didn't tell her that what she probably meant was that race is sociopolitical, not biological. I did not remind her that, of course, there IS a biological basis for skin color but that race and skin color were different things.

I was proud of myself for not chiming in and was saved the burden of restraining myself by way of a conversational segue. To evolution and human origin.

She expressed that she straight up disbelieved that sub-Saharan Africa was humanity's most likely point of origin. She said that her disbelief is not for want of evidence (in fact, she conceded several times that there was an abundance of credible evidence), but because she just doesn't want to believe it. She doesn't like the fact because "people travel and they go to Africa and bring back stuff and are like 'Ooo I got this from Africa!'".

That's it. That was her argument.

There was more but, from that point on, all I heard from her was static.

Weird, no?

The Switch

Switched On - 1/13/2015

12:05 - About 15 minutes ago, I took my first dose of Adderall. Now we wait.

12:30: It's kicked in. I'm sure of it now. I took it an hour ago.

12:53: I'm feeling perfectly and completely clear headed. And sleepy. Very sleepy. It's a strange sensation. I think the dose may be too low?

1:39 - There's a substantial positive buzz that comes along with this. I'm feeling very affectionate. I want to hug and cuddle and nuzzle and tell people I love them. I am still sleepy but now I am holding my pillow. Hugging my pillow. My pillow and I are cuddling.

3:15 - After a pretty intense period of sleepiness and positive love-buzz, I'm coming down. I was much more clear headed than usual but already feel like this dose isn't quite enough. I've been told to experiment with the dosage on my own to see how I respond/feel.

3:26 - I've taken another dose. It occurs to me after taking it that I was only supposed to take half. I am ok with this. Now that I know what to expect, I'm kinda looking forward to it. Tomorrow, I'll try a pill and a half to start instead of just the one.

4:30 - Another HUGE rush of positive feels, this time minus the sleepiness. I'm more focused (?) but the positive buzz is certainly MOST of what I'm feeling. I'm not feeling the profound sense of focus that I was lead to believe I would. I'm certainly MUCH more focused than I normally am, but it's still not quite where I'd need it to be and the effect certainly doesn't last nearly long enough.

5:07 - Repeated bursts of positive feels. Attractive people are MUCH more attractive. Positive feels are intensified. What I thought was focus was maybe more relaxation and happiness.

9:44 - The drugs have worn off but there is still an air of positive glowiness and relaxation. I'm not getting exactly what I want out of these pills but the happiness is not unwelcome in the least.

Left Over

According to the step counter on my phone, I average over 10,000 steps a day on campus. That's about 5 miles (give or take). 5 miles of up and down stairs, elevator pacing, "Excuse me" and "thank you!". 5 miles of book purchasing, tea sipping, book bag hauling. 5 miles of outlines and paper editing. 5 miles of exams and runny noses, broken pens and back pain. 5 miles of reduced calorie blueberry muffins, cheap unreliable umbrellas. 5 miles of worrying and striving and doing better than I ever thought I could.

Getting lost feels easier now, familiar, normal. I'm in a sea of lost people, an ocean of searchers. The campus plays out at once foreign and familiar, but I've gotten used to it, comfortable being adrift and disoriented. I've stopped trying to put down roots and stake a claim here - this is only temporary. This is not my home.

I've got 40 more days of classes before it's all said and done, before I finally finish what I started, before I bury my excuses once and for all and forever, no headstone, no marker, no mourners. And it feels surreal. It feels like maybe I've never tried this hard at anything in my life. It feels like maybe I'm capable of so much more than I thought I was. It feels scary and exciting in all the best ways.

And it makes me feel foolish, remembering, looking back at all the time I spent not trying, comfortable and complacent with "just enough", "not now", "next year", "we'll see", "one day", "wait until". Its embarrassing looking back at yester-me lounging, skinny legs extended, toes outstretched, basking in imaginary tomorrows, as if I had a guarantee, as if I had all the time in the world.

I don't pity that guy. I loathe him. Because he knows better and chooses not to know better, choose not to DO better. Because reasons. So many reasons. All of the reasons. All of the best and good and perfectly reasonable reasons like so many voluntary chains. Like future-fasting. Like a spoiled brat who didn't want to know the difference between opportunity and effort.

But he is me. And I'm here. And I like where I am and where I'm going. And he's pushed me here, in spite of his laziness, his silly expectations, his perfectly reasonable reasons. And maybe I have something to learn from that. Maybe I shouldn't make an enemy of him just yet. Maybe he's the only way I could have gotten here at all.

According to the step counter, I've walked over 1000 miles between today and the day I started. And, if my step average holds, I've got about 200 more miles to go before I finish this final leg of the journey. And I'm going to take my time counting, smelling the wind like strange country, eyeing the bricks and the skirts and the goofy hats in rapturous wonder. Because this is my last go around and I don't want to miss a trick.

I won't ever be back this way again.