The 600th Post is an Essay

Reality television is a deceptive moniker for a deceptive format. While the characters, and this is the proper term for the individuals portrayed, are not paid actors in the sense that their participation will guarantee a financial boon the assertion that they are real people is entirely misleading. Thousands of people audition for the opportunity to participate in these programs, not unlike professional actors would, and they are effectively cast in that producers chose individuals for their shows according to their dictates. Indeed, if you watch the title sequence of Survivor you will notice that the islanders are listed and named as the actors in the title sequence of Law and Order are, although those on Survivor are supposedly not acting, that is, they are acting as themselves. This concept, that the people are “real” and thus seen as easily relatable, although still often outlandish, is the unifying factor of a genre that has become increasingly varied since its conception.

The genre is still in its infancy, having only come to prominence in the last decade, and many different variations upon the “real people” theme have become well established, though they are often in characteristically unrealistic situations. For the sake of convenience and simplicity, these can be crudely divided into three subgenera including: the Intervention, the Experiment, and the Contest. In the Intervention a righteous force sweeps in to help an individual or family portrayed as needing or worthy of some profound boon to help them rise above their circumstances. Examples of this format include Extreme Makeover: Home Edition and Super Nanny. The Experiment is a show in which a unique situation is created and the novelty of people acting through it is often the key appeal. Setups include propositions such as: Does a woman value love or wealth more? Could a group of children survive without adult influence and create a community all their own? What happens when beautiful women are forced to interact with socially inept men? The last type of reality programming may be described as the Contest in which a group of individuals compete with each other a series of episodes towards a prize facing trials of elimination periodically. The method of elimination varies from arrival time, to audience popularity, or internal voting. Of course, there is often overlap between these formats with shows such as The Biggest Loser that blends elements of both the Contest and the Intervention or Wife Swap which is a blend of Intervention and Experiment.

If indeed these are real people, then we must ask ourselves, why are they on television instead of actors? That is not to ask why the shows themselves exist, as there is obviously a demand for them but rather why what are presented as ordinary people seek to participate in public spectacle. A certain amount of this could be attributed to egotism or a desire to achieve fame, and for some this has worked quite well. Others might seek (or out of mere desperation, apply) for the offer of charity and change that the Intervention programs provide. A small percentage, apparently, is foolhardy enough to believe they might find love on a national television program. However, given the large economic incentives often provided by the Contest shows, and one imagines that all participants are paid to some degree for their cooperation, it is likely that this plays a major factor for those involved.

Part of the appeal of the Contest format is that individuals, or teams, compete with each other directly, a trend found in most all forms of entertainment, with the caveat of the reality inserted into television. Given that these shows often contain novel and surprising challenges for the contestants, a certain degree of success must be attributed to luck, as skill cannot account for success in all situations and often the most skilled fails unexpectedly. This does not keep contestants from eagerly looking ahead as much as possible, making treachery and deceit important tactics for success, in shows where this is possible. In shows where the participants directly affect elimination procedures, such as Survivor and Big Brother, contestants can often be seen forming “alliances” and voting off people they perceive as “strong,” that is, all other things being equal, perceived as more fit to win the competition than the others. This idea is directly contrary to the free market ethic as the best product should be most successful based on its own merits. Contest reality shows such as American Idol and The Amazing Race more closely follow the free market model in that contestants cannot negatively impact each other directly but are rewarded for their performances. Others, such as The Apprentice and America’s Next Top Model, involve an appeal to an authority that arbitrarily decides whether or not a contestant will be eliminated. These shows become most interesting when the artificial market ends, but the exchange continues into “real life.” To date, only two relationships in eleven completed seasons of The Bachelor have persisted as the time of this writing, although four of the seasons had ended with a marriage proposal; a stark reminder that reality and reality television are two separate domains.

Sold Out

In order to properly discuss what “selling out” is we must make a few distinctions. First, a group must have some contain skill or style that it might be able to sell in exchange for fame, wealth, or both. While groups with neither talent nor flair auction themselves off with regularity, nothing of value is lost in the transaction from the consumer’s standpoint and these groups shall be excluded from this discussion. Also, engaging in activism, of any nature, cannot be considered selling out unless there are financial incentives for doing so. While Madonna may extol the United Nations to help starving children in Africa, she remains untainted until she produces a song to benefit the starving children. If she has done this, I remain unaware. Furthermore, supposing the benefits from such work are donated, the publicity from such an action may be viewed as selling out instead. Finally, a group cannot “sell out” by being popular if no change has occur aside from an increase in exposure. While many hipsters may claim that a group has “sold out” because everyone likes them now, this is a fallacy. Mere popularity is not a qualification to be considered “sold out.” Supposing this were the case the product Hannah Montana would have sold out quite some time ago, but this is not possible because the Hannah Montana brand has always been a commercial enterprise and no significant change in derivative products can be observed. This is excluding the literal meaning of “sold out” which implies an absence of available concert tickets for purchase, in which case the above example is quite true.

With the proper exclusions in place, we may define “selling out” as an intellectual compromise in which the artist, for those to whom the label can be properly applied, alters future endeavors, in comparison with past productions, in order to secure greater fiscal rewards. Special focus must be applied to role in which financial incentives affect artistic development. Often times a musician will change style naturally as a part of musical development without consideration paid to monetary incentives. An example of this could be seen in Miles Davis, whose style changed dramatically from bebop to cool to avant-garde throughout his career but never strived (or achieved) great financial success with these transitions. Some degree of commercial success must also be obtained to properly sell out. A group such as The Aquabats has changed radically since their conception; although starting as a ska band they no longer contain a single wind instrument, but cannot be considered sell-outs because they have not reached an adequate level of success, although some would certainly disagree with me on this matter. With popularity so often intertwined with financial success, it is easy to see how hipsters would confuse becoming popular with selling out. Hipsters are also by popular definition forbidden to enjoy things that are popular, and proclaiming something a sell-out allows the hipster to maintain a sort of moral high ground.

Unfortunately, this moral high ground is imaginary. In one of the most competitive industries possible, any musician who achieves success is to be lauded. The musician, unlike the politician, owes no debt to those who endorse him. Although his success is dependent upon them, they are free to discontinue their patronage at any time and he is not obligated to only appeal to their interests. Although some may feel betrayed when the musician decides to increase his exposure by signing a contract with a major distributor such as MTV, it is the musicians’ choice and it’s his product, mostly*.

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* According to whatever stimulations are entailed in the musicians contract with said distributor.

The Living Dead

The Living Dead

In every almost every mythology there exists an avatar for death. Whether personified as the Grim Reaper or Hades, theme of mortality permeates all human consciousness as a necessary part of life. Language denotes a symbolism of death in synonyms such as passing, departure, and laid to rest. However, there often exists an in-between state that explores the ambiguities of mortality where humanity’s fear of the unknown can manifest itself. They can go by many names: the undead, ghouls, specters, and zombies, to name a few. These creatures existing somewhere between life and death, are often connected to another state of being, whether an afterlife or something worse. In this essay we will briefly analyze the meaning of one such story and how it has changed in the annexation into the American culture and the implications of this change. This is the story of the zombie.

The “zombie” originates from Haitian Vodou where it was believed that a bokor, a sorcerer, could trap a person’s soul and turn them into a mindless slave. The bokor’s victim would fall into a coma-like state for days, and be buried under the assumption of death, after which the bokor would retrieve the “corpse” shortly before it reanimated (Wilson). At least one man claimed to have been the victim of a bokor’s “zombie powder” sparking scientific interest in the possible medical mystery, but no conclusive evidence in zombie rites was found (Wilson). The folklore of the zombie was transported to America by authors such as Zora Neale Hurston where it became entangled with other imaginary practices of “voodoo” such as voodoo dolls (Gallaher). America quickly became fascinated, or terrified, by the idea of zombies.

Zombies have since lost most of their connection with their magical origin. They no longer work on plantations at the command of their master but instead hold an insatiable appetite for human flesh (Brooks, 18). The rites of zombification are no longer administered by a mystic, but are instead forced upon a victim through contact and infection, through virus, radiation, or chemicals (Wilson). The infection “is 100 percent communicable and 100 percent fatal” and it only takes one individual zombie to begin an outbreak (Brooks, 3). Films such as Night of the Living Dead and 28 Days Later have cemented the zombie as an object of terror and fascination.

The horror of hordes of undead is nothing new or exclusive to American society. Other popular monsters, including vampires, werewolves, and mummies, all share similarities to the current manifestation of the zombie and analogues to these creatures can be found worldwide. The epic poem Gilgamesh makes mention of zombie-like creatures:

“Ishtar said, ‘Please, Father, I beg you,

give me the Bull of Heaven, just

for a little while. I want to bring it

to the earth, I want it to kill that liar

Gilgamesh and destroy his palace.

If you say no, I will smash the gates

of the underworld, and a million famished

Ghouls will ascend to devour the living,

And the living will be outnumbered by the dead.’” (Mitchell, 136)

The apocalyptic scenario presented here follows the same plot present is most zombie stories with humanity suddenly facing the grim reality that for the first time in ages, they are prey. Often, survivors find that they themselves are a greater threat to their survival than the slow moving zombies as stress and hysteria set in and cohesiveness disintegrates.

In this telling of the zombie story, the zombie no longer represents a supernatural threat, such as vengeful gods or powerful sorcery. The agents that transform them are now the same terrors that we must face: mysterious pathogens, radiation, chemical mutagens, all transmitted by people we used to love and trust. The zombie can represent cultural apprehension and ethical dilemmas in the same way as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, which has also enjoyed success in the mythologies of film (Cole). The zombie shows us the incompetence of our governments; heighten the discord of our society, and the inevitable collapse and consumption of the things we love (Cole). The undead terrify us because they are us, transformed into something we scarcely recognize, devoid of humanity (Brooks, 15). Zombies make us face the things we fear most.

A zombie apocalypse is the ultimate disaster. Although it is likely, and hopefully, a completely fictitious possibility, that has not prevented organizations from utilizing the ghoul as a tool for activism. The Zombie Squad, an emergency preparedness advocacy group, utilizes the metaphor of undead hordes to promote emergency preparations, stating,

“Zombie Squad realizes that it is quite possible for someone to live their entire lives without encountering the undead nuisance. However, we hold fast to the belief that if you are prepared for a scenario where the walking corpses of your family and neighbors are trying to eat you alive, you will be prepared for almost anything.” (Zombie Squad)

In addition to the Zombie Squad and survival guides, the zombie horde has become a parade of sorts, with participants being “bitten” by a growing zombie mob, converging on a location, and then dispersing (San Francisco Zombie Mob). Occasionally these events take place to draw attention to a public event, such as a mayoral debate (San Francisco Zombie Mob).

For as long as any cultural malaise exists, we are likely to only see an increase of the undead in our lives ― hopefully only as a hypothetical.

Works Cited

Wilson, Tracy V. . "How Zombies Work." Howstuffworks. 11 Dec 2007 .

Gallaher, Tim. "Zora Neale Hurston." 1996. 11 Dec 2007 .

Brooks, Max. The Zombie Survival Guide. New York, NY: Three Rivers Press, 2003.

Mitchell, Stephen. Gilgamesh. New York, NY: Free Press, 2004.

Cole, Liz. "Zombies." GreenCine. 2005. 11 Dec 2007 .

Zombie Squad. Zombie Squad. 11 Dec 2007 .

"San Francisco Zombie Mob." San Francisco Zombie Mob. 30 Oct 2007. 11 Dec 2007 .

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Now playing: Jay and Kai Trombone Octet - You Don't Know What Love Is
via FoxyTunes

Television News Survey Final

I did not feel anymore informed
after watching CBS Evening News than I did before. Perhaps this was due to my
consumption of radio news broadcasts, or the perceived fluffy nature of Katie
Couric’s delivery of what should be hard news. It could be due to the mandatory
consumption of said product, but I left unsatisfied.

I enjoyed the pieces that were not done by Katie Couric. Though she left the Today
Show more than a year ago, I cannot dismiss the fluffy morning show
demeanor she exudes. She seemed to appear primarily for transitions with the
largest stories being covered by a different correspondent, with a few passing
stories presented by herself each lasting about a minute or less. Every story
she presented made me wonder, is this really the most important story she could
be covering? Perhaps it’s just me, but her presentations lacked a certain
weight, or gravitas, that I have come to expect from the news. Katie’s downy
delivery makes me yearn for the thick eccentricity of Dan Rather; even Satirist
Stephen Colbert has a more satisfactory delivery. I implicate myself as a
sexist, but she seems to lack any authority in her presentation even as much
Barbara Walters manages to convey. Perhaps Walter Cronkite has spoiled us.

Strangely, the most entertaining part of the broadcast was unintentional. During a segment
about the drought in the Southeastern United States an interviewee stated,
“Unfortunately, drought is the Rodney Dangerfield of natural disasters. People
don’t take it seriously until it’s too late.” Apparently, the drought ‘don’t
get no respect’; it was the fourth longest story. The longest story was
about the presidential election, which is still a year away, and made use of a
colorful board game as a representation of political caucus. This was a
colorful and enriching method to convey a foreign concept to its viewership. I
would not say that the Evening News
is infotainment, although somewhat sensationalist, because when I look for
entertainment I generally search for something that is uplifting, lighthearted
even, and not talking about the nuclear ambitions of supposed rogue states. I
would further disqualify it from being infotainment for the lack of information
I felt I received during the broadcast, although this was because I acquire the
majority of my news in the morning and my routine does not apply to everyone,
although the visuals were quite stark in some cases. Images of lakes with less
than ten feet of water were much more alarming than imagining what those last
ten feet look like. It raised the issue from something I was aware of to
something I was alarmed of.

I had a roommate who used to tape commercials he found entertaining, like HeadOn and
Gieco commercials, and then watch them over and over. This was annoying; he
would quote them like they were shiny gems of pop culture. The advertisements
in the CBS Evening News were not entertaining; perhaps I wasn’t their target
audience. In fact, I am sure that I am not in their target demographic, but I
doubt they would have been funny to anyone. As far as I can tell, there is
nothing funny about vitamin supplements or erectile dysfunction. I found the
commercials much less funny than the actual news segments, but any news story
that makes a reference to Rodney Dangerfield is gold, so its not really a fair
comparison.

The targeted demographic was, as I gathered, old. The
longest story was about presidential caucuses, the second about a health scare.
The advertisements were primarily dominated with pharmaceutical commercials for
ailments afflicting the elderly or aging or similar products like vitamins and
fiber-filled cereals; the news stories also seemed skewed toward this audience
with their higher voting turnout and lower immune response.

Finally, I found it odd that there was no coverage of Iraq.

Media Log: The Rumination

Twice a week I shuffle between classes to edify myself. Seven days a week, I am a media junkie. Each morning I graze on the singsong tones of NPR’s Morning Edition that flutter down into my dreams. Some mornings I listen intently to Steve and Renée, others are marked by a poignant sensation of déjà vu. Cartoons augment Saturday mornings with siblings; days beginning with ‘T’ will feature a silent commute and television in the evening. I’ll listen to the Rick Emerson Show, if time allows, or watch an odd episode of The Office on DVD, but the majority of media devotion belongs to the Internet. The twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth were no exception to this habitude.

I come from a religious family that uses a special brand of DVD player that skips scenes deemed inappropriate. I can count the number of rated R movies I’ve seen on my hands. I received a rather awkward assignment in the past week that involved watching media coverage from a 24-hour news outlet; I don’t have cable. I only have twenty-two MySpace friends, perhaps because I am a late adopter (although I have failed to adopt a trendy iPod at all). I haven’t set my radio to a commercial music station since my family made the leap to country music formats, although I will still listen to my extensive jazz collection when I have work to attend to. I would consider myself a media anomaly.

I have not found the college environment to be a significant variable in my media consumption nearly as much as other factors such as work and social schedules. Even as I write this reflection, I continue to check my RSS feeds for updates and browse Wikipedia between paragraphs. While some assignments provide me with excuses to listen to music, which I would not make otherwise, I would not consider classes to be the most substantial affect on my media consumption. I have noticed that my movie intake has decreased dramatically since I became single again and the corresponding free time has been relegated to other forms of media, primarily electronic entertainments with a slight increase in television engagements (possibly due to a new fall schedule).

I am very much entertainment oriented. Whatever medium, I hate the feeling stagnation that accompanies boredom. There is always some information conduit that can be tapped. Fortunately, most of the entertainment I desire can be procured through a series of tubes if I happen to miss the original broadcast. This applies to my favorite television and radio productions, as well as music, movies, and games if I sought them over peer-to-peer networks. I subscribe to a multitude of feeds through my customized Mozilla Firefox browser so I can be certain to check the latest updates of my favorite sites or avoid looking at outdated sites. I constantly reference various online encyclopedias and dictionaries as references when writing both assignments and weblog postings.

One of the most amazing applications of media is the ability to unite people in a common experience, whether watching a college student get tased, a presidential debate, an anticipated book release, or musical event. With so many diversifying venues to choose from, it becomes more difficult to choose which to invest in. Ultimately it comes down to content, but the medium greatly affects the freshness, which I value. Due to my distractible nature, I find both novels and movies difficult to appreciate without an invested interest. I enjoy the Internet and radio because of their flexibility and rapid responsive to a dynamic world at a pace television and print cannot match. I also find the static nature of most popular music to be restrictive. Reading and television require more resources to process to the fullest extent than both the Internet and radio that better facilitate multitasking and can be enjoyed both passive and actively. The Internet, and the radio to a much smaller extent, can be enjoyed both as an audience member and active participant. I would also afford music some of this comfort, but because I listen to it so infrequently and the prohibitive costs involved in consuming and producing music much less so. I must disclose that my favorite entertainment comes from the television as The Office, which I enjoy enough to schedule my week around. But the episodes are only new once (though always awesome), however, the Internet is almost always accessible and new. I also dislike commercials. And The Office is available online, with deleted scenes. Delicious.

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Essays written after 4am start to fizzle...

Not so great...but I got it done! It fizzles at the end, but I don't care so much. He said 2-3 pages, and I'm right at 3, not including citations, which I'm fairly certain I did not parenthetically cite correctly. Or correctly ever. Whatever. Its the first paper, I'll do better when he gives us a better description of what he wants. Eh..it sucks throughout, I didn't really care for the book that much (or I would have started sooner and whatnot) oh well. I don't think I'll bother showering before class. I got a ton of stuff tonight too! yay!

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Analysis of themes in Vernal Promises

A preliminary product search of http://deseretbook.com/ reveals no results for either “Vernal Promises” or “Jack Harrell,” despite his position as a faculty member at a university that is under the same leadership. It is perhaps possible that Signature Books would not permit the sale of his novel there, or perhaps, as it is his first novel, which Deseret Book subsequently failed to notice and stock. Perhaps Jack Harrell never noticed or bothered to correct some clerical error or legality that prevented the sale of Vernal Promises at Deseret Book locations. Perhaps, more likely, Deseret Book refused to carry the title because of its content. Vernal Promises deals with sex, sin, debauchery. Vernal Promises deals with drugs, drills, addictions. Vernal Promises deals with a lot of things: agency, accountability, morality; the search for truth, a common thread. Luckily, Amazon.com carries the title from a number of distributors.

The novel as a whole focuses on Jacob and Pam Dennison’s turbulent reconciliation with their church, from their first miscarriage to their first move and the characters that help and hinder them on this path. To do this Harrell utilizes a third-person narrator with limited omniscience focused on one actor at a time. He frequently switches the focal character throughout each chapter, often showing events from multiple viewpoints and the effects they have on different characters. This style of story telling allows the theme of accountability to be easily embedded in the novel. Examples of this would be the multiple times Jacob abandons his wife Pam, the cascading consequences of which are explored not only from the individual perspectives of Jacob and Pam, but also that of her bishop’s (193), and her mother’s (204). The first chapter ends saying, “There are consequences, he thought. There’s hell to pay. He rubbed Pam’s back and wanted to cry”(9). In this instance, accountability is discussed overtly; more often it is subtly expressed, such as painful side effects Jacob endures after an alcohol binge, inevitable justice for his action. An exception to this is when Jacob learns of an extra material affair he had may have resulted in a pregnancy, and he is not held accountable, although the woman will have to deal with the consequences (286).

As perhaps the most dynamic character, Jacob throughout his various chemical sojourns questions, “If God wanted obedience, why did he make sin so sweet?”(27) Harrell frequently uses freedom, and the perception there of, as a motif through many of the characters, contrasting different viewpoints. For example, Cheryl, a worldly woman, sees freedom as financial security, while Jacob seeks it through various narcotics to remove himself from the guilt he feels as a result of his moral wanderings and self-doubt. While Jacob original desires freedom, only to discover after a battle with Dwayne, the moral antagonist representing Satan in Vernal Promises, that such “freedom” would damn him eternally. The ‘freedom’ that Dwayne promised was a complete rejection of Jesus Christ and His atoning sacrifice, which Jacob later feels unworthy of. A case could easily be made that the theme of the novel is personal freedom. However, the freedom from guilt Jacob desired, and even the freedom of financial independence Cheryl wanted, coupled with the imminent captivity awaiting Harvey, all come from varying degrees of righteous or unrighteous living, according to the standards set out by the church. Though a few other Christian sects are mentioned, no reference is made to any degree their correctness (although Greg shows a degree of integrity that surpasses that his coworkers), and those that have fallen from the ‘straight’ and narrow are portrayed as unhappy, none more so than Jacob, who shows the difficulty of living in a fallen world with his constant temptations and recessions. Despite his constant pleas, Jacob is free to do as he chooses, following Harrell’s theme of agency.

Because the themes of agency, morality, and accountability are all so intertwined in the Mormon religion, and as such are often discussed together in the frequent passages in which the character of Jacob Dennison debates his standing with himself, and the novel’s antagonist, Dwayne Helper, often with the aid of psychoactive drugs. Their search for truth ultimately leads to a physical altercation, incarceration, and begins Jacob’s reconciliation with the path to salvation. Though like the Jacob of old, Jacob wrestles with the Lord and it is not until he accepts Christ’s salvation that he finds happiness. Neither does Pam truly find happiness (though some semblances of it after her daughter is born as it says, “Pam was pleased with this scene” (316)) until after her husband has returned to the church. In this way, juxtaposed against the character’s previous unhappiness and their rejection of gospel tenets, the themes of morality and its consequences emerge. The novel ends with Jacob surrendering himself to his family and Christ, no longer haunted by his past actions. Harrell concludes, “He wanted to love and give and feel until it became his very nature. This is real love, he thought. This is redemption. He gave himself over to it completely”(342).

Harrell, Jack. Vernal Promises. Salt Lake City: Signature Books Publishing, LLC., 2003.

"Deseret Book - Store." DeseretBook.com. 23 Jan 2007. Deseret Book. 23 Jan 2007 .

"Deseret Book - Store." DeseretBook.com. 23 Jan 2007. Deseret Book. 23 Jan 2007 .

"Amazon.com: Vernal Promises: Books: Jack Harrell." Amazon.com. 23 Jan 2007 .

Things Ain’t What They Used To Be

I remembered that Christmas concert far too well. I went to it last night. The Santa, who I recognized as a trumpeter named Dave though I had never actually met him, scolded us, jollily, for being FA100 students that wouldn’t have gone for any other reason. It’s true; I probably wouldn’t have gone otherwise. Going to concerts alone has never been my thing, rather going out in the cold at all has never been my thing, and I did have a date. She needed to attend one more performance for her Jazz and The Humanities class, plus the orchestral event requirement Santa mentioned. It bothered me: for once, Santa was right.

A year before, I was in that band, playing that concert. I was pleasantly surprised that they only repeated one song from the year prior, a Jingle-Bells iteration by the popular Glenn Miller, of whom I have never been a fan. Aside from a nerve-wracking piece where I was the featured soloist for about half the song, it was a very enjoyable concert, very family oriented. Frosty the Snowman, Santa, last year Chewbacca, this year Rudolph all came. We were all expected to make it more ‘fun’ (though I did not consider it at the time to be), which led to some unfortunate oldster being cascaded by my indeterminate volleys of candy when Santa came to town.

I had been in that band; I’m not in any bands now. My grandmother found that hard to believe. Sometimes, I do too. The truth is, it stopped being fun. That is a gross oversimplification. And an untruth, I think. But there must be some truth in it, or I would not be able to regurgitate it so easily without getting sick. And if I hated it so much then, why was Santa making me feel nostalgic now?

My parents kept asking me all summer when they were going to hear me practice, after all I had auditions coming up first day of classes and I should be ready. They never did. At summer’s end, my father confronted me with a lecture about procrastinating or something, it was one I’d heard enough to forget. I was in the kitchen, no escape, cornered between a rock and a dishwasher. I confessed that I was no longer interested in pursuing music at this time and admitted that I should have told them sooner but was afraid that they would be disappointed, which they were more so for my putting it off. When they asked specific reasons I scapegoated unpleasant relationships with previous band directors, a partial appeasement.

I come from a musical family. My father played drums in his small town high school. I am often astonished by the propensity of skills my siblings and I display in respect to my parents who I have never considered exceptionally talented. When one rivalry ended my sister had taken the visual arts and comedy, myself the fields of music and academics without considerable effort on either front. I maintain that I am the superior wordsmith, but this may only because Amanda predominately writes pulp adventures with themes rehashed from the television she watches. Though, my sisters play trumpet and flute respectively, music was always sort of my thing. It was what set me apart among my cousins, what we invited my grandparents to see whenever possible, though they struggled to understand “the jazz”. My parents encouraged us to join the band because it would give us “a place to belong.” I’m not sure it was ever really our choice to belong or not.

My mother played flute through her middle school career and retired in that transition that catches so many young musicians. I heard her once blame braces. She would bring out her flute every year Christmas morning, but she stopped some years ago, whether this was because my youngest sister, who had started on the instrument, or even myself, because the fingerings transferred across our respective instruments, were now able to best her. It may have been the shouting match we had when I was in middle school that pushed her over the edge. She said I was wasting my natural talent. I thought it terribly rash to quit over my adamant refusal to continue to participate in a parade with the high school music outreach program. She had been volunteering at CHOMP, as the acronym was called, as the flute instructor at the request of a family friend, the new band director.

I did CHOMP every year I could, it seemed, and quit before it was finished with the same regularity. I even volunteered a few times while I was in high school, but always for selfish reasons with the same conclusion. It was because of CHOMP that I ever started playing. I was playing with my Lego’s in my room when a parent peaked in and asked if I’d like to play an instrument, I shrugged and with a “sure” dismissed them from my presence. It was the single most decisive indecision I have ever had the pleasure to be disinterested in. A parent brought me to the fledgling CHOMP and introduced me to the various instruments. Having “learned” a portion of the recorder in elementary school, something with similar fingerings seemed ideal, as that would be three less fingerings to learn. I picked the saxophone.

The saxophone is an instrument of curious workmanship. It uses bass clarinet reads, flute key-work, the neck of a bassoon, and a body made of brass: The platypus of music. I’ve been told there was a feature from the oboe inserted, but the illustrious qualities of the oboe have always eluded me in both retention and discovery. It is relatively new, invented in the 1840s, and was intended for military and orchestral bands. It came in some 14 variations, of which only about 5 ½ remain in use, all of which more so in the idiom of jazz than anything else. I eventually grew to prefer the Bb tenor sax to the horn I had cut my teeth on, the Eb Alto, which now sits derelict in my room.

I detest Jim Dunlop. I am an anomaly in this; most people celebrate him as one of their most influential educators, and I cannot deny that he is influential but I would contest that it was in an adverse way in my instance. Certain alumnus will visit every opportunity for some years to come. I regret that I also fall victim to the gravity of that band room, but only because my sister doesn’t have her license. While I know I should put it all behind me, I am far too tenacious to allow it. Petty rifflings like “you hold grudges like a girl” do little to sway me, and it is doubtful that an apology would either. I can recall only one time when I ever received an apology from him, and it had been prompted by an irate phone call from my mother, who was probably more upset than I ever could have been over such a solo.

I had the distinct disadvantage of being a member of the few Mormons in the Mormon band director’s program. It is a curious religion populated by mavericks and missionaries, all of whom delight in being called peculiar, although I believe they are the only ones to still use the word and perhaps ever to have described themselves with it. As one of the fringier religions, it was custom to be scrutinized by peers, to be judged by a higher standard. There would be gossip if we slipped a swear, our actions had connotations that echoed through that hall, and our director knew our parents, he played volleyball with my dad, we were held to a higher standard on all accounts. I didn’t care for that, but it was nice to have somewhere to belong.

The high school band was, with few exceptions, fairly good to me as a musician, up until senior year. It feels ludicrous to explain that while I was arguably the second best tenor saxophonist of my class in the state I played second chair in my high school jazz band. I made little effort with the audition piece at the beginning of that year, because I was the best. I played the piece with a few flaws that I had never strained myself to work out, but with a low volume, which was his biggest complaint in my playing the season prior. When the other player auditioned much louder (and with little else), she received the first chair, perhaps to teach me a lesson about arrogance or following instructions. He may have misjudged my character, though it seems very unlikely given the circumstances. I never challenged for the part; the opportunities he presented for that purpose were quite obfuscated. Though my peers continued to ask if I would challenge Xiang, the (un)fortunate overworked, overstressed girl who was handed the part meant for me, I would always declined; I couldn’t do it to her. She was nice, which made it all the most frustrating, and just a little delicious, whenever Dunlop would ask me why I wasn’t soloing and I would reply, “there aren’t any chords in the second tenor part.”

Playing inferior parts was not rewarding, and became less so as Dunlop continued to select songs I had played my sophomore year, on the lead alto part. They were boring and I craved amusement. I shared my frustrations with my peers and we found ways to occupy our minds in ways our music was not. Things became worse, or rather felt infinitely worse, after All-State. Having tasted the nectar of the gods, how could we return to the poor packets Dunlop offered us? At one point, the tension between the director and myself was great enough to quit, but I didn’t; I didn’t want to be a quitter, yet I have only played once in the past eight months.

The fiasco that was senior year was compounded by the experiences I had the summer prior. One of Dunlop’s offshoot programs, a version of CHOMP for the summer, was finally picking up steam and he wanted an admirable jazz band to be showcased, which required a more competent director, Mr. McKelvey. We sounded good; for a bunch of white kids from the suburbs whose bluest thought was that we were a bunch of white kids from the suburbs. I spent the hours after that concert lying on my girlfriend’s couch, trying to recover from a solo.

…If you can call it recovering, for it is really more like coagulating. For a brief moment, existence lights up, stored potential energy is released as burning sound. Many students are burned by this experience, others, like myself, enjoy playing with those scented candle solos, melting different parts of the wax. It is difficult to explain what happens during a solo, with the feelings of elation, fear, and some otherworldly feeling; but the result will be either satisfying, forgetful, or a failure. As I was coagulating on her couch, letting my fingers and knees harden that they might be useful again at some later point, I tried to figure out which it was. I tried to remember what happened, it was all a blur. There is so much to remember during a solo, patterns and other gimmicks useful to trick the audience into thinking you are competent, and much more you cannot learn but must experience, imbibe until it becomes intuitive. The gift and curse of improvisation is that it is temporary, allowing for infinite corrections and mistakes, which is of no consolidation after a solo feature.

I still feel pretty good about that ballad, I’ve Just Seen Her. A classmate had said it even “sounds like a Derek-song.” Mr. McKelvey remarked on day that if I continued to improve at the same rate I had between the last classes, “we’d be in business.” If a word exists for such a statement that both esteems and humbles a man, I wish I to learn it someday. I tried to uphold my end, spending more time working it out than I can recall (it blurs in the same way soloing does), listening to the same track on repeat, trying to play it along the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra, failing miserably, but by less each attempt. That is called progress.

The concert was on a Thursday; we were to meet briefly on Friday to pass in our music and have a debriefing on the performance. Mr. McKelvey, whose high school jazz program is nationally ranked, gave us a little motivational speech about “musical highs,” which I understand to be much better than runner’s highs. I eagerly nodded my head in agreement, thinking I knew the rush he was describing that would get us so “hooked” that we “would never quit.” But I question now what I knew then.

The occasional fantasies of playing in the band of a late night talk show aside, I have never considered music as a viable career option, but I still forecast a greater portion of music classes, they have incredible GPA buoyancy. I didn’t know what I was doing, I just had to get in something to fulfill the needs of the scholarship I had received, only after I rejected it, then received a larger offer a few weeks later. It would pay for lessons and then some. Private lessons: the musical equivalent of braces, without which the masters still became masters, and say things like “Don't play the saxophone. Let it play you.” This is our scripture.

The “practice rooms” the housing sheet had described were really just “storage rooms.” After one was emptied sufficient to put a piano in, a very boyish man asked me to not use them in the evening because people were trying to sleep. I had been assigned to the “quiet floor,” and the boy-man promptly would promptly shush me at ten any night or Sunday. I was not a Music major, I had no idea how the practice rooms in the music building worked, so I just did not use them, except right before auditions.

I could never be an actor. I do not have the sort of expressive face with impeccable complexion required, or the desire to acquire an admirable physique at the expense of leisure time, and I’d break scene constantly. But more so, I am terrified of rejection. I wasn’t afraid of public speaking until I recognized the face of contempt on my classmates following an excessively detailed exposition on Isaac Newton, who really wasn’t that interesting and it made them late to the library. But auditions are so much worse than a presentation. Speeches allow for a natural flow of voice, and a few stutters may be forgiven, but the stutters of music squeak, squawk, murmur, and moan, make children cover their ears. Oration has the advantage of being a natural condition of mankind begun in infancy, the want to share ideas in a coherent fashion, but there is nothing natural about pressing a tube of metal to your face and making your body perform multivariable calculus; it is pantomiming public speaking. Auditions are a horrible rush, roller coasters without lap-bars. It’s a verdict without appellate. You’re not simply wrong, but more wrong than someone else, ranked by wrongness. I know of no other discipline held to a standard so high as music, in which the timing of breath has such a measure of perfection, aside from medicine, which has the definite advantage of having insurance.

Band directors are scheming manipulators. All educators are, why else would arbitrary number be assigned to performance, itself an entirely subjective thing, if not for some manner of coercion. It is a system of incentives, with prestige (and currency) for the teacher and accreditations for the student. Would any remember Socrates if not for the prestige his pupil Plato attained? I do not intend to destroy the system in my words, however corrupt it may be, as it has benefited me. Despite admittance in the All-State jazz band, my confidence has never permitted me to accept that I won entry into the top-tier jazz band, Sound Alliance, without some of this director corruption. They groom people, constantly; they play favorites.

The day after auditions I called home. My mother was ecstatic. She wanted to tell everyone she could, but wanted my permission first, as if it mattered to me. She called weekly that semester, providing updates on things that could have been recapped later. “I told Dunlop you made the top jazz band. He seemed genuinely impressed.” Not proud, impressed. Like he really didn’t believe.

We recorded a CD. Someday I’d like to hear it, but I am not holding my breath. He said I needed to work on my breathing, my professor in all areas of music, which had shrunk at semester to the jazz band exclusively. That I had a small lung capacity, which I added to the list of quirks in my anatomy that have been secretly fighting me all along, and seemed to include the entirety of my vocal and respiratory systems. His prescription was to take up swimming, which I find terrifying. I find him terrifying. To me, he stands as a giant, easily six feet in stature; Polyphemus set to devour me at any moment. Each week we discover new some error in my tradition to rectify, to tear down and rebuild, and it seems we will never reach them all. I loathe lessons and their destructive nature that leaves me so self-aware, so naked in my playing. He asks me, “What are the two ways to get rid of a bad habit?” “Let it fade or just power-through.” It was the right answer. And the answer to what I was asking myself. It was the reason I quit.

My most immediate roommate cheers whenever he sees a clarinetist on TV; he says it is his instrument. “Played or plays?” tangent roommate asks. “Plays.” Like the television he watches, I suspect that to be a lingering pathetic fantasy, but I have never met a man who more exemplified the clarinet than him.

A family wedding brought my parents into the region, they called in weeks prior to ask if I’d like one of my saxophones brought when they came, I gave them a list of things. I thought it’d be nice to have around, incase I ever got the urge to practice.

I pulled it out. It had been a long time. I’d forgot how shiny it was, much more so than the tenor I usually played, or the tenor I was told to play. I couldn’t remember which reed was “good”; they’re probably wasn’t one, only various degrees of worse and used, all were warped and covered with tiny hairs from the case lining. The half-used box of reeds was labeled medium-hard; I shouldn’t be playing on those. I assembled the alto, Mr. Bandersnatch was his name, and pressed it to my lips. It struggled, the neck strap jumped, but I wouldn’t let it escape. It wasn’t like I remembered. It was an awkward embrace; a reunion of past lovers, the kind in movies with happy endings, but there was no intimacy between my instrument and myself. It was rape.

In the evening, adjacent roommate knocks on my door. We have thin walls, he’s recovering from a cold, he wants to verify that he wasn’t hallucinating I think. He asks how long I’ve played, fifth grade. “I don’t get to practice much with Mike sleeping all the time,” I go on to blame other things like the thin walls and not wanting to wake the managers’ baby. I justify it to myself with excuses that I’m a tenor player. I’ve never liked practicing where other people can hear me. They always revere it as some sort of art form, but it’s not. I don’t stare at them as they study.

These events haunt me for some time, as awkward conversations with roommates tend to be analyzed over and over, perhaps that they might reveal some snack bandit or toilet paper alliance. I discuss them with my girlfriend as we leave the bookstore, where I imagine they will have that CD at some point that I might have some record that I played in college, that I had not squandered my time with music having accomplished something substantial. I see a familiar face, no doubt my girlfriend thinks I was checking out some pretty face again, but it was something she was carrying.

“I thought…she…played alto…she switched to tenor…huh…” I’m not making sense. I notice more faces. “The jazz band’s up here...” She prevents any flight I might have taken, asking, “Is that bad?” “No, it’s just…” They recognize me before I can say awkward and I hope that it does not become so. While the tenor player has always been unapproachable, the alto player warmly greets me; they ask prepositions about my life. Responses are rushed as we are traveling inversely to each other, I promise to email them before I feel a jestful elbow from that professor.

“I’ve been going to all your concerts; they’re been great”

“Good. Come back and play”

If nothing else, my GPA could use the boon.

Essay I shared

The Last D is for Disorder

Derek Allen

It’s not something I tell people about. Maybe I should disclose that information to my professors within the first week of semesters, but I don’t. They’d treat me different. I don’t want to be different with their special accommodations. I can’t help it. It is incurable.

I think sometimes people notice. The most obvious sign is probably the tics I experience ever so often. They might notice that I stare off a lot, or that I break the stride of conversation with a “random” thought. I don’t have the best memory. There’s only so much it can do. There’s only so much I want it to do.

The side effects hardly even bother me anymore. Well, they do, but they don’t seem like side effects anymore. The vertigo, sweating, upset stomach, occasional insomnia, decreased appetite, however I do worry about my heart sometimes (it’s always racing!). Luckily I’ve only experienced hallucinations once and that was a special occasion. I’m so used to the dry mouth now that I actually drool a bit on liber days if I’m not careful.

Liber is the word I’ve chosen to denote the days where I’m drug-free. It used to be every weekend, but I think that unbalances my body a bit. It’s Latin for freedom, and it’s a bit like that, but more intense. I only do it when I know nothing will be expected of me. My days off are a lot more boring than Beuller’s with the majority of the time probably spent looking around and scratching myself. But there’s a feeling of liberation there, a short-lived one. I’ll sleep an unhealthy portion of the day away and spend a lot of time doing nothing in particular. What time I do end up engaged in something never feels satisfactory, since my sense of time is reduced in my liber state. It is living in the present to the fullest extent imaginable. It’s like becoming a child again. So many things are fascinating again; the details leap out and consume you. I really enjoy the respite from the constant inching. Formication is the most unpleasant sensation short of physical pain.

I first recognized that feeling, that sensation, junior year of high school. The health teacher was talking about cocaine addicts, the side effects mostly. She said they often described feeling like there were countless beetles under their skin, impossible to remove. Sometimes I worry that people will think I have head lice they way I scratch my head. I can’t help that it itches and the itching won’t stop. Physical activity that makes me sweat makes me itch more. Luckily, I can maintain my slender figure without such exertion.

I will never be fat, not necessarily exempt from cardiovascular problems, but never overweight. It’s a stimulant, you see. It lasts up to 13 hours, and from there I’ll drink Mountain Dew (“Satan’s Nectar” if you ask my sisters) until a few hours before bedtime. The caffeine is pretty weak comparatively, but it tastes good, and it’s rebellious. It’s always struck me as ironic that they give the hyperactive kids stimulants to calm them down.

“It’s 6:30; I got off early. They’re waxing the stairs.” I was surprised to see him there, clipping his toenails. I prefer to wake up slowly, over the course of several hours, starting with a soft blend of NPR that diffuses into my dreams. It makes me feel informed.

I could only grunt at him, it is the fullest extend of my still sleeping facilities. I take my medication in this groggy state each morning, as it takes a bit more than an hour for it to take affect and taking it later can cause insomnia. I thought, “Which ones? I’ll be sure to avoid them,” with the intent to ask, but it never reached my lips.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s the medication for?”

“Adult Attention deficit disorder.” I’ve seen a few of the infomercials that try to raise awareness for the condition in adulthood, because it is so often associated with rambunctious kids in elementary schools. The adult made it sound more grown up, and I am an adult now. I always neglect to mention the hyperactivity aspect. I think it has the strongest connotation. A kid that does poorly in school is just dumb, not inattentive, but a kid that is sassy to a teacher, medicate him. People don’t think of me as dumb, I guess that’s why they often are surprised if I tell them I have been medicated since age 8.

“What?”

“ADD”

“Oh, I’d never heard it’s full name before.”

“Yeah…” Most people haven’t, I wanted to say, but I just fell back into bed. If he ever asks again, I’ll assert that the Mountain Dew I take it with is beneficial. I drink a lot of Mountain Dew when I’m working on projects. It helps me concentrate. I don’t think I would have made it into Oregon’s All-State Jazz Band without having its extra stimulant boost at the end of a very long day waiting to record. It’s my spinach really.

People blame sugar, video games, television, severe head trauma, parenting failures and inadequate teachers, genetics. Some probably just blame themselves. I try not to be one of those people. Blame doesn’t help anything. I like to imagine it as being sort of like a race, or secret society, or something. Not an incurable disease, it’s part of who I am. I’ve read some writings that prefer to think of it as a personality type. I like that.

A lot of people think they have it, but haven’t had it diagnosed. Some claim they have it, as if it were an excuse in public domain. I know the symptoms well enough; I can pick out the traits in classmates in high school. There’s debate over how severe it needs to be to count. There’s a lot of debate on everything. People think you need to act a certain way to have it, or that you aren’t smart if you have it, or…I hate those people. I don’t tell people about myself because of those people. I worry about those that ruin it for the rest of us: The parents that doctor shop to dope their kids into better grades, the teenagers who abuse it (is it apathy, disbelief or rebellion?). Grades have never been an issue for me like they were for my sisters, not that grades meant anything in elementary school, when I was diagnosed and medicated. I was disruptive. I was unruly.

I don’t like to read about it. I find it depressing, accurate, and simultaneously comforting and unsettling at times. I don’t like the word “disorder”. I don’t want to be broken. I’ve been struggling to come to terms with myselves, some sort of inner balance.

I like to think of myself as a relic; we’re too common to be a throwback. The numbers float somewhere around 4% of the total population, there’s no way to do a census of us. A race society forgot, never knew in its race for efficiency. I like to think I have adaptations to an archaic way of life. I could, I think, be a good hunter, or soldier, if I had to. That’s what I’m adapted for, I think/hope, at least according to the Hunter vs. Farmer theory. We’ve forgotten Nature, that’s why I struggle. Other reasons are insufferable.

It makes sense to me: A downsized genetic niche, phased out by the more successful farming mind that has shaped our society. Saying I was developed to hunt is so much more glamorous than having a simple learning disorder caused by the random chance of choice alleles. I tried taking Calcium supplements for a few weeks after I read that a calcium deficiency has similar symptoms. I wanted to be sure.

I’m primarily inattentive. My sister Amanda is primarily hyperactive. I don’t suppose it really matters since the treatment is the same for all three versions (the last being some combination of the two), but I resent the hyperactive part of the name; I never use it when I describe myself. I like to think of myself as a calm and rational individual. But I am not non-hyperactive. I don’t like to think about that. I don’t like to think about how I can easily be worked into a frenzy, by excitement or frustration. It took years to cage hyperactivity. Somewhere there exists a video of me running through the kitchen in tighty-whities with passion and friends can recall instances of my logomania. My favorite things let him free. I try to designate time for my favorite things.

I’m sitting in a car, driving from Boise International with my mother. She doesn’t feel she gave me a proper send off before. Her guilt has compelled her to help me move in. It’s a long drive; we talk about a lot of things. My favorite topic is politics, but she likes to avoid it. I think she’s ashamed that I became a democrat. We talk about our family’s greatest struggle: ADHD.

You can read all about the controversy (where it comes from, what it is, if it is), but I will tell you that I think it’s at least partially influenced by heredity. My entire immediate family is ADHD or ADD, and a few uncles on each side display symptoms. My father and youngest brother it has not been enough of an issue to warrant diagnosis or treatment. They only diagnose it if it’s an interference with daily life; the way fears only become phobias if they are beyond control. It’s a good thing my dad is his Union’s shop steward or he would doubtlessly been fired for his hot headedness. We once discussed the insults he would throw at his boss the next time he would get into a fight with him… we discussed this over dinner.

Chelsey’s grades tank whenever she doesn’t take her pill. Amanda just doesn’t care about her grades. Mom’s had the same fight with all of us. I maintain that I am the better child for minimizing the conflict, but really the baby born during my adolescence was what really stole the thunder that was meant for my coming of age.

I tell my mother that I really wish that Dad would seek help for it, just because it would make him a better father. Maybe he would spend less time playing video games, that is what we have most in common, and I am ashamed to admit he can beat me at Halo (but only on the PC). Maybe he would be more patient; things wouldn’t have to always be on his schedule just because. He won’t have any of it; he’s used the term ADHD as a put-down. I’ve never been that close with Chelsey, but we all can see the difference in her from it. I don’t know if she can. I think Amanda knows its importance, but I am unsure. I think our family would be better if we all realized the importance of treatments.

Certainly others would disagree when I say importance. Perhaps it was because I was inoculated at such a young age, I’ve grown dependent upon it. I can feel it take affect, and when it dissipates. Seventy minutes after I take it, my stomach will begin to hurt if I haven’t eaten. With my variable awakening each morning, I’ve forgotten when it wears off, but it’s about 10 hours later. My hunger is more intense and I can sleep hours longer without it. I am groggy throughout any period without. Afternoon church can easily be slept through. I told a bishop that I would try to cull my dependence upon it so I wouldn’t sleep through meetings if I lapsed over weekends. I never did.

I’ve ended the cycle of physical dependence several times over my life, but the psychological dependence and my self-confidence is tied to it unfortunately. I was liber for some time after that semester ended, but it was not a beneficial situation for anyone.

I read Girl, Interrupted on a train in Germany. It was a great book, creative nonfiction, really. The way the nurses in the mental hospital treated the patients, I really empathized with that. Tonguing the medication you really don’t want to take, clinical drugs as a threatened sedative. My parents still use it as a threat against my sisters when they don’t do their chores. No wonder Chelsey hates taking it. It’s a punishment, a declaration that she can’t perform without it. Her natural self is not good enough for them. Isn’t that always the way with parents?

My third grade teacher told my mother of how astonished he was that day I lapsed on my treatment and ate perhaps thrice my usual portion for lunch. I’ve always been underweight, probably always will be. People always tell me to eat more, that I’m too thin. I know that, my biology textbook tells me this. But I don’t get that hungry--it suppresses my appetite. And I only eat until I’m not hungry; I don’t like being “full.” It’s really not that pleasant. I often get stomachaches, which makes me want to eat less. In seventh grade I overheard my father describe me as a “ninety-pound weakling,” I cried.

It’s a hard thing to describe, what it’s like to experience, and I can only imagine what it’s like on the other side as well. Edward M. Hallowell has describes the condition quite insightfully with the passage:

“...It's like being super-charged all the time. You get one idea and you have to act on it, and then, what do you know, but you've got another idea before you've finished up with the first one, and so you go for that one, but of course a third idea intercepts the second, and you just have to follow that one, and pretty soon people are calling you disorganized and impulsive and all sorts of impolite words that miss the point completely. Because you're trying really hard. It's just that you have all these invisible vectors pulling you this way and that, which makes it really hard to stay on task.”

But is only part of the experience, an experience that for me often changes through the day and is primarily an issue of expectations and social constraints; finding the balance between.

I don’t watch movies or listen to music much. Music distracts me entirely. If I try writing with a song in the background, I end up transcribing lyrics. I can go to the movies with someone, as an event. There’s no problem there, but when the movie comes to me, I put it off or start it and leave. I require a firm narrative hook. I feel like a loser going to the movies by myself or watching them alone.

I don’t think I hear the same hymn in church as everyone else. Every consonant clashes, S’s are the most fun and F’s don’t carry well at all. It’s too quiet to study in the library; I need some ambient noise to lift the crushing hush. I’ll often get caught up listening how people are saying, instead of what they are saying. Certain people, like Bob Ross, have a way of talking that lull me to sleep. I think it’s the happy little trees.

Conversations can be awkward for me. I’ll speak without thinking and change topics without warning, talk to myself without excuse…it’s quite embarrassing! My sister breathes through her skin, like a frog, as she doesn’t find time to inhale between words. I didn’t know I could also do this until a father-son camping trip where I talked the duration of the commute, most likely about warplanes or something else my father had minimal interest in. My brother does that very thing now and is much less shy than I ever was. But they named him after a furniture store, so there you go.

I always need more input, my eyes are always darting. Floor tiles, carpet, the grooves in brick, all are elegant in their asymmetry; such harmony is their cacophony, fractals beautiful in their incongruence. I fall into them, sometimes into my own reflection. Sometimes I stare quite a bit and for long periods, sometimes at nothing in particular. My eyes are always darting. The World Wide Web traps me. I chase hyperlinks through Wikipedia, seeing how everything is connected. It is dangerous to me, to learn in this fashion, I don’t want to stop, but it’s not what I should be learning about… Not very productive. Most people will procrastinate to some extent. I procrastinate things out of existence. I’ll spend hours reading on Wikipedia, and then try to justify it as being educational. Those hyperlinks, those portals to knowledge, I love how they connect ideas, theories, fantasies. I get lost in those. I often read the articles on television shows so I can stay current with a show that I don’t like so I’ll be able to talk to people about it. I spark-noted Harry Potter, my family loves the series but it looks like too much of a commitment to me. There’s a theory that every article in Wikipedia can be connected to another through a chain of 6 other articles. I think most of those connections are through The Simpsons. When I start talking about something I learned on Wikipedia, my girlfriend just smiles and nods. It’s not boring to me.

I used to take Ritalin, now my mom takes it. It’s become such a prevalent drug, that Microsoft Word even knows to capitalize it. I take Adderall now; I guess it’s pretty popular among tweakers. People only really know about Ritalin, it became the catchall for the drugs, the way Kleenex is for tissues. I hated Ritalin. It tasted awful. I had to take it with juice really fast so you didn’t get the bitter taste from it. I once bit one of the pills in defiance, one of the most awful experiences of my life. But the worst part was that the dosage was such that I had to go to the nurse’s office every day after lunch, before I could go to recess. It was like that even through junior high. If you forget to go, they send you a note. The teacher gives it to you in front of everyone. Everyone whispers about the note as you take it. You have to walk to the office like you’re in trouble, just because you forgot, the hallmark of the disorder. They made it out like you were going to die if you forgot. Maybe they found some comfort in being certain that the wild and crazy kids were drugged out, like a mental hospital. ADHD doesn’t kill people. I just forgot.

Sometimes I wouldn’t realize what the note was for. I’d be puzzled when I heard my name called. They keep the drugs locked away. I never was sure why. Often I had to wait for the nurse to show up or stop attending to the kid that feels sick or the bleeding knee. I always worried about catching whatever the sicko’s there were coming down with. I knew I was perfectly capable of finding and taking the pills by myself, I think the nurses knew it too, but it was protocol. I’ve never liked protocol.

On field trips, I’d smuggle the drugs myself. The stigma of walking to the office was inferior to that of the teacher tracking you down to administer the globule. They put the troubled kids together with a teacher or chaperone, and never one of the cool ones. I’ve been in that group, to make it easier for the teacher to find me and administer the globule. Eventually I removed myself from the system. Honestly, I think the two smaller doses are more effective than the one longer lasting pill, but it’s not worth feeling like an ass when that note comes, and it’s oh so easy to forget the changing of the guards.

Auburn hair. I’ve never been great with colors. I only wear about 6 colors, it’s simply easier to match. I don’t know what color auburn is (a type of reddish-brown-orange?). I had to pull out a Crayola, the answer didn’t satisfy me, and none probably ever will. I can’t remember a lot of that psychology paper, the one my mother wrote while she was finishing her associates’ degree at a community college. I was in first grade when it was written, probably second, but I only remember a babysitter in the first two grades. The topic of the paper was Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. She must have written it after I was diagnosed, to better understand me…or whatever… I found it when I was in high school, freshman year: the most volatile of the four. She wrote that children with ADHD often have auburn colored hair. I cried a lot that night. I don’t think I was ever supposed to find it, tucked away in an unmarked white binder, full of notes and catalogues on the condition, deep in the bottom shelf of our library--the bottom shelf, right next to the photo albums. She got an A on the paper.

I didn’t start acting out until second grade. Being disruptive in class, that’s usually when they start medicating, before that it’s not necessary and it should usually be considered a last resort. My sister Amanda and I had the same teacher for that grade, a teacher who was amazed when she first saw Amanda raise her hand and wait to be called on to give the answer. There must have been a change in me too. I once sat at the girls’ lunch table, waiting the entire half-hour just to tell her that the world spins at a thousand miles an hour. That doesn’t even make sense; it’s too perfect of a number. That couldn’t have been that same kid who let everyone know if he didn’t want to be in school. That one that banged his head against the divider between the classrooms when finally forced into the classroom he hated. I recall these events particularly; they had to call my parents to escort me. I don’t like to think about it. I had a temper. The pains of puberty taught me pretty well how suppress that demon.

I hated school. At some point that feeling stopped. It must have been in second grade. How dare Ritalin rob me of my hate! I feel cheated by it. I told my mother once that I didn’t like taking it, it made me “be good” and it wasn’t a choice. This was before Cub Scout camp. The other boys didn’t have to take drugs, they got to run and be free. But my mother was also the Den Mother; I had to behave. After working at that same camp years later, I saw both of my two selves. I think I could deal with those kids a lot better for it. After all, we have the same attention span.

She asked me once, she was sitting on the porch, when I stopped being a good boy, I used to be so good, she said. I didn’t have an answer. I just stuck my hands in my pockets and did the little dance that children do when they feel uncomfortable, pretending their jacket is a pair of wings.

I like those chairs that spin. I can’t remember having a doctor without a spinning stool. It made it all very informal with him on his stool, and much more enjoyable up until he arrived (which always took so very, very long). My mother has always remarked that Dr. Meyers seems so knowledgeable in the areas of ADD and ADHD, like he had personal experience with it. She thinks his son has it. He has always referred to them as separate entities, though the distinction is not as official in the DSM-IV. But hyperfocus isn’t included in the DSM-IV and I have experienced that.

Hyperfocus is an amazing ability. I don’t quite understand it, and the Wikipedia article doesn’t cite its sources. It is awesome; I wish I knew how to trigger it. Time ceases to exist; nothing exists except the task at hand. I have spent hours engineering robots from the Lego robotics sets. I built a crude walking one once; it was really more of an ambling shuffle, but still an achievement in my mind. My sister does it a lot; she draws for hours. The ability to act so single-mindedly on a task for hours without break can be a great benefit, but it can just as easily be used for video games as homework, perhaps more so. And it is very, very difficult to change heading. The gearbox for ADHD doesn’t have a clutch; it’s an on-off switch. Driving stick took me a couple years to master.

When I was little, my mother tried to give me heroes who had ADHD to look up to. The ability to hyperfocus has usually been their most redeeming qualities and since ADHD is a new condition, its diagnosis is purely speculative in the retrospect. I think she said that Franklin had it, which I question; the man was very well organized, but was it an adaptive behavior? I can’t be certain. President Jefferson was. He meets all the criteria: strokes of brilliance, problems structuring his personal affairs, extremely passionate and stubborn. Other lists I’ve seen include Albert Einstein and Thomas Edison, which makes sense from what I know of him. But there’s no way of knowing. And it’s not like making decisions quickly is a bad thing or being stubborn and whatnot. It’s just different.

I’ve adapted my lifestyle to better suite a college lifestyle. To-do lists were very important last year. I updated one daily on my computer, but now I keep it more on my cell phone. I use the countdown and alarm features constantly. I also rely more on other people for reminders. If I feed everyone the same information, times and dates, one of them is bound to regurgitate it at some point to me. It’s a constant struggle to not get distracted; procrastination is so very easy. Breaks are important, if I can tell I’m about to lose my concentration, I’ll take a break to refocus, have another glass of Mountain Dew. It’s easy to offend when you’ll blurt things, so I try to keep quiet when meeting new people the first few times until I know what topics I should avoid. I’ve stopped carrying cash to avoid impulse buying.

I don’t like to think of it as a disorder. The name, Attention-Deficit Hyper-activity Disorder, is very focused, very concise, the opposite of what it describes in a way. It seems so negative. There is a word, “neurodiversity.” The basic premise is that just because a brain is wired differently, it doesn’t make it broken or diseased. Opponents of “curing” autism coined the term, as it would be equivalent to supplanting people’s personalities. The more I think about it now, the last D represents just another characteristic of the condition: a deficit of attention, hyperactivity, disorder. I’m all right with being disorderly. As I try to find myself between myselves, the Dr. Jekyll and the Mr. Hyde, my girlfriend reminds me, “don’t get me wrong. I like both you’s.” I think I’m O.K. with that.