Below is a snippet from the upcoming 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo I did this past November 2012.
Enjoy!
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Times I Fell in Love
And Other Horror Stories
For
spring break, my husband had been invited on a road trip. Normally I
wouldn't mind him spending time with his friends, especially when I understood
how much those relationships meant to Lloyd. He had moved a lot as a
child growing up in a military family so when he was finally able to lay down
roots in San Antonio, he wanted to hold fast to the friends he made.
Earlier in our relationship, he even flat out stated to me that if he
ever had to pick or choose between his friends, and myself he would unequivocally
choose them so I should not bother to put him in that situation. At the
time, I was grateful to have the love he offered to me and thought his
philosophy completely fine. I have certainly learned to know and
demand/require/expect better from the men I love.
This
road trip, however, was not a group of his bros celebrating his brief return to
San Antonio. He had instead been asked to accompany Jen on a trip to west
Texas to visit her parents. The trip was to be four days - and just the
two of them. I was not asked if I wanted to go, or even if it was okay
with me. I wonder if Lloyd would have even told me at all if he could
have helped it.
Now, this is a perfect
example of neither of us being ready for the demands and maturity of marriage.
I expressed that I didn't feel comfortable with it, but that if he really
wanted to go, that he should go on ahead and do so. He, hearing past my
concerns to my permission to go, only exacerbated my concerns by going.
Of
course, when my mother and sisters found out, the incredulity was palpable over
the phone. I insisted I could handle the situation and feebly defended my
husband, his actions, and his alleged platonic relationship with this other
woman.
Before
he was due to leave for his trip adventure excursion he took me out to the
fanciest date of our entire marriage, and up to that point in my life. I
wore the beautiful evening gown I had purchased for our anniversary and he
showed up clad in a suit looking rather daper. I had only ever seen him
dressed so formally on our wedding day. One of his friends worked at a
tuxedo shop at North Star Mall so he loaned him the outfit for the evening.
The other surprise for the date night was a rental car that he showed up
in which was ours to enjoy but exclusively for the night. He went on to
regret spending all of his money on a last minute car rental, but for a brief
and glorious evening, we were together, young, and in love.
I
had originally wanted to go to the Melting Pot that is a fancy fondue
restaurant in San Antonio since I had my heart set on an anniversary meal
there. Instead, he took me to see a movie and we picked up groceries at
the local Wal-Mart before heading to his rents' house (where we had the place
to ourselves for the evening and where we were lodged during spring break) for
dinner and…dessert.
With
a wonderful date behind us, I was in a better mood about his little trip but
that feeling waned so quickly as to leave not even a trace of it behind to
soothe what would become my raw heart. He left the Monday after our
Saturday night date. I did not hear from him the entire time he was gone,
even thought both of us had cell phones so there was absolutely no reason for him
not to have returned my multitudinous calls and text messages. I even
think I tried to email him and sent out a carrier pigeon. When Tuesday
came and went without word, I was nervous. By the time Wednesday ended, I
was concerned. On Thursday, I started calling his friends and praying
that he wasn't dead or lying somewhere in a hospital. [Unfortunately for
him] he wasn't.
Before
he left Sunday night, I stood at the driver's side of the girl's car and
attempted to be civil. I spoke with the girl explaining why I would have
appreciated the courtesy of being included in the planning for her trip with my
husband. She nodded, curtly, most likely already living the next few days
with my man in her mind. As Lloyd remained AWOL longer and longer, my
concern was met, matched, and exceeded by my mother's anger. She simply
could not believe I had let him go in the first place and wanted to coach me on
what to do whenever he did finally bother to show up. Had I allowed her
to, I'm sure hot grits would have been involved. I couldn’t entertain
her anger and emotions because I had to maintain my delusions. He wasn't
dead. He wasn't cheating. He did love and respect me. I had
made the right choice and everything would be just fine.
When
I had gone through my too short list of all his friends whose number I had in
my phone and arrived to the last number, I was on the brink of desperation.
The only reason he could have not to reach out to me was that he was not
able to physically. Whether that was due to the loss of his mortal coil
or because he was balls deep in another woman, I didn't know. I did know
that I was hoping for the former. Not that I wanted him dead, but I did
not want to acknowledge that he would cheat on me. I saw my mother go through
that and did not want to be another victim.
I
phone Thomas, a friend who later characterized me as a bitch- a fact that Lloyd
divulged during couples therapy a few months later back at Stanford.
Thomas and Jen shared an apartment. If he didn’t know where they
were, I may have hung up the phone with him to call the police. As calmly
as I could muster, I asked for what seemed to me like the millionth time if he
had heard from Lloyd. It was Thursday afternoon and I didn't have a shred
of evidence that he was alive since I saw him off Sunday night. "Oh Lloyd,
he came home last night. He spent the night here after we all went out to
Jim's for dinner when he and Jen got back into town. You wanna talk to
him?"
11/14
I
looked down at my hands to make sure I didn't see blood. I was so furious;
I could have sworn that my blood would have broiled through my pores somehow.
My relief at learning he was okay was far outweighed and overshadowed by
rushes of betrayal, rage, and how-dare-he-ary. All the comments my mom
and sisters had made throughout the week flooded my mind's eye with a tidal
wave of crushing "we told you so"s and I nearly blacked out from the
sheer shock of it all. I pulled myself together somehow enough to respond
with a statement that would start him sitting in the hot seat, "No, that's
alright. I just hadn't heard from him and wanted to know that he was
okay. Would you mind please having him give me a call whenever he gets
the chance?"
I
imagine how the scene may have looked on the other side of the phone
conversation. Thomas may not have had my number saved so he picked up not
realizing I, Lloyd's wife, would be on the other end to shatter the love nests'
bubble. Or, he may have had my number saved and did realize that I had
been kept out of the loop. Where they in the room when I called?
Was he? Was she? Were there frantic attempts at sign language
in the background desperately trying to convey the need to abort or lie?
I don't have his side of the story accounting that moment precisely, but
when he did finally show up (hours later) to my mother's house where I was
staying, I did not get the story then either. She dropped him off and
drove away, no doubt pleased at the vacation she had just enjoyed with my
husband. He sat quietly next to me on the couch with his head hung and
tail between his legs. His feeble and lackluster apology only further
incriminated him.
In
my mind, I prayed incessantly, "Be angry but do not sin," while I sat
next to this man. This man I married out of love, fear, anxiety, and
insecurity. Love was not, sad to say, all we needed. I did my best
impersonation of a calm person as I asked him what happened and tried to
ascertain why it was he hadn't been able to call or text me back once during
his trip. His response was so uninspired and halfhearted; I am not able
to even repeat it now. The
words he used to attempt to half explain but mostly justify himself have not
stood the test of time and remain floating between us on my mother's couch six
years ago. What I do remember is getting a "Sorry" first and
"nothing happened" only after my questioning much like a prosecutor
had begun.
Instead
of leading with a confident and firm assurance that nothing had happened folded
warmly and coated thickly with a sincere and heartfelt apology, I was met with
a young man who exuded a cadence of knowing he had been caught. He was
simply awaiting his verdict punishment retribution. I flat out forbade
him from going anywhere or doing anything without me for the rest of our spring
break (all three days of it left). Like a
mother reprimanding a disobedient child, I painstakingly
took him through my neuroses from the past four days in an effort to
elicit empathy on his part for his inconsiderate
and unacceptable behavior. I should not have been surprised,
then, when the next night he rebelled and banded together with the same friends
he had enjoyed dinner with earlier in the week when he got back into town
(without me of course) to protest my unfair treatment.
That
night and the next day, he had to have texted or emailed his friends when I was
in a room with him since I kept asking him who he was on the phone with.
My suspicions were only flamed since he would drop the volume of his
voice and use a stilted or guarded discourse when I entered a space he had
previously occupied alone. We had left my mother's house and were back at
his parent's house. Neither of us had a car so I intended on staying
there until we left, punishing myself in the process, in order to reprimand
him. The night after I laid down the law, he was on the phone almost
constantly and I finally insisted outright to know what was going on. He
had been checking the window periodically until suddenly he jumped up and made
his way to the garage. In hot pursuit, I followed close on his heels.
What I found waiting in my in-laws driveway is the only thing to this day
that he enraged me anywhere near how much I had been just one day before upon
discovering that my husband had returned from an extended trip with another
woman without me, had dinner with her and all their friends, then crashed at
her apartment while also leaving me to discover all this the next day from one
of said friends.
These
same friends that had joined him for dinner earlier that week were standing in
the driveway at ten o'clock at night to join my husband in a protest against
me. Yes dear reader, a group of white people were protesting their
perceived injustice against me, the victim no less, a black woman. Once I
realized what they were there for and saw Lloyd stand over with them, my vision
went hot white (pun intended) and I just started walking.
The
spring had been cool so the streets held little heat from the day. I knew
this from my bare feet slapping defiantly against the concrete sidewalk before
I crossed into the paved road. Before I decided to leave, I had asked Lloyd
if he was going to agree with his friends about me being unfair and he folded
his arms and puffed out his chest, no doubt aided with the breeze of
confidence the turnout of his friends had produced, and stated with an air
of cockiness and condensation, "Yea, I do think you're being
unfair." As folks from my part of the country have been known to
say, I could have spit, I was so mad. Being a pacifist, I didn't have a
healthy way to channel the violent energy my internal reaction was
threatening to unleash. Someone was going to leave and it was going to be
them or me. I looked at my husband standing with his group of friends (thankfully for
everyone involved she was not there with them) and knew if I didn't
leave that I would make them or kill somebody trying. Not knowing where
to go and with my cell phone (gratefully) in my pocket, I headed south down
Farm Market 78 unshod and screaming at the top of my soul. Like
the person who barely survives being hit by a drunk driver who ironically has
to pay for the damages and medial bills accrued for the inebriated
driver, I felt absolutely screwed and defeated by the
sheer audacity of irony I had somehow found myself a part of.
After
walking without any kind of destination for about half an hour, I remembered
the one friend I still had who was living currently in San Antonio. A guy
I had known since high school and once considered my hands down best male
friend. He lived in an apartment complex near where I
was traveling and usually kept random hours. I called him to
see if he was up to talk and by the time I had regaled him with the
whole sordid tale up to my impromptu night stroll without shoes, he had given
me his address and invited me to commiserate with him. The offer could
not have been better. Ambulating without purpose at night is
not as calming when your brain and heart are vibrating nearly out of their
respective body cavities with thoughts and feelings buzzing non stop. My
feet were getting down right cold and uncomfortable and I was too far from my
starting point to want to turn back. I also appreciated how his offer to
go to his place allowed me a reprieve from the conversation that was
sure to come from my mother had I chosen to walk 20 minutes down the road to
her place.
It
wouldn't just be "I told you so" over tea and cookies. My mama
'nem may be nice and proper when you meet them but we all have a little hood
left in us though we made it out. Like the plastic that you break in case
of an emergency, our proper veneers are quickly and easily shattered when
pressed even remotely too firmly. I'm sure she, my siblings, and a few
random cousins and Uncles would have loaded up on belts and weapons before
rolling out to teach my husband whom he was really dealing with.
I
didn't want any of that, but more specifically, I just didn't feel that I
possessed the wherewithal to retell the story again anytime soon. I've
already mentioned that all this occurred six years ago but even now I had to breathe deep and pace
myself while writing this story now in
response to residual and deeply held feelings that remain to this
day. I forwent the conversation with my mother and family and instead opted to
see one of my best friends. Tyrone let me into his apartment and started
with a (very platonic) hug that held my fragile psyche and me for a moment of
respite the moment I stepped into his door. I went into his Spartan
apartment and the first words out of my mouth were, "So, what do you have
to drink around here?" There are so many reasons why it is fitting
that I would drink with Tyrone. Will, actually, come to think of it
really there is only one. But to better explain that, allow me to pull
you further back into my life, back to my childhood, to share with you my
relationship with and to alcohol.
Cue
the story of the booze and why Shamika don't play that. My mother and
siblings' father were young parents. Their friends and family shared
similar life compositions. So naturally, everyone would get together and
unwind like any other early 20 something year old: with drugs and alcohol.
As far as I know, the only drugs my mom allowed in her house and around
her kids was marijuana, and even then it wasn't often that I would
complain of the funny smell coming from the garage. I couldn't help that
my room was right next to the sequestered smokers' impromptu smoking lounge.
The adults would all come over and bring food, cards, drinks, and their
kids at least once a month for years when I was in late elementary school.
"Y'all kids go in the room” was the tried and true method for
dealing with the up to ten youngsters ranging from toddlers to pre-teens.
Every once in a while, my mother's cousin would have to be called on to
enforce the protocol. Like the boogeyman, the adults would invoke her
name to get us back in the room. I can still hear crystal clear voices
from various family members yelling her name, "Byrrrrddd! Byrdddd!!
I'ma get Byrd on y'all if y'all don't getcha *sses back in that room!
Where's Byrd at?!" A belt was never too far away and enough
incidents, though isolated as they were, of a kid getting disciplined either in
my mom's room or worse in front of everybody was a vivid enough shared experience
to keep us kids in line. While the adults played cards and dominoes or
talked, us kids wrote songs, made up games, and talked ourselves. I never
minded the fun with my cousins, but the one part that stuck with me was always
the morning after.
The
next morning, I would take it upon myself to get up early before everyone else
and clean up. I would collect and throw away cup after red Solo cup
filled to various quantities with sundry drinks and mixtures. The smell
was pretty bad but the worst was coming across a cup that my Uncle Namon or
anyone else who snuffed had used the night before - just plain gross! I would pick up and throw away all the cigarette butts and ashes.
I would wash the dishes and wipe down all the surfaces
like the kitchen counters that still had half filled bottles of hard liquor and
our dining room table that was littered with beer bottles and wine
coolers. You do that for a few years and partying that hard just did not
seem appealing to me. It also didn't help when a party turned south
and drunken mouths spoke sober minds to a less than receptive
audience. The arguments only rarely made it to blows, but just like the
isolated incidents with kids who got a woopen, the fist fights
happened enough to keep us kids all scared whenever a conversation
even sounded like it might take a violent turn.
My
siblings were always trying to sneak alcohol but I struggled to maintain the mantra from
D.A.R.E. right in my own household. The program prepares you for dealing
with peer pressure coming from your friends, but what about when it comes from
your own mother? Now, to be fair,
my siblings' father was the actual drunk of the relationship, but on a random
car ride once it was my mother who offered me a sip of her wine cooler.
At this point in the ride, my siblings had worn my mother down with their
begging and succeeded in acquiring a precious "nip." When all
had been offered, though I hadn't asked, my mother turned to me. I was
reading happily in my corner of the car, most likely Goosebumps or Baby Sitter's
Club, and politely declined my mother's offer. "Gone and try it
Shamika!" "Yea, it taste jest like Kool-aid." "You know she ain't gon'
do it, she too proper." My siblings’ voices still ring in my mind
but I again insisted that I was okay and tried once again to return to the safe
haven I had come to know and love from my reading. My mother then said
firmly, "Shamika, Go head and just try it. It ain't gon' hurt you to
have a little sip." Not knowing how to simultaneously honor my
mother while still saying no and keeping my D.A.R.E. pledge, my biblical moors
won out and for my long days on earth, I succumbed and took the
bottle. After only letting the liquid just barely touch my lips, I
quickly returned the bottle as though prolonged possession would turn
me instantly and irreversibly into a drunk. It did, however,
taste a little bit like Kool-aid.
I
continued to eschew alcohol at home and around my friends growing up.
Though I obviously didn't need it, my mother managed to
further deepen my resistance to spirits and the like a few years
later. Having matured as a mother, my mom had shifted gears in her life
by the time I was in high school. The house parties grew fewer
and further in between until eventually we only saw family once or
twice a year. I was still as goodie a two shoe as ever, but my freshman
year in high school, I had a chance to step out
of my comfort zone and into the more popular limelight.
During
gym, someone passed out flyers inviting us to her girl/boy party at the Live Oak
Pool. I didn't know her well, but a few people I did know seemed to be
excited about going. To help plead my case for going, my god sister who
was already spending the night with me that weekend asked my mother along with
me to combine her cajoling with my own. She even promised to look out for
me since she was two years older than I was. I had never been to anyone's
party who was not related to me or whose mother had not intimately known my own
mother. This was a very big deal.
I
asked my mom right when I got home. Maybe your parents pulled this trick,
but my mom had this way of saying, "Let me think about it," then not
respond for hours until it seemed like you would miss the event you were asking
to go to simply because she didn't get back to you in time to grant permission
to go! My god sister and I tried to wait as patiently as we could, but
when it was half an hour before the party was due to begin, I had to finally
speak up and ask my mother for her decision. Perturbed, seemingly that I
had remembered to ask, my mother begrudgingly agreed to let me go. But,
before my god sister and I left, my mother shared with me an admonition whose
potency remains strong even to this day.
She
cautioned me not to accept any drinks from people, even my friends but
especially guys, because they could put stuff in them that might be drugs.
The advice was sound in and of itself to share with a young lady and I
have shared it myself in a less "all drinks are evil" connotation.
The issue was, this was my first legit party and I had no idea what to
expect. Her warning scared me so bad that when I got to the party, I
barely said hi to anybody and stood in a corner for ten minutes before calling
my mom to pick me up. For all I knew, the punch was spiked, the chips
were dusted, and the candy was laced!
I
had an awful time and even in college I only went to two or three parties but
still stayed far away from any drinks that I didn't bring or pour myself.
The only times I ever sought out a drink were at Tyrone's house that
night during spring break, two isolated incident years later while I was
married (see the Bunny Tale about the boyfriend who got away and became my
brother-in-law and the other about my own personal Independence Day), and one
night four months later - my 21st birthday. The first and last of those
times, Tyrone was there to help get me my drink.
11/15
Tyrone
let me into his apartment and, after confirming that his straight shooting
friend of many years did in fact want a drink, he presented me with his liquor
cabinet. I don't remember the different kinds of alcohol he had, but I
know there weren't any wine coolers. Not a hard lemonade in
the bunch. Everything was hard liquor and I wanted to get
smashed. "Give me the strongest thing you've got,” I growled
excitedly. I had never been an advocate of self-medicating, but I was at
the end of myself and needed a release of the hot bubbling turmoil of
emotions coursing through me. Tyrone pulled down the
shot glasses and set me up with a double shot of something heavy duty
indeed. I grabbed the glass and psyched myself up to take it. Just
as I inhaled (for the second time and after the third introspective psyche
myself up "okay"), he suggested I have a chaser. I didn't even
know what that was having only heard of it in movies or on TV shows in passing.
But in that moment, the definition became suddenly clear and
quite obvious. My answer was a resounding, "Hell yes!"
I
was also a light weight when it came to expletives and either made up my own
(such as crack monkeys in a bag eating Chiquita bananas on a Sunday morning
saying hello to the chimpanzees. This was a jewel from junior high and
the beauty of it was that the further I got into the phrase, the more emphatic
I got and most likely the more upset I was but since the entire thing was so
nonsensical and humorous I was able to usually lighten up by the end of the
rant). Or, I would use curses from children's television shows like
Spongebob (such as "tartar sauce", "whale bubbles" and
"barnacles").
He
set me up with a glass of orange juice straight from his rather bare fridge and
I was ready. I gritted my teeth and in my mind's eye relived the past
week and slammed the empty glass down without ever remembering bringing it to
my lips. The immediate harsh burn and terrible taste brought me back to
the present moment and I gratefully chugged the orange juice. My voice
ragged and pulse quickened. I felt bad. But in a Michael Jackson
late eighties "I'm bad" kind of way. And it felt good. I
suddenly saw all those years of house parties from a different perspective.
The
parents were all young and most had several kids close in age. Those that
were single, childless, or empty nesters and all surely had their own life
problems to drown in a red Solo cup. My high and mighty attitude, though
subtle and intentional, was rooted in thinking myself better for not turning to
drugs or alcohol to cope. Yes, I made conscientious efforts not to drink
or turn to substances to deal with my problems, but I had only just begun to
live. My mother would have had three kids by the time she was my age then
and all of us were under four. I couldn't' imagine the stress and
pressure she and the other adults were dealing with at that time. I
understood them a little better and felt a lot less high and mighty.
Tyron
and I spent the night talking and watching stuff online. He dropped me
off at my mother's house the next day. I was no closer to having solved
my problem or even dealing with the searing pain I had just endured,
but I was ever so slightly less unhinged. The war had only begun between Lloyd
and myself and his troops had secured his first victory in battle. I,
however, was not going down without a fight and knew he would not have them to
stand next to when we returned to Stanford.
Before
I went back for spring quarter of my junior year, I went to several adults in
my life who I looked up to and valued their opinion. My mother and the
Deacon from my church were at the top of this list. The only problem was that neither
had truly wanted me to get married when I did and to whom I did. Their advice
was biased to say the least. In all fairness, though, I know they only
wanted to best for me and saw me going into a half-done relationship with
neither party mature enough to handle the level of commitment we
found ourselves in. As I mentioned before, many others had tried to
convince me to either wait or flat out disagreed with my choice. But now there was hardcore proof that Lloyd
and I was in over our heads and might not be able to recover from the rift that
his actions caused. The Deacon from my church had actually suggested
divorce, so I know this must have been dire.
Back
in California, on campus at Stanford, our falling out in spring break was only
lessoned by the busyness of our schedules. Still thinking myself an Econ major,
I signed up for the classes I needed that quarter not realizing that I would
never again do so with the Econ department. Lloyd went back to work as an
Assistant Manager for Ricker Dining Hall on campus. We had no clue on how
to start fixing our relationship, so we turned to the free couples therapy
provided through my excellent student health insurance. Though the
service (almost) succeeded in saving our marriage, a few months later the
Pastor from my home church - the very same one whose life and marital testimony
had inspired me to marry Lloyd in the first place - would belittle traditional
and contemporary couples therapy during a session he had offered to us!
We
sat across from him rather dumbfounded as he refuted the very real
and personal results we exhibited in our own relationship. I suppose as
far as my former Pastor was concerned, if it hadn't came out of his mouth, it
couldn't have been nearly as beneficial. We even gave him a second chance
at counseling us sine he offered free marriage counseling to nay couple he
joined in holy matrimony for the duration of the marriage.
The
second session was wasted as we sat, mostly mute after giving up trying to get
a word in edgewise, as he preached at us for a half an hour. He didn't
ask us what our goals were for the sessions, if there were questions we wanted
to explore, or even how could he help us. Thankfully, our experience on
campus had been much more productive and fulfilling otherwise I
do believe that both of us would have never bothered with therapy as
an option again.
After
ten sessions once a week, our therapist had provided a bridge across
the treacherous chasm and rift that spring break had left in its
wake. Though our relationship had taken a small step back from the precipice
of divorce we were far from okay. I had ended up withdrawing
from all my classes that quarter and oscillated constantly between
considering freedom in divorcé and risking the scarlet letter of divorcee
on my reputation or sticking out the relationship. The fragile ground
gained from therapy was supposed to be expounded upon and increased that fall
were we simply able to make it through the summer. We did, but due to the
outstanding housing bill (refer to the "How I got Stanford to ask me for
money Bunny Trail), we suddenly found ourselves on a side road with
little support and less confidence in our futures.
My
leave of absence began officially in September of 2006. I had been on
track to graduate that spring 2007. I was going to have been a senior and
was eagerly awaiting the moment after graduation when I could tell my mother
proudly that I made it all the way through school without getting pregnant (an
honor not every woman in my family held). I would then envision someone
asking, "So Shamika! Wow, you've just graduated from Leland Stanford
Jr. University! Now, what are you
going to do?" So I could reply with a guilt free grin and unashamed
excitement, "I'm gonna go make a baby with my husband!"
Since
my mother got pregnant with me when she was in the 11th grade and walked the
stage carrying my sister Clinshay in her womb, she constantly warned her girls
to "Stay away from them boys" and not make the same
mista-er-wonderful blessings she did. Though I took that advice to heart,
as hard as it was seeing as how I was grown and married, my sisters were not so
diligent. Let the record show it was not always because I was diligent
either, God just blessed me to not be as fertile the few times I threw caution
to the wind. I will hand it to the older of my younger sisters, Clinshay.
She did graduate from high school, thanks to the hard work she did during
a summer school course, before she got pregnant a few months later with my
beautiful niece Trashanna.
Yes,
you read that correctly - TRASH-anna. When my sister first told me about
the name she was considering for her unborn daughter, I thought it was
beautiful because she pronounced it TRIshahna. Then, I saw it written a
few weeks later on my new niece's anklet while nurses were facilitating her
transition into the world. I was so disappointed at my sister and
concerned for my infant niece who faced possible nicknames like Trashy and
garbage girl. My other sister Jasmine avoided my mother's concerns all
together and left high school completely. So technically, when she had my
nephew Demarcion (whose name I still am not 100% sure how to spell properly but
know it is pronounced DeMARceeahn), she was literally "out" of
school.
11/16
Max
from Math Camp and his advice about my impending marriage:
When
I was in the sixth grade, I got an OK Kids Parents Magazine back in San
Antonio. The issue was replete with summer camps and activities around
the city for kids of all ages. Earlier that school year, my math class
had done one of those assignments that give you a taste of the real world.
You got to pick from a hat a slip of paper that contained your knew
personae complete with your level of education, current occupation, and life
status (single, married, kids, or not). Every week for six weeks, we
would pull a life event from the hat and spend the first
few minutes of class dealing with the repercussions For
example, you might win the lottery or get sick. You or your wife might
have a baby. You could get a raise or the factory could very well close.
At the beginning of the assignment we had to make a report of
our budget, a blurb about our profession, and the kind of living space and
transportation we had. All this would get arranged on a poster and
presented to the class. Like most any kid, I was wildly fanatic about
class projects and presentations. Especially if there was any
explicit instructions or implicit room for any sort of crafty elements. I
started looking for Apartment for Rent magazines whenever I went to the grocery
store (H.E.B which stands for Henry Edward Butt and amused me to no end as a
child) or any kind of store or restaurant that provided its patrons with
publications.
Though
I couldn't tell you much about my imaginary life, besides the fact that I
insisted on biking or taking the bus to reduce car pollution, the notion of which delighted and amused my family for years, one thing did stick
after the assignment. I developed, or perhaps heightened, a desire to
seek out and collect free publishings. H.E.B. always had McCormick
recipes in the spice aisle. After years of collecting them, I think my
family only ever made one dish. But the prowl for print materials was
strong that school year so when I came across the parents magazine offering
free and cheap summer camps and activities, I felt like I hit some sort of
children's jackpot.
I
got home and immediately started meticulously savoring each page and entry.
Like one would enjoy a delicious cup of coffee or tea, I drank in all the
articles and let the possibilities warm my spirit. The magazine featured
a special summer guide. Entry by entry, I went through and crossed out
any that cost any money. The ones that were left, I then went through
circling any interesting programs and crossing off duds. Six years later,
I would use the same method for going through Stanford University's Academic
Bulletin as I tried each and every possible major and degree on my mind for
future fit. The magazine allowed me an ideal medium to cut my teeth on
dreaming through catalogues.
Besides
school, I was not involved in any extra curricular activities but desperately
wanted to be. Dance, choir, drama, and Girl Scouts were all activities
that attracted me but usually cost money and prevented me from participating
since I understood our utter lack of money as a family. The summer guide
offered a few promising possibilities, but the winner hands down was a summer
program about math and science which was free and offered each student a free
t-shirt upon completion of the program: PREP.
PREP
stands for the Pre-fReshman Engineering Program. The entire duration for
the summer program was two months for three years and the location changed every summer offering various community colleges in the Alamo Community College
District System. Families could choose to send their students to the
closest of a number of possible locations each summer except for the third and
final summer during which all participants attended PREP on campus at St.
Mary's University. Scholarships and credits from local universities like
St. Mary's and Incarnate Word were offered to participants who completed the
program.
Speakers
from math, science, and engineering fields came regularly to open our minds to
professions and courses of study. We had egg drops, bridge challenges,
water bottle rockets, and computer programmed soda machines. Two speakers
at the free summer program strongly affected the trajectory of my academic
life. One was a stuffy Ph. D. in the biosciences who told the auditorium
of low income majority minority students that getting a Ph. D. was generally
hard and was even more difficult for minorities. The crazy thing was he
himself was a minority and went on about how few there were of him in his
field. Most of us had never even heard of a Ph. D. degree before so when
he said that not many that aspired to achieve a Ph. D. got one, it was all the
more disconcerting.
Even
after the camp director discreetly encouraged the speaker to rectify his
disparaging remarks, the damage may have been done for most of us. For
others, like myself, I simply resolved myself to prove him wrong. For
years, I kept his handout which contained his contact information and I waited
for the day I could mail him a copy of my Ph. D.. Sadly, it was lost with the
rest of my paraphernalia but the sentiment always remains.
