Preface: A friend in my grad program is new to the country. When I met her, she had been in the States for a grand total of 3 days. She learned how to speak English in Ukraine and decided that she wanted to get her master's in the U.S.
The other day, Oksana confided in me that she occasionally has trouble understanding our vernacular. I find this understandable, particularly when Dr. Rankin drops phrases like "rolling up a fatty" and "up in my grill" during class.
"What does it mean to be a nerd?"
I snickered and then proceeded to relate society's conception of nerdery. "A nerd is generally a person who reads all of the time rather than engaging in what our society deems more 'cool' endeavors. But we literary folk," I explained, "tend to embrace this." I thus welcomed her to the fold.
"I'm not a nerd. I'm smart."
'Atta girl.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The Serpent and South America
Invariably, when I meet new people, someone will notice my two curiously located scars. They are on my wrists.
"How did that happen?"
I know what you're getting at, which necessitates the following assurance:
"No, I didn't try to kill myself."
I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist. I had nearly forgotten them. The right-wrist scar slithers like a serpent whenever I rotate the arm. The left-wrist scar somewhat resembles South America. The wounds narrowly missed striking veins, serving as a very visceral reminder of mortality and how fortunate I am to be sitting here today, typing the story. In fact, this particular event marked the third notable time I had evaded death before turning 13.
I was in 6th grade and it was summer. My room was located in the basement of our home in Garden City, KS. Anyone familiar with a window well? I had one, which I believe was supposed to serve as an escape route in case of a fire. One night I lifted the window to allow some fresh air. In order to close the window, you must manually push the entire glass structure down and into its frame.
Glass can be quite dangerous, and I was about to learn it the hard way. The window would not go in all of the way, so I applied more force with my next push.
Harder still on the next push. It won't cooperate. The exertion increases as each effort fails and the frustration of a 12 year-old boy mounts. It was probably the fourth or fifth push when...
CRASH.
The glass shatters and I'm standing, completely bewildered and dumbfounded, before the shards which, moments ago, composed a complete and cohesive window. It takes a moment for reality to register. Did I really just do that? For a brief second, I'm pleased to discover that a frail life-form such as myself can destroy a structure as (presumably) strong as a window. I don't feel anything, only incredulity. I just broke my window with my bare hands.
I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist. Except, they aren't scars at this point. They are deep, bloody gashes. I know instantly that I'm in big trouble. I release a primal, blood-curdling scream and proceed to run, mortified, up the stairs and into the kitchen where my mother is preparing dinner. I cannot verbally communicate what has happened, I can only offer my wrists and the hysteria in my eyes. My mother interprets the signs and acts quickly, wrapping my wounds in dish towels. We find dad in the garage. He climbs behind the wheel of our minivan while my mother ushers me into the back.
Mom is holding my wrists with her hands. The panic in the vehicle is palpable, and it is taking the van to greater and greater speeds. I feel like I know what my poor mother is thinking: I'm about to lose my eldest son. HE'S 12 YEARS OLD. Please, God, don't let this happen. I'll do anything.
We set a world-record in covering the distance from our home to the hospital in approximately 24 seconds (which, oddly, was plenty of time for my life to flash before my eyes). I remember being practically carried into the hospital's main entrance by my parents. I remember wildly scanning the entrance and meeting the horrified expressions of people sitting in the waiting room. Somebody HELP ME.
Someone must have lead us to the E.R., but I have no recollection of it. The next thing I recall is the face of my doctor. He's elderly, but not frail. I had never seen such poise in a person. The calmness and reassurance he exudes, by some osmosis, overtakes my spastic, apocalyptic despair. I'm not going to die. My grandfatherly doctor administers the pain numbing anesthesia (though I never recalled feeling any pain, probably due to the endorphins still flowing steadily) and begins stitching my wrists back together. All the while, he lauds me for my "bravery." His reassuring words are better than the anesthesia. Thank God for this gentle, venerable Saint whom I shall never forget.
I sit here today, some 13 years after-the-fact. I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist. The stitch marks are still quite noticeable. Before this incident, I had nearly drowned twice. Once, my grandfather jumped into the pool, fully clothed, to save me. His eldest grandson. In high school, I survived a spontaneous pneaumothorax (basically a hole in my lung, resulting in the worst kind of pain I've felt). Then there was the time I had my icy brush with death, climbing the mountain in Colorado (scroll down if you want to read about that particular endeavor).
I don't enumerate these experiences because I think I'm unique, only because I think I'm lucky. Not lucky in a roll-of-the-dice sort of way, either. I'm 23 and, objectively speaking, I'm quite fortunate to be alive. The scars remind me of my mortality. The incidents spark some questions, naturally. Was God watching over me? Did He save me? Why did He want to keep me alive? Am I to do something deeply impacting in this life? To what is God calling me?
I think we're all living on borrowed time. My near-death encounters were humbling. I'm frail. I can be killed in an instant. What do we do with this knowledge? I'm grateful to still occupy this physical terrain, and the experiences impress upon me a sense of responsibility. It's like God says to me I didn't rescue you without purpose, kid. Though we know we will all die, I believe that most of us regard the fact that we can perish--at any given moment--incredulously. Sometimes though, we're sent wake-up calls. Someone close to you dies. Perhaps you have a brush with death. What will you do with your borrowed time? Will you regard it as a gift? Cherish it?
I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist.
"How did that happen?"
I know what you're getting at, which necessitates the following assurance:
"No, I didn't try to kill myself."
I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist. I had nearly forgotten them. The right-wrist scar slithers like a serpent whenever I rotate the arm. The left-wrist scar somewhat resembles South America. The wounds narrowly missed striking veins, serving as a very visceral reminder of mortality and how fortunate I am to be sitting here today, typing the story. In fact, this particular event marked the third notable time I had evaded death before turning 13.
I was in 6th grade and it was summer. My room was located in the basement of our home in Garden City, KS. Anyone familiar with a window well? I had one, which I believe was supposed to serve as an escape route in case of a fire. One night I lifted the window to allow some fresh air. In order to close the window, you must manually push the entire glass structure down and into its frame.
Glass can be quite dangerous, and I was about to learn it the hard way. The window would not go in all of the way, so I applied more force with my next push.
Harder still on the next push. It won't cooperate. The exertion increases as each effort fails and the frustration of a 12 year-old boy mounts. It was probably the fourth or fifth push when...
CRASH.
The glass shatters and I'm standing, completely bewildered and dumbfounded, before the shards which, moments ago, composed a complete and cohesive window. It takes a moment for reality to register. Did I really just do that? For a brief second, I'm pleased to discover that a frail life-form such as myself can destroy a structure as (presumably) strong as a window. I don't feel anything, only incredulity. I just broke my window with my bare hands.
I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist. Except, they aren't scars at this point. They are deep, bloody gashes. I know instantly that I'm in big trouble. I release a primal, blood-curdling scream and proceed to run, mortified, up the stairs and into the kitchen where my mother is preparing dinner. I cannot verbally communicate what has happened, I can only offer my wrists and the hysteria in my eyes. My mother interprets the signs and acts quickly, wrapping my wounds in dish towels. We find dad in the garage. He climbs behind the wheel of our minivan while my mother ushers me into the back.
Mom is holding my wrists with her hands. The panic in the vehicle is palpable, and it is taking the van to greater and greater speeds. I feel like I know what my poor mother is thinking: I'm about to lose my eldest son. HE'S 12 YEARS OLD. Please, God, don't let this happen. I'll do anything.
We set a world-record in covering the distance from our home to the hospital in approximately 24 seconds (which, oddly, was plenty of time for my life to flash before my eyes). I remember being practically carried into the hospital's main entrance by my parents. I remember wildly scanning the entrance and meeting the horrified expressions of people sitting in the waiting room. Somebody HELP ME.
Someone must have lead us to the E.R., but I have no recollection of it. The next thing I recall is the face of my doctor. He's elderly, but not frail. I had never seen such poise in a person. The calmness and reassurance he exudes, by some osmosis, overtakes my spastic, apocalyptic despair. I'm not going to die. My grandfatherly doctor administers the pain numbing anesthesia (though I never recalled feeling any pain, probably due to the endorphins still flowing steadily) and begins stitching my wrists back together. All the while, he lauds me for my "bravery." His reassuring words are better than the anesthesia. Thank God for this gentle, venerable Saint whom I shall never forget.
I sit here today, some 13 years after-the-fact. I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist. The stitch marks are still quite noticeable. Before this incident, I had nearly drowned twice. Once, my grandfather jumped into the pool, fully clothed, to save me. His eldest grandson. In high school, I survived a spontaneous pneaumothorax (basically a hole in my lung, resulting in the worst kind of pain I've felt). Then there was the time I had my icy brush with death, climbing the mountain in Colorado (scroll down if you want to read about that particular endeavor).
I don't enumerate these experiences because I think I'm unique, only because I think I'm lucky. Not lucky in a roll-of-the-dice sort of way, either. I'm 23 and, objectively speaking, I'm quite fortunate to be alive. The scars remind me of my mortality. The incidents spark some questions, naturally. Was God watching over me? Did He save me? Why did He want to keep me alive? Am I to do something deeply impacting in this life? To what is God calling me?
I think we're all living on borrowed time. My near-death encounters were humbling. I'm frail. I can be killed in an instant. What do we do with this knowledge? I'm grateful to still occupy this physical terrain, and the experiences impress upon me a sense of responsibility. It's like God says to me I didn't rescue you without purpose, kid. Though we know we will all die, I believe that most of us regard the fact that we can perish--at any given moment--incredulously. Sometimes though, we're sent wake-up calls. Someone close to you dies. Perhaps you have a brush with death. What will you do with your borrowed time? Will you regard it as a gift? Cherish it?
I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Eat, Sleep, Read. Wash, Rinse, Repeat.
For those requesting an update on my life, here's my typical day:
I wake up anywhere from 7:00-8:00. Hello new day. I turn on Jimmy Eat World loud enough so that I can hear it in the shower, but not loud enough that my neighbors batter my door town and claim my life for disturbing their slumber.
I put the coffee on and proceed to consume 2-3 cups over the course of the next couple hours. I get out my new set of highlighters and a mechanical pencil. I'm ready to read. I don't turn down my music.
I typically read until my body cries FOOD or my clock says CLASS TIME. When clock says CLASS TIME, I strap on the gas mask (because of the stench) and make my way over to my cricket infested/plauged building. I mercilessly slay all crickets in my path...which reminds me of how my mother used to swerve her van to try to run over snakes. I digress...
Once I actually get to class: As you might imagine, I sit with my peers and discuss literary theory, rhetoric and memoirs. I understand rhetoric and attempt to understand theory. Jacques Derrida makes me want to chew glass, spit it out, and then walk on the shards. Nevertheless, class periods have been the highlight of each day so far. Our first assigned memoir was James Frey's A Million Little Pieces. He's a guy who, by the time he reached 23, had been an alcoholic for ten years and a drug addict for three. It was a 430 page roller coaster ride. We read a memoir a week for the class.
I just started working in the Writing Center today, so add this to the routine. I'm here from 1:30-7:00, hence my current post. I've seen one student in this duration, but my first experience was a good one. I kill time with the internet gateway drug (Facebook) and filling out my summer study abroad application. I daydream about going to Oxford and sitting in Eagle and Child.
Brandon + Lewis + Tolkien + Oxford + Faith and Literature + 6 credit hours in a month = The Best Thing I Can Currently Imagine.
The following may genuinely shock those who know me best, but I give my honor as a Gentleman to its veracity. I cook my own dinner every single night. I'm quite proud of it too. Brandon Sayre: budding intellectual giant and aspiring culinary wizard--a man of many parts. Don't you forget it. Okay, so my culinary spectrum ranges roughly from pancakes and eggs to hamburger helper. This area is undoubtedly the most difficult in terms of being physically estranged from my parents (Mother, if you're reading this, I miss you. However, please don't look for a wife for me).
I also read after class/before dinner. Sorry, I forgot to mention that. Post dinner, I typically clear my mind playing a computer game. Judge me. This is how I fill my need for competition (well, I'm slaughtering a computer player) and some sort of escapism. It's usually rather satisfying. My best friend takes out his medical school rage by killing bad guys too. Highly therapeutic.
I read some more. I usually read until I'm too tired to continue. I can't stay up nearly as late as I used to, so I'm out by 11:00 or 12:00.
Blissful slumber.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
I love it so far. I'm slowing coping with the fact that I possess only a hint of a social life (Don't worry, mom).
I've successfully killed about half an hour.
I wake up anywhere from 7:00-8:00. Hello new day. I turn on Jimmy Eat World loud enough so that I can hear it in the shower, but not loud enough that my neighbors batter my door town and claim my life for disturbing their slumber.
I put the coffee on and proceed to consume 2-3 cups over the course of the next couple hours. I get out my new set of highlighters and a mechanical pencil. I'm ready to read. I don't turn down my music.
I typically read until my body cries FOOD or my clock says CLASS TIME. When clock says CLASS TIME, I strap on the gas mask (because of the stench) and make my way over to my cricket infested/plauged building. I mercilessly slay all crickets in my path...which reminds me of how my mother used to swerve her van to try to run over snakes. I digress...
Once I actually get to class: As you might imagine, I sit with my peers and discuss literary theory, rhetoric and memoirs. I understand rhetoric and attempt to understand theory. Jacques Derrida makes me want to chew glass, spit it out, and then walk on the shards. Nevertheless, class periods have been the highlight of each day so far. Our first assigned memoir was James Frey's A Million Little Pieces. He's a guy who, by the time he reached 23, had been an alcoholic for ten years and a drug addict for three. It was a 430 page roller coaster ride. We read a memoir a week for the class.
I just started working in the Writing Center today, so add this to the routine. I'm here from 1:30-7:00, hence my current post. I've seen one student in this duration, but my first experience was a good one. I kill time with the internet gateway drug (Facebook) and filling out my summer study abroad application. I daydream about going to Oxford and sitting in Eagle and Child.
Brandon + Lewis + Tolkien + Oxford + Faith and Literature + 6 credit hours in a month = The Best Thing I Can Currently Imagine.
The following may genuinely shock those who know me best, but I give my honor as a Gentleman to its veracity. I cook my own dinner every single night. I'm quite proud of it too. Brandon Sayre: budding intellectual giant and aspiring culinary wizard--a man of many parts. Don't you forget it. Okay, so my culinary spectrum ranges roughly from pancakes and eggs to hamburger helper. This area is undoubtedly the most difficult in terms of being physically estranged from my parents (Mother, if you're reading this, I miss you. However, please don't look for a wife for me).
I also read after class/before dinner. Sorry, I forgot to mention that. Post dinner, I typically clear my mind playing a computer game. Judge me. This is how I fill my need for competition (well, I'm slaughtering a computer player) and some sort of escapism. It's usually rather satisfying. My best friend takes out his medical school rage by killing bad guys too. Highly therapeutic.
I read some more. I usually read until I'm too tired to continue. I can't stay up nearly as late as I used to, so I'm out by 11:00 or 12:00.
Blissful slumber.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
I love it so far. I'm slowing coping with the fact that I possess only a hint of a social life (Don't worry, mom).
I've successfully killed about half an hour.
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